On a Maggot

THE Maggot Bites, I must begin:
Muse! pray be civil! enter in!
Ransack my addled pate with Care,
And muster all the Maggots there!
Just at the Gate you 'l bless your Eyes,
To find one of so large a Size:
'Tis true he's hardly full as tall,
As the two striplings in Guildhall;
Yet is he Jolly, Fat, and Plump,
With dainty Curls from Snowt to Rump:
And struts, says Iordan what he can,
As goodly as any Alderman.
The Law of Poetry's not broke,
If, since an Horse in Homer spoke;
I steal, for my dear Worms Occasions
A scrap of Livy's fine Orations:
(And 'twill, no doubt, as much be said,
By him, as them for whom 'twas made.)
Within a Nut-shells Pulpit large,
As grave as Iudge that's giving charge;
Swelling as big as Iustled Bully,
Thus he holds forth like t' other Tully:
Take notice all that hither come!
Romanus ego civis sum.
'Twas I my self, 'twas I possest,
Scaevola's mighty Brain, and Breast;
I was the Worm in's Crown, that made,
The Hec. Porsenna's camp invade:
I did the' Heroick Iobb: 'twas I,
That made his Paw, like Drum-stick fry:
'Twould make the dullest Maggot smile,
To' observe his pretty motions, while,
His Mutton-Fist did Hiz, and Broil:
Of which I an account could give ye,
Truer by far than GoodmanLivy.
When the Spark Tarquin did prevail,
For all oretia's Tooth, and Nail;
And, which if true were ungenteel,
Kiss't her, poor Soul! against her will:
Was't not a very pleasant Whimm,
That she should kill her self for him?
When, I that saw it, durst have sworn,
She was as Innocent as Child unborn;
Pray let not Livy's Shams prevail!
I was the Worm, in Pate, and Tail:
That made the Matron bravely dye
A Sacrifice to Chastity.
(Good Folks that Love your Necks, stand clear
For I must leap five hundred Year:)
'Twas I brought down that Rampant Gypsie,
Whose Love and Pearls made Tony tipsie:
And, when she him no more could clasp,
The Maggot bit, as well's the Asp;
I stood at the Beds-feet, Intent
On her Last Will, and Testament:
I come she cryed, I com' dear Hony!
And then kickt up with Tony! Tony:
But I'me not only bold, and valiant,
For Wit, an't please ye! too's my Talent;
And by a better Title, I
May plead for God of Poesie.
Than those whom each dull Thief abuses,
In Dogrel Phoebus, and the Muses:
When Virgil all day long did write,
And lickt his pretty Cubbs at night;
I roll'd about his Brain, and there
Aeneas Good, and Dido fair,
Now plac'd a Scolding, now a Billing,
Sometimes begetting, sometimes killing.
What e're he of old Sybill prate,
'Twas I that propt his Hroes Fate;
And when Post-horses he did lack,
Lugg'd him to Hell a-Pick-a-Pack.
I am the very God, and like ye,
That fell in Love with Mrs. Psiche;
Let none my just pretensions scorn,
For Cupid was a Maggot born:
Then thriv'd, and grew, and by degrees,
Like his harmonious Brother-Bees,
Thrust out a Leg, and then a Wing,
And Bow, and Arrows for a Sting.
And when I please my self to Dart,
Into a ravisht Lovers Heart;
'Tis I who all their Souls inspire
With soft Wishes, gay Desire,
Melting Looks, and amorous Fire.
Hold! hold! 'tis time to grow more humble,
Least I like Phaeton, should tumble;
I'll Mount no more, but here sit steady,
Since I'me a Goddikin already.