Merry Andrew

SLY Merry Andrew, the last Southwark fair
(At Barthol'mew he did not much appear:
So peevish was the edict of the Mayor)
At Southwark therefore as his tricks he show'd,
To please our masters, and his friends the crowd ;
A huge neat's tongue he in his right hand held :
His left was with a good black pudding fill'd.
With a grave look, in this odd equipage,
The clownish mimic traverses the stage :
Why how now, Andrew ! cries his brother droll,
To-day's conceit, methinks, is something dull :
Come on, Sir, to our worthy friends explain,
What does your emblematic worship mean ?
Quoth Andrew ; Honest English let us speak :
Your emble — (what d'ye call't) is heathen Greek.
To tongue or pudding thou hast no pretence :
Learning thy talent is, but mine is sense.
That busy fool I was, which thou art now ;
Desirous to correct, not knowing how :
With very good design, but little wit,
Blaming or praising things, as I thought fit.
I for this conduct had what I deserv'd ;
And dealing honestly, was almost starv'd.
But, thanks to my indulgent stars, I eat ;
Since I have found the secret to be great.
O, dearest Andrew, says the humble droll,
Henceforth may I obey, and thou control ;
Provided thou impart thy useful skill. —
Bow then, says Andrew ; and, for once, I will. —
Be of your patron's mind, whate'er he says ;
Sleep very much ; think little ; and talk less ;
Mind neither good nor bad, nor right nor wrong,
But eat your pudding, slave; and hold your tongue.
A reverend prelate stopp'd his coach and six,
To laugh a little at our Andrew's tricks.
But when he heard him give this golden rule,
Drive on (he cried) ; this fellow is no fool.