War, like Dirt Pies, our Hero Paris forms,
Which defperate Beffus without Armour storms.
Cornus, the kindeft Husband e'er was born,
Still Courts the Spark that does his Brows adorn ;
Invites him home to Dine, and fills his Veins
With the hot Blood which his dear Doxy drains.
Grandio thinks himself a Bean Garcon,
Goggles his Eyes, writes Letters up and down,
And with his faucy Love plagues all the Town
While pleas'd to have his Vanity thus fed,
He's caught with G-that old Hag, a Bed.
But fhou'd ball the crying Follies tell,
That roufe the fleeping Satyr from his Cell,
I to my Reader fhou'd as tedious prove,
As that old Spark Albanus making Love;
Or florid Rofcius, when with fome smooth Flam,
He gravely on the Publick ftrives to fham.

Hold then my Muse, 'tis time to make an end,
Leaft taxing others, thou thy felf offend.
The World's a Wood, in which all lose their way,`
Though by a different Path each goes aftray.

TIMON, a SATYR in Imitation of
Monfieur Boleau, upon feveral Passa-
ges in fome new Plays then Acted upon
the Stage.

By the Duke of Buckingham, and the Earl of

A.

W

Rochester.

Hat, Timon, does Old Age begin te
Hat,
approach,

That thus thou droop'ft under a Nights debauch?

Haft

Haft thou loft deep to needy Rogues on Tick,
Who ne'er could pay, and must be paid next Week?
Timon. Neither alas! but, a dull dining Sot
Seiz'd me i'th' Mall, who just my name had got;
He runs upon me, cries, Dear Rogue, I'm thine,
With me fome Wits of my Acquaintance Dine.
I tell him I'm engaged; but as a Whore,
With Modesty enflaves her Spark the more,
The longer I deny'd, the more he prest,
At last I e'en consent to be his Guest;
He takes me in his Coach, and as we go,
Pulls out a Libel of a Sheet or two;
Infipid as the Praife of Pious Queens,
Or Shadwell's unaffifted former Scenes;
Which he admir'd and prais'd at ev'ry Line;
At last it was fo sharp, it must be mine:
I vow'd I was no more a Wit than he,
Unpractis'd, and unbleft in Poetry:
A Song to Phyllis I perhaps might make,
And never Rhim'd, but for my Mistress sake:`
I envy'd no Man's Fortune, nor his Fame,
Nor ever thought of a Revenge fo tame.
He knew my Stile, he Swore, and 'twas in vain,
Thus to deny the Iffue of my Brain.

Choak'd with his Flattery, Ino answer make,
But filent leave him to his Dear Mistake.
Of a well-meaning Fool I'm moft affraid,
Who fillily repeats what was well faid.
But this is not the worst, when he came home,
He askt, are Sedley, Buckhurst, Savil come?.
No, but there were above Halfwit and Huff,
Kickum, and Dingboy. Ob! that's well enough ;

They re

1

They're all brave Fellows, cries mine Hoft, lets Dine,

I long to have my Belly full of Wine.

They'll smartly Write, and Fight, I dare affure

you,

They're Men I'faith; Tam Marte quam Mecurio.
I faw my Error, but 'twas then too late,

No Means, nor Hopes appear'd for a Retreat:
Well, we Salute, and each Man takes his Seat.
Boy, cries my Sot, Is my Wife ready yet?
A Wife, good Gods! a Fop, and Bullies too!
For one poor Meal, what muft I undergo ?
In comes my Lady ftrait, fhe had been Fair,
Fit to give Love, and to prevent Despair 3
But Age, Beauty's incurable Disease,
Had left her more Defire, than Power to please.
As Cocks will strive, altho' their Spurs be gone,
She with her One bleer Eye to fmite began;
Tho' nothing else, She (in defpight of time)
Preferv'd the Affectation of her Prime:
However you begun, fhe brought in Love,
And hardly from that Subject would remove:
We chanc'd to speak of the FrenchKing's Succefs,
My Lady wonder'd much how Heaven could blefs
A Man that lov'd Two Women at one time 3
But more, how he to them excus'd his Crime.
She asked Huff, If Love's Flame be e'er felt?
He answer'd bluntly, Do you think I'm Gelt?
She at his Plainnefs fmil'd, then turn d to me,
Love in young Minds precedes ev'n Poetry ;
Ton to that Paffion can no Stranger be,
But Wits are given to Inconftancy.

L

She

She had run on I think till now, but Meat
Came up, and fuddenly she took her Seat:

I thought the Dinner would make fome Amends,
When my good Hoft Cry'd out, "You're all my
Friends:

Our own plain Fare, and the best Terse the 66 Ball

Affords, I give you, and your Bellies full; "As for French Kick fhaws, Cellery, and Champain, "Ragons and Fricaffes, introth we'ave none: Here's a good Dinner toward, thought I, when ftrait,

Upcame a piece of Beef, full Horfe-man weight;
Hard as the Arfe of M, under which
The Coach-man sweats, as riden by a Witch;
A Difh of Carrets, each of 'em as long
As T- that to fair Countess did belong;
Which her small Pillow could not fo well hide,
But vifiters his flaming Head efpy'd:

Pig, Goose, and Capon follow'd in the Rear,
With all thatCountry Bumpkins call goodCheer;
Serv'd up with Sauces all of Eighty Eight,
When our Tough Youth, wrestled, and threw
the Weight:

And now the Bottle briskly flies about,
Instead of Ice, wrapt up in a wet Clout
A Brimmer follows, the third bit we eat,
Small Beer becomes our Drink, and Wine our
Meat:

The Table was fo large, that in less space,
A Man might Six old Sage Italians place:

Each

r

Each Man had as much Room as Porter Blunt,
Or Harris had in Cullen's Bufhel C

And now the Wine began to work, mine Host
Had been a Colonel, we must hear him boast,
Not of Towns won, but an Estate he loft
For the King's Service, which indeed he spent,
Whoring,and Drinking but with good Intent;
He talkt much of a Plot and Money lent
In Cromwell's time: As for my Lady The
Complain'd our Love was courfe, our Poetry
Unfit for modeft Ears, fmall Whores, and Play'rs,
Were of our Hair-brain'd Youth the only Cares;
Who were too wild for any Virtuous League,
Too rotten to confummate the Intrigue.

Falkland the prais'd, and Suckling's eafie Pen,
And feem'd to taste their former Parts again.
Mine Hoft drinks to the best in Christendom,
And decently my Lady quits the Room.
Left to our felves, of feveral things we prate,
Some regulate the Stage, and fome the State:
Halfwit, cries up my Lord of Orrery,-
Ah! how well Mustapha, and Zanger die ;
His Senfe fo little forc'd that by one Line
You may the other eafily Divine:
And which is worfe, if any worse can be,
He never faid one word of it to me..

There's lufci'ous Poetry! you'd fwear't was
Profe,

So little on the Senfe the Rhimes impose: Dm me (fays Dingboy) in my Mind, G---ds---zns,

Etheridg writes Airy Songs, and Soft Lampoons, The best of any Man; as for your Nouns,

L 2

Gram