Quaint Gleanings from Ancient Poetry | Page 4

us from falling;
Oh the Virtues
and Graces of shrill Caterwauling!
How it palls in your Gain; but,
pray, how do you know, Sir, How often your Neighbour breaks in your
Enclosure?
For this is the principal Comforts of Marriage,
You
must eat tho' a hundred have spit in your Porridg.
If at night you're
inactive, or fail in performing,
Enter Thunder and Lightning, and
Blood-shed, next Morning;
Lust's the Bone of your Shanks, O dear
Mr. Horner:
This comes of your sinning with Crape in a Corner.

Then to make up the Breach all your Strength you must rally, And
labour and sweat like a Slave in a Gaily;
And still you must
charge--O blessed Condition!--
Tho' you know, to your cost, you've
no more Ammunition:
Till at last the poor fool of a mortified man

Is unable to make a poor Flash in the Pan.
Fire, Flood, and Female,
begin with a letter,
But for all the World's not a Farthing the better.

Your Flood is soon gone, and your Fire you must humble,
If into
Flames store of Water you tumble;
But to cure the damn'd Lust of
your Wife's Titilation,
You may use all the Engines and Pumps in the

Nation,
As well you may p---- out the last Conflagration.
And thus I
have sent you my Thoughts of the matter;
You may judge as you
please; I scorn for to flatter:
I could say much more, but here ends the
Chapter.
A PANYGYRICK UPON OATES.
Of all the Grain our Nation yields
In Orchard, Gardens, or in Fields,

There is a grain which, tho' 'tis common,
Its Worth till now was
known to no Man.
Not Ceres Sickle e're did crop
A Grain with Ears
of greater hope:
And yet this Grain (as all must own)
To Grooms
and Hostlers well is known,
And often has without disdain
In musty
Barn and Manger lain,
As if it had been only good
To be for Birds
and Beasts the Food.
But now by new-inspired Force,
It keeps alive
both Man and Horse.
Then speak, my Muse, for now I guess
E'en
what it is thou wouldst express:
It is not Barley, Rye, nor Wheat,

That can pretend to do the Feat:
'Tis Oates_, bare _Oates, that is
become
The Health of England_, Bane of _Rome,
And Wonder of
all Christendom.
And therefore Oates has well deserv'd
To be from
musty Barn prefer'd,
And now in Royal Court preserv'd,
That like
Hesperian_ Fruit, _Oates may
Be watch'd and guarded Night and
Day,
Which is but just retaliation
For having guarded a whole
Nation.
Hence e'ery lofty Plant that stands
'Twixt Berwick_ Walls
and _Dover Sands,
The Oak itself (which well we stile

The Pride
and Glory of our Isle),
Must strike and wave its lofty Head.
And
now salute an Oaten Reed,
For surely Oates deserves to be
Exalted
far 'bove any Tree.
The Agyptians once (tho' it seems odd)
Did
worship Onions for their God,
And poor Peelgarlick was with them

Esteem'd beyond the richest Gem.
What would they then have done,
think ye,
Had they but had such Oates as we,
Oates of such known
Divinity?
Since then such good by Oates we find,
Let Oates at least
be now enshrin'd;
Or in some sacred Press enclos'd,
Be only kept to
be expos'd;
And all fond Relicks else shall be
Deem'd Objects of

Idolatry.
Popelings may tell us how they saw
Their Garnet pictur'd
on a Straw.
'Twas a great Miracle, we know,
To see him drawn in
little so:
But on an Oaten stalk there is
A greater Miracle than this;

A Visage which, with comly Grace,
Did twenty Garnets now
outface:
Nay, to the Wonder to add more,
Declare unheard-of
things before;
And thousand Myst'ries does unfold,
As plain as
Oracles of old,
By which we steer Affairs of State,
And stave off
Britain's sullen Fate.
Let's then, in Honour of the Name
Of OATES,
enact some Solemn Game,
Where Oaten Pipe shall us inspire

Beyond the charms of Orpheus Lyre;
Stone, Stocks, and e'ery
sensless thing
To Oates_ shall dance, to _Oates shall sing,
Whilst
Woods amaz'd to t'Ecchoes ring.
And that this Hero's Name may not,

When they are rotten, be forgot,
We'll hang Atchievments o'er their
Dust,
A Debt we owe to Merits just
So if Deserts of Oates we prize,

Let Oates still hang before our Eyes,
Thereby to raise our
contemplation,
Oates being to this happy Nation
A Mystick
Emblem of Salvation.
THE MIRACLE.
TO THE TUNE OF "O YOUTH, THOU HADST BETTER BEEN
STARVED AT NURSE."
I.
You Catholick States-men and Church-men, rejoyce,
And praise
Heaven's Goodness with Heart and with Voice;
None greater on
Earth or in Heaven than She,
Some say she's as good as the best of
the Three.
Her miracles bold
Were famous of old,
But a Braver than this was
never yet told;
'Tis pity that every good Catholick living
Had not
heard on't before the last Day of Thanksgiving.
II.

In Lombardy-Land_ great _Modena's Duchess [3]
Was snatched
from her Empire by Death's cruel clutches;
When to Heaven she
came (for thither she went)
Each Angel received her with Joy and
Content.
On her knees she fell down,
Before the bright Throne,
And begged
that God's Mother would grant her one Boon:
Give England a Son (at
this Critical Point)
To put little Orange's Nose out of Joynt.
III.
As soon as our Lady had heard her Petition,
To Gabriel,