With solemn phiz, about the fate
Of Troy the gods deliberate;
And long dispute the matter, whether
To joul their loggerheads together,
Or make all farther scuffles cease,
And let them drink and whore in peace.
At last the gods agree nem. con.
To let the rascals squabble on:
Paris then jogs Lycaon's son
To knock poor Menelaus down;
And whilst the honest quack, Machaon,
A plaster spread the wound to lay on,
A dreadful noise of shouts and drumming
Forewarn'd the Greeks that Troy was coming.
The gen'ral now, the troops to settle,
And show himself a man of mettle,
In a great splutter runs about
To call their trusty leaders out,
Swaggers and bounces, kicks and cuffs,
Some serjeants praises, others huffs;
At last the roysters join in battle,
And clubs, and staves, and potlids rattle.
The watchman op'd the gates of heaven,
Just as the clock was striking seven;
When all the gods, with yawning faces,
To council came, and took their places.
Hebe prepar'd upon the spot
A jug of purl made piping hot,
Of which she gave each god a cup,
Who sup and blow, and blow and sup;
And whilst their time they thus employ,
Just slightly ask, What news from Troy?
When thus unlucky Jove, for fun,
To vex his ox-ey'd wife, begun:
Two scolding brims of royal blood
Assist the Greeks – if not, they should;
But, perch'd above, like daws they sit,
Nor they to help their friends think fit;
But, suff'ring Greece to go to ruin,
Content themselves with mischief brewing;
Whilst grateful Venus in the throng,
To aid her lecher, scours along;
With nimble bum, or nimbler wrist,
She guides his weapon where she list;
Knowing a touch of her soft hand,
If fallen down, will make him stand.
But, messmates, since we have begun,
'Tis time to fix what must be done.
The book of Fate then let us scan,
And view what is ordain'd for man;
That we about them may determine,
To kill, or keep alive, the vermin:
Say then, shall smiling peace ensue,
Or dreadful broils, with face of rue?
If now your godships think that Nelly
Should go and warm her husband's belly,
And Paris pay for doing work
Would glad the heart of Jew or Turk;
Why then the borough may stand firm
A thousand years, or any term;
May back recall its old renown,
And once more be a market-town.
Whilst thus he preach'd, his angry queen
With Pallas whispering was seen;
And as they jabber'd pate to pate,
Against poor Troy express'd their hate
The boxing vixen, though in wrath,
Yet holds her peace, and nothing saith;
Nor would, had Jove preach'd e'er so long,
For heavenly wisdom rul'd her tongue;
She prudent acts; not so Jove's wife,
Whose joy consists in noise and strife.
Begun: Don't think your dunder-pate
Shall use your queen at such a rate:
On whoring Troy I've made just war;
Have rous'd my Grecians near and far;
My post-chaise rattled many a mile,
My peacocks sweating all the while;
And all to bring destruction on
This perjur'd, lying, whoring4 town.
But spouse my cares and toils derides;
Because they're rogues, he's on their sides;
To punish rogues in grain refuses,
And thus his loving wife abuses:
Though, if the gods will take my side,
In spite of Jove I'll trim their hide.
At this same speech you cannot wonder
The thunder-driver look'd like thunder:
He wav'd his locks, and fit to choke
With rage, he to his vixen spoke:
Why, how now, hussy! whence this hate
To Priam and the Trojan state?
Can mortal scoundrels thee perplex,
And the great brim of brimstones vex,
That thou should'st make such woeful pother,
And Troy's whole race desire to smother;
Then level, out of female spite,
Their spires, with weather-cocks so bright;
And all because that rogue on Ida
Fancy'd your mouth an inch too wide-a?
Pray how can I the varlet blame,
Who fifty times have thought the same?5
But for this once I'll give thee string
Enough, to let thy fury swing:
Burn the whole town; blow up the walls;
Destroy their shops and coblers' stalls:
Murder old Priam on the place,
And smother all his bastard race;
With his boil'd beef and cabbage glut
The fury of thy greedy gut.
Peace, then, perhaps I may enjoy
When there shall be no more of Troy:
But should I choose to be uncivil,
And send your scoundrels to the devil,
Don't think, good Mrs. Brim, that you
Shall hold my hand: remember how
I suffer harmless Troy to tumble,
To stop your everlasting grumble.
I tell thee, brim, of all I know
In heav'n above, or earth below,
Bastards of mortal rogues or gods,
I value Troy the most by odds:
No men on earth deserve my favour
Like Trojan boys, for good behaviour;
Because, whene'er they pay their vows,
They kill good store of bulls and cows;
Nor do they ever grudge the least,
To lend their daughters to the priest;
From whence it cannot be deny'd,
But true religion is their guide.
Juno, like puppet, rolls her eyes,
And, meditating, thus replies:
Three boroughs have I got in Greece,
Most dearly lov'd in war and peace;
Mycenae, Argos, aye, and Sparta,
Destroy 'em all6, care I a f – t-a?
With the dry pox or thunder strike 'em;
'Tis fault enough for me to like 'em.
Must thy poor wife's good friends be drubb'd,
And she herself thus hourly snubb'd,
As if her family, Sir Cull,
Was not as good as yours to th' full?
I know I ought, were you well bred,
To share your power as well as bed;
But there I know, and so do you,
I'm robb'd of more than half my due.
Your dad7 was but a lead-refiner,
Or else a Derbyshire lead-miner;
Mine was refiner of the small
Assays, for years, at Goldsmiths'-Hall:
Then prithee don't, my dearest life,
Refuse due honour to your wife:
Alternately let's take the sway;
Each bear a bob both night and day;
And then the vulgar gods shall see
We mount by turns, now you, now me.
See trusty Pallas sneaking stands,
And waits your worship's dread commands:
She'll soon, if you unloose her tether,
Set Greece and Troy by th' ears together:
But bid her use her utmost care,
Troy's whoring sons begin the war;
Then, if they get the worst o' th' game,
They dare not say that we're to blame.
Of heaven and earth the whoring king
Swore that his wife had hit the thing:
Then go, my Pallas, in the nick,
And serve these Phrygian whelps a trick;
Make 'em, like Frenchmen, treaties break:
Away, and do not stay to speak.
Pleas'd she darts downward in a trice,
And smooth as younkers slide on ice;
Or when the upper regions vomit
A long-tail'd firebrand, call'd a comet,
Which robs old women of their wits,
And frights their daughters into fits;
Gives wond'ring loons the belly-ache,
And makes the valiant soldier quake:
With horrid whiz it falls from high,
And whisks its tail along the sky:
Just so this brimstone did appear,
As she shot downward through the air.
They guess'd, and paus'd, and guess'd again,
What this strange prodigy could mean:
At last agreed, that angry Fate
Was big with something mighty great.
'Twas war, or peace, or wind, or rain,
Or scarcity next year of grain.
Some cunning heads this reason hit,
That B – e would soon make room for P – tt;
But all the bold north-country rout
Swore that it would much better suit
His M – , to stick to B – te.
Whilst thus they jar and disagree,
Minerva lit behind a tree;
And lest her phiz should make 'em gape,
Borrow'd an honest mortal shape;
Laodocus, no snivelling dastard,
But great Antenor's nephew's bastard:
She quickly found Lycaon's son,
A rare strong chief for back and bone,
Whose troops from black Esopee came,
A place but little known to fame.
The arms his raggamuffins bore
Were broomsticks daub'd with blood all o'er.
To him she with a harmless look,
Like a mischievous brimstone, spoke:
Will you, friend Pand'rus, says she,
A little counsel take from me?
You know that every prudent man
Should pick up money when he can;
And now, if you could have the luck
To make a hole in Sparta's pluck,
Paris, as certain as I live,
Would any sum of money give.
Such a bold push must sure be crown'd
With ten, at least, or twenty pound:
Don't gape and stare, for now or never
You gain or lose the cash for ever:
But first, to th' Lycian archer pay
(By most he's call'd the god of day)
A ram; this same unerring spark
Can guide thy arrow to its mark:
'Tis highly necessary this,
Or two to one your aim you'll miss.
Like gunpowder, the thick-skull'd elf
Took fire, and up he blew himself:
Then fitting to his bow the string,
He swore, by Jove, he'd do the thing.
His trusty bow was made of horn
An old ram goat for years had worn.
This goat by Pandarus was shot,
And left upon the cliffs to rot:
The curling horns, that spread asunder
Two tailors' yards, became his plunder;
Which he took care to smooth, and so
Produc'd a very handsome bow:
The blacksmith fil'd a curious joint,
And Deard with tinsel tipp'd each point.
This bow of bows, without being seen
By any but his countrymen,
He bent; and, that he might be safe,
Took care to hide his better half
Behind the potlids of his band;
For those he always could command.
Before he aim'd, he squatted low
To fit an arrow to his bow;
One from a hundred out he picks,
To send the cuckold over Styx
(Sharp was the point of this same arrow,
Design'd to reach the Spartan's marrow);
Then to the god of day-light vows
To give a dozen bulls and cows.
Now hard he strains, with wondrous strength,
And draws the arrow all its length:
Swift through the air the weapon hies,
Whilst the string rattles as it flies.
Had then Atrides been forgot,
He certainly had gone to pot:
But Pallas, for his life afraid,
In pudding-time came to his aid,
And turn'd aside the furious dart,
That was intended for his heart,
Into a more ignoble part.
So careful mothers, when they please,
Their children guard from lice and fleas.
The first emotion that he felt,
Was a great thump upon his belt:
For there the arrow, Pallas knew,
Could only pierce a little through.
It did so; and the skin it rais'd:
The blood gush'd out: which so amaz'd
The cuckold, that he was half craz'd:
He felt within himself strange twitches;
'Twas thought by most he spoil'd his breeches.
As when you seek for stuff to grace
Some fine court lady's neck and face,
All o'er her muddy skin you spread
A load of paint, both white and red,
The diff'ring colours, sure enough,
Must help to set each other off,
Spite of the hue that glares within
The filthy, muddy, greasy skin:
Just so Atrides' blood you'd spy,
As it ran down his dirty thigh;
His knee, and leg, and ancle pass'd,
And reach'd his sweaty foot at last.
At this most dreadful, rueful sight,
Atrides' hair stood bolt upright,
And lifted, all the Grecians said,
His hat six inches from his head.
Nor less the honest cuckold quak'd;
His heart as well as belly ach'd;
Till looking at the place that bled,
He plainly saw the arrow's head
Stopp'd by his greasy belt: he then
Boldly took heart of grace again.
But the great chief, who thought the arrow
Had reach'd his brother's guts or marrow,
With bitter sobbing heav'd his chest,
And thus his heavy grief express'd;
Whilst all the Grecians, far and near,
Did nought but threaten, curse, and swear:
My dearest bro. for this did I
Desire a truce? Zounds! I could cry:
It proves a fatal truce to thee;
Nay, fatal both to thee and me.
Thou fought'st till all the fray did cease:
Now to be slain, in time of peace,
Is dev'lish hard: – with rueful phiz
He added? By my soul it is!
Those scoundrel Trojans all combine,
In hopes to ruin thee and thine;
They've stole thy goods, and kiss'd thy wife,
And now they want to take thy life:
With perjuries the rogues are cramm'd,
For which they will be double damn'd.
Now we good Grecians, when it meet is
To make with scoundrel neighbours treaties,
As Britons (but the Lord knows how)
With roguish Frenchmen often do,
We're strict and honest to our word;
So should each man that wears a sword.
What pity 'tis that rogues so base
Should thus bamboozle Jove's own race!
But let it be thy comfort, brother,
And with it thy resentment smother,
That Jove in flames such rogues will burnish;
Already he begins to furnish
With red-hot balls his mutton fist,
To singe and pepper whom he list.
Be sure, that when he once begins,
He'll smoke these scoundrels for their sins,
Make Priam's house of scurvy peers
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