TIMON, A SATYR by JOHN WILMOT

@3A@1. What @3Timon@1 does old Age begin t'approach
That thus thou droop'st under a nights debauch?
Hast thou lost deep to needy @3Rogues@1 on Tick
Who ne're cou'd pay, and must be paid next @3Week@1?
@3Tim@1. Neither alas, but a dull dining @3Sot@1,
Seized me i'th '@3Mall@1, who just my name has got;
He runs upon me, cries dear @3Rogue@1 I'm thine,
With me some @3Wits@1, of thy acquaintance dine.
I tell him I'm engag'd but as @3a Whore@1,
With modesty enslaves her @3Spark@1, the more,
The longer I deny'd, the more he prest,
At last I e'ne consent to be his @3Guest.@1
He takes me in his @3Coach@1, and as we go;
@3Pulls@1 out a @3Libel@1, of a Sheet, or two;
Insipid, as, @3The praise of pious Queens@1,
Or @3S[hadwell's]@1 unassisted former @3Scenes@1;
Which he admir'd, and prais'd at ev'ry @3Line@1,
At last it was so sharp, it must be mine.
I vow'd I was no more a @3Wit@1, than he,
Unpractic'd, and unblest in @3Poetry@1:
A @3Song@1 to @3Phillis@1 I perhaps might make,
But never Rhym'd, but for my @3Pintles@1 sake:
I envy'd no @3Mans@1 fortune, nor his fame,
Nor ever thought of a revenge so tame.
He knew my @3Stile@1, he swore, and 'twas in vain,
Thus to deny the Issue of my @3Brain@1.
Choak'd with his flatt'ry, I no answer make,
But silent leave him to his dear mistake.
Of a well meaning @3Fool@1, I'm most afraid,
Who sillily repeats, what was well said.
But this was not the worst, when he came home,
He askt, are @3Sidley, Buchurst, Savill@1, come?
No, but there were above @3Half-wit@1 and @3Huffe@1,
@3Kickum@1, and @3Dingboy@1. Oh 'tis well enough,
They're all brave @3Fellows@1, cries mine @3Host@1, let's Dine,
I long to have my @3Belly@1 full of @3Wine@1,
They'll write, and fight I dare assure you,
They're Men, @3Tam Marte quam Mercurio@1.
I saw my error, but 'twas now too late,
No means, nor hopes, appears of a retreat.
Well we salute, and each @3Man@1 takes his Seat.
@3Boy@1 (says my @3Sot@1) is my @3Wife@1 ready yet!
A @3Wife@1! good @3Gods@1! a @3Fop@1 and @3Bullys@1 too!
For one poor @3Meale@1 what must I undergo?
In comes my @3Lady@1 strait, and she had been @3Fair@1.
Fit to give love, and prevent despair;
But @3Age,Beauties@1 incureable Disease,
Had left her more desire than pow'r to please:
As @3Cocks@1, will strike, altho' their @3Spurrs@1 be gone,
She with her old bleer @3Eyes@1 to smite begun:
Though nothing else, she (in despight of time)
Preserv'd the affectation of her prime;
How ever you begun, she brought in love,
And hardly from that Subject wou'd remove.
We chanc'd to speak of the @3French Kings@1,success;
My @3Lady@1 wonder'd much how @3Heav'n@1 cou'd bless,
A @3Man@1 that lov'd Two @3Women@1 at one time;
But more how he to them excus'd his Crime.
She askt @3Huffe@1, if @3Loves@1 flame he never felt?
He answer'd bluntly -- do you think I'm gelt?
She at his plainness smil'd, then turn'd to me,
@3Love@1 in young @3Minds@1, proceeds ev'n @3Poetry@1.
You to that Passion can no @3Stranger@1 be,
But @3Wits@1, are giv'n to inconstancy.
She had run on I think till now, but @3Meat@1
Came up, and suddenly she took her seat.
I thought the @3Dinner@1 wou'd make some amends,
When my good @3Host@1 cryes out, @3Y'are all my Friends@1,
@3Our own plain@1 Fare, @3and the best@1 Terse @3Terse the@1 Bull
@3Affords, I'll give@1 you, @3and your@1 Bellies @3full@1:
@3As for@1 French @3Kickshaws, Cellery@1 and @3Champoon@1,
Ragous @3and@1 Fricasses, introth we'ave none.
Here's a good @3Dinner@1 towards, thought I, when strait
Up comes a piece of Beef full Horsman's weight;
Hard as the @3Arse@1 of @3M[ordaunt]@1, under which
The @3Coachman@1 sweats, as ridden by a @3Witch@1.
A Dish of @3Carrets@1, each of 'em as long
As @3Tool@1 that to fair @3Countess@1, did belong;
Which her small @3Pillow@1, cou'd not so well hide,
But @3Visiters@1, his flaming Head espy'd.
@3Pig, Goose@1 and @3Capon@1 follow'd in the @3Rear@1,
With all that @3Country Bumpkins@1, call good Cheer,
Serv'd up with Sauces all of @3Eighty, Eight@1,
When our tough @3Youth@1, wrestled, and threw the Weight.
And now the @3Bottle@1 briskly flyes about,
Instead of @3Ice@1, wrapt in a wet @3Clowt@1,
A Brimmer follows the Third bit we eat,
Small Bear, becomes our drink, and Wine, our Meat.
The @3Table@1 was so large, that in less space,
A Man might save, six old @3Italians@1 place:
Each Man has as much room, as @3Porter B[lunt]@1,
Or @3Harris@1 had in @3Cullens, Bushel@1 C**t.
And now the @3Wine@1 began to work, mine @3Host@1
Had been a @3Collonel@1, we must hear him boast
Not of @3Towns@1 won, but an @3Estate@1 he lost
For the @3Kings@1 Service, which indeed he spent
Whoring, and Drinking, but with good intent.
He talkt much of a Plot, and @3Money@1 lent
In @3Cromwell's@1 time. My @3Lady@1 she
Complain'd our Love was course, our @3Poetry@1,
Unfit for modest Eares, small @3Whores@1, and @3Play'rs@1.
Were of our Hair-brain'd @3Youth@1, the only cares;
Who were too wild for any virtuous@3 League@1,
Too rotten to consummate the Intrigue.
@3Falk land@1, she prais'd, and @3Sucklings@1, easie Pen,
And seem'd to taste their former parts again.
Mine @3Host@1, drinks to the best in @3Christendome@1,
And decently my @3Lady@1, quits the Room.
Left to ourselves of several things we prate,
Some regulate the @3Stage@1, and some the @3State@1.
@3Halfwit@1, cries up my Lord of @3O[rrery]@1,
Ah how well @3Mustapha@1, and @3Zanger@1 dye!
His sense so little forc'd, that by one @3Line@1,
You may the other easily divine.
@3And which is, worse, if any worse can be@1,
@3He never said one word of it to me@1
There's fine @3Poetry@1! you'd swear 'twere @3Prose@1,
So little on the Sense, the Rhymes impose.
Damn me (says @3Dingboy)@1 in my mind @3Gods-swounds@1
@3E[therege] writes Airy Songs@1, and soft @3Lampoons@1,
The best of any @3Man@1; as for your @3Nowns@1,
@3Grammar@1, and Rules of Art, he knows 'em not,
Yet writ two talking @3Plays@1 without one @3Plot@1.
@3H[uffe]@1 was for @3S[ettle]@1, and @3Morocco@1, prais'd,
Said rumbling words, like Drums his courage rais'd.
@3Whose broad built-bulks, the boystrous Billows, bear@1
@3Zaphee and Sally, Mugadore, Oran@1,
@3The fam'd Arzile, Alcazer, Tituan.@1
Was even braver Language writ by @3Man?@1
@3Kickum@1 for @3rown@1 declar'd, said in @3Romance@1,
He had outdone the very @3Wits@1, of @3France@1
Witness @3Pandion@1, and his @3Charles the Eight,@1
Where a Young @3Monarch@1, careless of his Fate,
Though Forreign Troops, and @3Rebels@1, shock his State,
Complains another sight afflicts him more.
@3(Videl.) The Queens Galleys@1 rowing from the @3Shore.@1
@3Fitting, their Oars and Tackling to be gon;
Whilst sporting Waves smil'd on the rising Sun.@1
Waves smiling on the @3Sun@1! I am sure that's new,
And 'twas well thought on, give the @3Devil@1 his due,
Mine @3Host,@1 who had said nothing in an hour,
Rose up and prais'd the @3Indian Emperor.@1
@3As if our Old World modestly withdrew,
And here in private had brought forth a New.@1
There are two @3Lines!@1 who but he dare presume
To make the old @3World@1, a new withdrawing Room,
Where of another @3World@1 she's brought to @3Bed!@1
What a brave @3Midwife@1 is a @3Laureats@1 Head!
But pox of all these @3Scriblers,@1 what do'e think.
Will @3Souches@1 this year any @3Champoon@1 drink?
Will Turene fight him? without doubt says @3Huffe,@1
If they two meet, the meeting will be rough.
Damn me (says @3Dingboy@1) the @3French, Cowards@1 are,
They pay, but, th' @3English, Scots,@1 and @3Swiss@1 make @3War;@1
In gawdy @3Troops,@1 at a review they shine,
But dare not with the @3Germans, Battel@1 joyn;
What now appears like courage, is not so
'Tis a short pride, which from success does grow;
On their first blow, they'll shrink into those fears,
They shew'd at @3Cressy, Agincourt, Poytiers;@1
Their loss was infamous, @3Honor@1 so stain'd,
Is by a @3Nation@1 not to be regain'd.
What they were then I know not, now th'are brave,
He that denyes it -- lyes, and is a @3Slave@1
(Says @3Huffe@1 and frown'd) says @3Dingboy,@1 that do I,
And at that word, at t'other's @3Head@1 let fly
A greasie @3Plate,@1 when suddenly they all,
Together by the Eares in Parties fall.
@3Halfwit@1 with @3Dingboy@1 joynes, @3Kickum@1 with @3Huffe,@1
Their Swords were safe, and so we let'em cuff
Till they, mine @3Host,@1 and I, had all enough.
Their rage once over, they begin to treat,
And six fresh @3Bottles,@1 must the peace compleat.
I ran down stairs, with a Vow never more,
To drink Bear Glass, and hear the @3Hectors@1 roar.

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