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PDFAre fit for music, or for pudden;
From whence men borrow ev’ry kind
Of minstrelsy by string or wind.
His grisly beard was long and thick, 125
With which he strung his fiddle-stick;
For he to horse-tail scorn’d to owe,
For what on his own chin did grow.
Chiron, the four-legg’d bard, had both
A beard and tail of his own growth; 130
And yet by authors ’tis averr’d,
He made use only of his beard.
In Staffordshire, where virtuous worth
Does raise the minstrelsy, not birth;
Where bulls do chuse the boldest king, 135
And ruler, o’er the men of string;
(As once in Persia, ’tis said,
Kings were proclaim’d by a horse that neigh’d;)
He bravely venturing at a crown,
By chance of war was beaten down, 140
And wounded sore. His leg then broke,
Had got a deputy of oak:
For when a shin in fight is cropp’d,
The knee with one of timber’s propp’d,
Esteem’d more honourable than the other, 145
And takes place, though the younger brother.
Next march’d brave ORSIN, famous for
Wise conduct, and success in war:
A skilful leader, stout, severe,
Now marshal to the champion bear.
150
With truncheon, tipp’d with iron head,
The warrior to the lists he led;
With solemn march and stately pace,
But far more grave and solemn face;
Grave
Or Spanish potentate Don Diego.
This leader was of knowledge great,
Either for charge or for retreat.
He knew when to fall on pell-mell;
To fall back and retreat as well.
160
So lawyers, lest the bear defendant,
And plaintiff dog, should make an end on’t,
Do stave and tail with writs of error,
Reverse of judgment, and demurrer,
To let them breathe a while, and then
165
Cry whoop, and set them on agen.
As Romulus a wolf did rear,
So he was dry-nurs’d by a bear,
That fed him with the purchas’d prey
Of many a fierce and bloody fray;
170
Bred up, where discipline most rare is,
In military Garden Paris. <>
For soldiers heretofore did grow
In gardens, just as weeds do now,
Until some splay-foot politicians
175
T’APOLLO offer’d up petitions
For licensing a new invention
They’d found out of an antique engine,
To root out all the weeds that grow
In public gardens at a blow,
180
And leave th’ herbs standing. Quoth Sir
Sun,
My friends, that is not to be done.
Not done! quoth Statesmen; yes, an’t please
ye,
When it’s once known, you’ll say ’tis
easy.
Why then let’s know it, quoth Apollo.
