To Sir John Mennis being invited from Calice to Bologne to eat a Pig.

ALL on a weeping Monday,
With a fat Bulgarian Sloven,
Little Admiral Iohn
To Bologne is gone
Whom I think they call old Loven.

Hadst thou not thy fill of Carting
With Aubrey Count of Oxon!
When Nose lay in Breech
And Breech made a Speech,
So often cry'd a Pox on.

A Knight by Land and Water
Esteem'd at such a high rate,
When 'tis told in Kent,
In a Cart that he went,
They'll say now hang him Pirate.

Thou might'st have ta'ne example,
From what thou read'st in story;
Being as worthy to sit
On an ambling Tit,
As thy Predecessor Dory.

But Oh! the roof of Linnen,
Intended for a shelter!
But the Rain made an Ass
Of Tilt of Canvas;
And the Snow which you know is a Melter.

But with thee to inveigle,
That tender stripling, Astcot ▪
Who was soak'd to the skin,
Through Drugget so thin,
Having neither Coat, nor Wastcoat;

He being proudly mounted,
Clad in Cloak of Plymouth,
Defy'd Cart so base,
For Thief without Grace,
That goes to make a wry-mouth.

Nor did he like the Omen,
For fear it might be his doom,
One day for to sing,
With Gullet in string,
A Hymne of Robert Wisdom.

But what was all this business?
For sure it was important:
For who rides i'th' wet,
When affairs are not great,
The neighbors make but a sport on't.

To a goodly fat Sow's Baby,
O Iohn, thou had'st a malice,
The old driver of Swine
That day sure was thine,
Or thou hadst not quitted Calice.