Acteon nam'd, a country gent,

Who hard by somewhere liv'd in Kent;
And hunting lov'd more than his victuals,
And cry of hounds, 'bove sound of fiddles.
He saw his dogs neglect their sport,
Having sprung game of better sort;
Which put him in a fit of laughter,
Not dreaming what was coming after.
Bless me! how the young lecher star'd!
How pleasingly the spark was scar'd!
With hidden charms his eyes he fed,
And to our females thus he said:
"Hey, jingo! what the de'els the matter;
Do mermaids swim in Dartford water?
The poets tell us, they have skill in
That sweet melodious art of singing:
If to that tribe you do belong,

Faith, ladies, come,-let's have a song.
What, silent! ne'er a word to spare me?
Nay, frown not, for you cannot scare me.
Ha, now I see you are mere females,
Made to delight and pleasure us males.
Faith, ladies, do not think me lavish,
If five or six of you I ravish.
I'gad, I must." This did so frighten
The gossips, they seem'd thunder-smitten.
At last Diana takes upon her

To vindicate their injur'd honour;
And by some necromantic spells,

Strong charms, witchcraft, or something else,
In twinkling of the shell of oyster,
Transmogrified the rampant royster
Into a thing some call a no-man,
Unfit to love or please a woman.
The poets, who love to deceive you,
(For, once believe them, who'd believe you
Say that, to quench his lecherous fire,
Into a stag she chang'd the squire;
Which made him fly o'er hedges skipping,
'Till his own hounds had spoil'd his tripping.

But I, who am less given to lying, Than jolly rakes to think of dying, Do truly tell you here between us, She only spoil'd the spark for Venus; Which soon his blood did so much alter, He car'd for love less than for halter: No more the sight of naked beauty Could prompt his vigour to its duty: And in this case, you may believe, He hardly stay'd to take his leave. He had a wife, and she, poor woman, Soon found in him something uncommon. In vain she striv'd, young, fair, and plump, To rouse to joy the senseless lump. She from a drone, alas! sought honey, And from an empty pocket money. Thus us'd, she for her ease contrives That sweet revenge of slighted wives; And soon of horns a pair most florid Were by her grafted on his forehead; At sight of which his shame and anger Made him first curse, then soundly bang her. And then his rage, which overpower'd him, Made poets say, his dogs devour'd him. At Cuckold's Point he died with sadness; (Few in his case now shew such madness ;) Whilst gossips, pleas'd at his sad case, Straight fix'd his horns just on the place, Lest the memory on't should be forgotten, When they, poor souls, were dead and rotten; And then from Queen Dick got a patent, On Charlton Green to set up a tent; Where once a year, with friends from Wapping, They tell how they were taken napping.

The following age improv'd the matter,

And made two dishes of a platter,
The tent where they used to repair,
Is now become a jolly fair;
Where ev'ry eighteenth of October,
Comes citizen demure and sober,

With basket, shovel, pickaxe, stalking,
To make a way for's wife to walk in:
Where having laid out single money,
In buying horns for dearest honey,
O'er furmity, pork, pig, and ale,
They cheer their souls, and tell this tale.

[The following poems are extracted from the manuscript of Lord Lanesborough, called the Whimsical Medley. They are here inserted in deference to the opinion of a most obliging correspondent, who thinks they may be juvenile attempts of Swift. I own I cannot discover much internal evidence in support of the supposition.]

On Mr Robarts, by the name of Peter Quince.

As one Peter Quince,
With one grain of sense,
And courage to equal his.wit:
From a beau of the town
Went to purchase renown,
But returned without ever a whit.

With Pacolet's horse

Young Quince took his course,
Despising some fools that would fight:
And wisely took care,

In the hazard of war,

To prevent all mischances by flight.

Let the nation's scum

For the time that is to come,
Lose a leg or an arm in the fray:
War's at best but mere stuff,
Peter Quince had enough,
When his heels to Breda made his way.

That head-piece of thine

Will much better shine

On one of the Parliament benches:

But, on second thought,
Wit is always best bought,

And Quince be thou safe among [wenches.]

For all thy ill stars,

In the house thou has peers,

Or else the dull fools would ne'er choose you,

Of taxes complain,

But shun the campagne,

For soldiers will always abuse thee.

Thy pretty white hand

Was never designed

To meddle with dirty cold iron;

You know you were made

For another guess trade,

When thy beauties the ladies environ.

The noblest pride

Always will ride,

In Peter, top and top-gallant,

And Cutler's coin*

Made Quince for to shine,

And scorn the poor rogues that are valiant.

Upon the Pope's giving a Cardinal's cap to a Jesuit, on the death of Cardinal de Tournon.

TOURNON, the illustrious cardinal, is dead!
Died at Macao, by the Jesuit's hands:
Was ever thing so base!

The pope, however, unconcerned stands,

Altho' of holy church the head;

And puts a Jesuit in his place.

Men wonder at it; but the pope well knows
The hangman always has the dead man's clothes.

Sir John Cutler, a noted usurer.

The Fable of the Belly, and the Members.

THE members on a time did meet,

As factious members do,

And were resolved, with hands and feet,

The Belly to o'erthrow.

The idle paunch they all decreed
An useless sluggish part,

Which never did, in time of need,

Aid or assist the heart.

So 'twas resolv'd in Parliament,
Nemine contradicente;

That trustees should be thither sent
To keep the Belly empty:

But when they found the Belly flagg'd,
For want of due nutrition;
And that each member pin'd and lagg'd
In a poor weak condition;
They thought it wiser to allow

The Belly [to] a free trade,
Lest that one member waxing low

The whole should be decay'd.

The humble Petition of gossip Joan to her Friend, a North Britain Lady, who had promised her some Snuff at her return out of Scotland.

IN forma pauperis I to you

Thus by petition humbly shew:

Our little isle being barren of mundungus,*

We praise the Lord you're come among us ;

For, since by union we are the same,

We plead a right to what you claim.

"Whom he brings in among us,

And bribes with mundungus."-Ludy's Lamentation.