A SECOND WESTERN WONDER.
1 You heard of that wonder, of the lightning and thunder,
Which made the lie so much the louder:
Now list to another, that miracle’s brother,
Which was done with a firkin of powder.
2 Oh, what a damp it struck through the camp!
But as for honest Sir Ralph,
It blew him to the Vies without beard or eyes,
But at least three heads and a half.
3 When out came the book, which the newsmonger took,
From the preaching lady’s letter,
Where in the first place, stood the conqueror’s face,
Which made it show much the better.
4 But now, without lying, you may paint him flying,
At Bristol they say you may find him,
Great William the Con, so fast did he run,
That he left half his name behind him.
5 And now came the post, save all that was lost,
But, alas! we are past deceiving
By a trick so stale, or else such a tale
Might amount to a new thanksgiving.
6 This made Mr. Case, with a pitiful face,
In the pulpit to fall a weeping,
Though his mouth utter’d lies, truth fell from his eyes,
Which kept the Lord Mayor from sleeping.
7 Now shut up shops, and spend your last drops,
For the laws, not your cause, you that loathe ’em,
Lest Essex should start, and play the second part
Of worshipful Sir John Hotham.
1 Morpheus! the humble god, that dwells
In cottages and smoky cells,
Hates gilded roofs and beds of down;
And though he fears no prince’s frown,
Flies from the circle of a crown:
2 Come, I say, thou powerful god,
And thy leaden charming rod,
Dipp’d in the Lethean lake,
O’er his wakeful temples shake,
Lest he should sleep, and never wake.
3 Nature, (alas!) why art thou so
Obliged to thy greatest foe?
Sleep that is thy best repast,
Yet of death it bears a taste,
And both are the same thing at last.
ON MR JOHN FLETCHER’S WORKS.
So shall we joy, when all whom beasts and worms
Have turn’d to their own substances and forms:
Whom earth to earth, or fire hath changed to fire,
We shall behold more than at first entire;
As now we do to see all thine thy own
In this my Muse’s resurrection,
Whose scatter’d parts from thy own race more wounds
Hath suffer’d than Actaeon from his hounds;
Which first their brains, and then their belly fed,
And from their excrements new poets bred. 10
But now thy Muse enraged, from her urn,
Like ghosts of murder’d bodies, does return
T’ accuse the murderers, to right the stage,
And undeceive the long-abused age,