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         Batrachomyomachia. English. 1700
         Homer.
      
       
         
           1700
        
      
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         57171
         
           
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             Homer in a nutshell, or, His War between the frogs and the mice in three cantos / parapharastically translated by Samuel Parker.
             Batrachomyomachia. English. 1700
             Homer.
             Parker, Samuel, 1681-1730.
          
           [8], 20 p.
           
             Printed by Tho. Newborough ...,
             London :
             MDCC [1700]
          
           
             In verse.
             Errata: preliminary p. [8]
             Reproduction of original in the Harvard University Library.
          
        
      
    
     
       
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           HOMER
           in
           a
           Nutshell
           :
           OR
           ,
           HIS
           WAR
           BETWEEN
           THE
           Frogs
           and
           the
           Mice
           ,
           Paraphrastically
           Translated
           .
           In
           Three
           CANTOS
           .
           By
           
             SAMVEL
             PARKER
          
           ,
           Gent.
           
        
         
           
             —
             Quandoque
             bonus
             dormitat
             Homerus
             .
          
           
             Hor.
             de
             Arte
             Poet.
             
          
        
         
           LONDON
           :
           Printed
           for
           
             Tho.
             Newborough
          
           ,
           at
           the
           
             Golden
             Ball
          
           in
           St.
           
           Paul's
           Church-yard
           .
           MDCC
           .
        
      
       
         
         
         
           To
           Sir
           R.
           L.
           
        
         
           
             SIR
             ,
          
        
         
           YOU
           know
           the
           Sacredness
           of
           Liberty
           and
           Property
           .
           Now
           all
           stragling
           Apologues
           fall
           to
           you
           as
           
             Lord
             of
             the
             Mannor
          
           ,
           and
           the
           very
           Ghost
           of
           Aesop
           (
           no
           very
           agreable
           Appartion
           ,
           you
           may
           imagin
           )
           of
           
             Poggius
             ,
             Abstemius
          
           ,
           and
           my
           own
           old
           blind
           Author
           too
           for
           Company
           ,
           durst
           I
           with-hold
           the
           Due
           ,
           wou'd
           e'ry
           Night
           draw
           my
           Curtains
           'till
           You
           had
           Justice
           done
           You.
           Besides
           as
           Duty
           and
           real
           Interest
           are
           ever
           inseparable
           ,
           so
           particularly
           in
           the
           present
           Instance
           it
           's
           the
           Privilege
           of
           Your
           humble
           Imitators
           that
           by
           doing
           You
           Fealty
           they
           challenge
           Your
           
             Protection
             ,
             the
             very
             end
             of
             Government
             ,
          
           when
           at
           the
           same
           time
           too
           our
           Tribute's
           but
           a
           Peppercorn-rent
           ,
           make
           the
           best
           on
           't
           ,
           and
           Your
           Subjects
           are
           more
           beholden
           to
           You
           for
           accepting
           ,
           than
           You
           to
           them
           for
           paying
           their
           Acknowledgments
           .
        
         
           I
           have
           frequently
           wonder'd
           at
           the
           Confidence
           of
           Authors
           in
           expecting
           to
           be
           gratify'd
           for
           their
           Dedications
           ,
           and
           oftener
           at
           the
           Weakness
           of
           Patrons
           ,
           that
           they
           'll
           vouchsafe
           'em
           those
           dishonourable
           Encouragements
           .
           For
           first
           ,
           it
           's
           Ten
           to
           One
           but
           the
           great
           Man
           
             catches
             a
             Tartar
          
           ,
           or
           provides
           for
           a
           Bantling
           that
           is
           not
           worth
           a
           Clout
           :
           Or
           secondly
           ,
           if
           he
           has
           reason
           to
           be
           proud
           of
           his
           Purchase
           ,
           all
           the
           Glory
           and
           Encomium
           of
           the
           Epistle
           smells
           abominably
           rank
           of
           Confederacy
           and
           
             Bargain
             .
             Maecenas
          
           but
           spoils
           his
           own
           Market
           while
           he
           makes
           a
           liberal
           Art
           a
           mercenary
           one
           ;
           and
           when
           the
           Orator
           or
           the
           Poet
           is
           to
           draw
           his
           Picture
           beyond
           the
           Life
           ,
           he
           cann't
           be
           contented
           unless
           he
           set
           for
           't
           with
           a
           Cap
           and
           Bells
           forsooth
           !
           
             of
             his
             own
             providing
          
           .
           In
           a
           Word
           ,
           the
           Fee
           shou'd
           rather
           accrue
           to
           the
           Patron
           from
           the
           Scribler
           ,
           and
           little
           enough
           at
           last
           too
           considering
           what
           a
           Cause
           he
           's
           oblig'd
           to
           attend
           :
           Now
           my
           little
           harmless
           homely
           Ditty
           Petitions
           for
           no
           more
           than
           barely
           the
           benefit
           of
           the
           two
           Capital
           Letters
           aforesaid
           .
           It
           applys
           in
           
             forma
             Pauperis
          
           ,
           and
           the
           Translator
           will
           magnify
           Your
           Charity
           both
           in
           his
           Author's
           Name
           and
           in
           his
           own
           ,
           if
           You
           'll
           keep
           his
           Calliope
           in
           countenance
           gratis
           .
           Nay
           indeed
           the
           whole
           is
           but
           a
           
             Cur'sy
             to
             my
             Dancing-Master
          
           ,
           pardon
           
           the
           levity
           of
           the
           Allusion
           .
           You
           were
           
             my
             Apollo
             ,
             my
             Helicon
             ,
             and
             my
             Muses
          
           ;
           that
           Ocean
           of
           true
           Wit
           and
           good
           Sense
           from
           which
           the
           Drill
           ,
           as
           to
           all
           that
           's
           tolerable
           in
           it
           ,
           derives
           itself
           ,
           and
           into
           which
           it
           as
           naturally
           returns
           ,
           '
           though
           at
           the
           expence
           of
           its
           Acrimony
           in
           the
           Circulation
           .
        
         
           But
           hold
           !
           't
           is
           high
           time
           to
           enter
           upon
           the
           main
           Business
           of
           an
           Epistle
           Dedicatory
           ,
           the
           
           Patron
           's
           Apotheosis
           .
           And
           what
           now
           must
           I
           extol
           ?
           Your
           
             Integrity
             ,
             Constancy
          
           and
           Courage
           ?
           Alas
           !
           't
           is
           a
           long
           time
           ago
           since
           these
           pass'd
           for
           recommendatory
           Qualities
           ;
           nay
           of
           very
           dangerous
           Consequence
           might
           it
           prove
           to
           us
           Both
           ,
           at
           this
           time
           o'
           Day
           ,
           should
           I
           blurt
           out
           a
           Syllable
           in
           favour
           of
           '
           em
           .
           Your
           Letters
           then
           ,
           your
           Iudgment
           ,
           your
           Wit
           ,
           your
           Prudence
           ?
           That
           were
           as
           much
           as
           to
           say
           all
           the
           World
           did
           not
           already
           admire
           'em
           ,
           ever
           excepting
           my
           Brother
           C
           —
           ;
           and
           I
           verily
           believe
           too
           ,
           even
           he
           ,
           cou'd
           the
           Man
           have
           as
           good
           an
           Opinion
           of
           any
           Body
           as
           of
           himself
           ,
           wou'd
           entertain
           it
           of
           you
           .
        
         
           How
           then
           shall
           I
           manage
           my
           Address
           ?
           Assume
           the
           modish
           Figure
           call'd
           Apophasis
           or
           
             Whispering
             aloud
          
           ,
           and
           run
           you
           a
           long
           Division
           upon
           your
           several
           Excellencies
           with
           a
           
             Not
             to
             mention
             '
             em
          
           ?
           Or
           shall
           I
           tell
           you
           that
           your
           Modesty
           being
           a
           Nusance
           to
           the
           rest
           of
           your
           Virtues
           ,
           I
           had
           rather
           be
           wanting
           in
           my
           Duty
           to
           Them
           ,
           than
           most
           inhumanely
           torture
           That
           ?
           Nauseous
           ,
           vile
           ,
           pedantick
           Forms
           !
           and
           as
           prostituted
           Common-places
           as
           Panegyrick
           itself
           !
           What
           remains
           therefore
           but
           the
           liberty
           of
           making
           this
           brief
           ,
           bare
           ,
           and
           simple
           ,
           yet
           candid
           Profession
           ,
           that
           I
           am
           ,
        
         
           
             
               Honour'd
               SIR
               ,
               Most
               sincerely
               and
               most
               humbly
               Your
               Servant
               ,
               as
               oblig'd
               ,
            
             S.
             Parker
             .
          
        
      
       
         
         
           THE
           PREFACE
           .
        
         
           
             Gentle
             Peruser
             !
          
        
         
           IN
           the
           first
           place
           the
           Translator
           wou'd
           have
           thee
           know
           he
           never
           pretended
           to
           the
           Character
           of
           a
           Poet
           ,
           and
           as
           he
           desires
           to
           'scape
           the
           Scandal
           of
           the
           Name
           ,
           so
           he
           will
           not
           value
           himself
           the
           more
           for
           any
           good
           Success
           ,
           or
           the
           less
           for
           any
           Disappointment
           ;
           seeing
           after
           all
           ,
           in
           Things
           of
           this
           Nature
           ,
           every
           Man
           will
           be
           his
           own
           Critick
           ,
           and
           the
           People
           of
           nice
           Rule
           and
           quaint
           Observation
           ,
           betray
           the
           vanity
           of
           their
           Maxims
           ,
           while
           scarce
           a
           Couple
           in
           the
           whole
           Pack
           agree
           about
           the
           suitableness
           of
           any
           one
           Ingredient
           ,
           but
           that
           which
           is
           most
           incompatible
           with
           the
           true
           Scope
           of
           the
           Art
           ,
           the
           Recommendation
           and
           Encouragement
           of
           Immorality
           and
           Irreligion
           :
           However
           ,
           finding
           himself
           dispos'd
           
             now
             and
             then
          
           to
           try
           his
           Skill
           ,
           and
           observing
           the
           Canto-cut
           has
           of
           late
           carry'd
           the
           Day
           ,
           he
           thought
           good
           to
           bestow
           a
           few
           Hours
           upon
           the
           Translation
           of
           a
           Poem
           which
           ,
           and
           very
           deservedly
           ,
           has
           been
           celebrated
           for
           many
           Ages
           ;
           a
           Poem
           ,
           which
           for
           neatness
           of
           Wit
           ,
           liveliness
           of
           Description
           and
           regularity
           of
           Conduct
           ,
           equals
           any
           part
           of
           the
           Iliads
           ,
           perhaps
           excells
           any
           part
           of
           the
           Odysses
           .
        
         
           And
           yet
           as
           just
           and
           regular
           as
           I
           found
           this
           Poem
           ,
           I
           perceiv'd
           it
           wou'd
           never
           jump
           in
           English
           with
           the
           Humour
           of
           the
           Age
           ,
           till
           I
           had
           spoild
           it
           by
           some
           unwarrantable
           Alterations
           ,
           which
           being
           printed
           in
           a
           smaller
           Character
           ,
           the
           Reader
           may
           observe
           without
           the
           trouble
           of
           Comparing
           .
           The
           two
           most
           material
           of
           'em
           are
           these
           ;
           first
           ,
           That
           whereas
           ,
           according
           to
           my
           Author
           ,
           the
           Frog
           seems
           not
           out
           of
           a
           treacherous
           Principle
           to
           have
           serv'd
           the
           Mouse
           as
           he
           did
           ,
           I
           have
           made
           him
           design
           the
           worst
           all
           along
           ,
           very
           consonantly
           too
           ,
           if
           I
           mistake
           not
           ,
           to
           the
           Character
           the
           Poet
           fixes
           afterwards
           upon
           him
           ,
           where
           he
           makes
           him
           vindicate
           himself
           by
           that
           egregious
           Falsity
           ,
           
             v.
             146.
             
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
            
             ,
             &c.
          
           
           And
           not
           injuriously
           neither
           to
           the
           Series
           of
           the
           Story
           :
           Then
           again
           ,
           that
           almost
           upon
           the
           same
           Inducements
           I
           have
           made
           him
           improve
           or
           rather
           explain
           the
           Stratagem
           ,
           by
           which
           ,
           in
           the
           Conclusion
           of
           that
           Speech
           ,
           the
           Frog
           proposes
           to
           defeat
           the
           Mice
           .
           Beside
           these
           many
           slighter
           Alterations
           will
           occur
           ,
           and
           here
           and
           there
           an
           Addition
           of
           my
           own
           ,
           *
           but
           which
           I
           hope
           he
           can
           as
           readily
           forgive
           as
           discern
           .
        
         
         
           For
           what
           relates
           to
           the
           Scope
           and
           Import
           of
           the
           Fable
           ,
           I
           am
           not
           persuaded
           with
           Aristobulus
           ,
           that
           Homer
           compos'd
           it
           only
           for
           the
           Diversion
           and
           Exercise
           of
           School-Boys
           ;
           the
           Design
           appears
           to
           have
           been
           more
           momentous
           ,
           it
           carries
           a
           Face
           of
           Instruction
           upon
           the
           Matter
           of
           Civil
           Government
           ,
           and
           the
           Moral
           is
           plainly
           Political
           .
           In
           the
           occasion
           of
           the
           War
           between
           the
           Frogs
           and
           the
           Mice
           ,
           we
           see
           with
           what
           miserable
           Consequences
           the
           generous
           Credulity
           of
           a
           Prince
           on
           one
           hand
           abus'd
           by
           the
           Craftiness
           and
           Treachery
           of
           a
           Neighbour
           on
           the
           other
           ,
           is
           like
           to
           be
           attended
           .
           On
           the
           part
           of
           the
           Mouse
           ,
           't
           was
           imprudent
           to
           repose
           so
           great
           Confidence
           in
           a
           Politician
           of
           a
           distinct
           or
           rather
           opposite
           Interest
           and
           Temper
           ,
           tho'
           on
           the
           part
           of
           the
           Frog
           't
           was
           not
           only
           a
           bold
           Violation
           of
           Divine
           and
           Humane
           Laws
           to
           play
           such
           a
           Game
           ,
           but
           still
           more
           impolitick
           to
           stir
           up
           so
           Potent
           an
           Adversary
           ,
           and
           dare
           the
           Vengeance
           not
           of
           Heaven
           alone
           (
           for
           he
           seems
           to
           have
           troubled
           his
           Head
           little
           enough
           about
           that
           )
           but
           withal
           of
           so
           many
           well-disciplined
           resolute
           Cavaliers
           ,
           of
           which
           Commotions
           the
           Issue
           will
           ever
           be
           fatal
           to
           their
           Author
           ,
           how
           much
           soever
           Things
           may
           succeed
           to
           his
           Wishes
           for
           a
           Season
           .
           The
           great
           Distributer
           of
           Dues
           loves
           to
           defer
           his
           Inflictions
           as
           long
           as
           his
           Iustice
           will
           permit
           ;
           but
           when
           that
           Period's
           once
           expir'd
           ,
           he
           sends
           down
           both
           Principal
           and
           Interest
           upon
           the
           Heads
           of
           the
           Incorrigible
           .
           I
           confess
           ,
           the
           Poet
           has
           not
           intimated
           so
           much
           ;
           nay
           ,
           has
           describ'd
           Jupiter
           as
           a
           malicious
           Enemy
           to
           the
           Mice
           .
           But
           then
           we
           must
           remember
           he
           had
           represented
           him
           before
           in
           a
           State
           of
           Indifference
           ,
           resolv'd
           with
           his
           Family
           not
           to
           interpose
           in
           behalf
           of
           this
           Party
           or
           that
           ,
           nor
           to
           concern
           himself
           otherwise
           than
           as
           an
           idle
           Spectator
           .
           Indeed
           ,
           the
           freedom
           the
           Poet
           took
           with
           his
           Gods
           ,
           was
           ,
           in
           respect
           of
           himself
           ,
           an
           unpardonable
           Presumption
           ,
           and
           nothing
           ought
           to
           be
           built
           upon
           it
           ,
           or
           inferr'd
           from
           it
           .
           Agen
           ,
           the
           Consummation
           of
           the
           Fray
           gives
           us
           to
           understand
           ,
           That
           Superiority
           and
           Dominion
           are
           the
           most
           slippery
           Things
           in
           the
           World
           ,
           and
           have
           their
           Vicissitudes
           of
           Rising
           and
           Sinking
           as
           necessarily
           as
           
             two
             Buckets
             in
             a
             Well
          
           .
           The
           Mice
           at
           first
           are
           too
           hard
           for
           the
           Frogs
           ,
           and
           't
           was
           but
           Reason
           to
           imagine
           'em
           so
           'till
           they
           had
           taken
           their
           just
           Revenge
           :
           But
           then
           the
           Crabs
           came
           upon
           the
           Mice
           in
           the
           very
           Pride
           of
           their
           Victory
           ,
           and
           by
           a
           course
           kind
           of
           Argument
           ,
           convinc'd
           'em
           in
           their
           turn
           of
           the
           Instability
           of
           Human
           Affairs
           .
           Nay
           ,
           there
           's
           yet
           a
           further
           meaning
           in
           the
           Close
           of
           the
           Allegory
           ;
           for
           '
           though
           the
           Frogs
           deserv'd
           ten
           times
           more
           than
           what
           they
           suffer'd
           from
           the
           Mice
           ;
           yet
           we
           know
           ,
           the
           Mice
           hod
           been
           as
           little
           remarkable
           for
           strict
           Morals
           as
           the
           most
           profligate
           Animals
           that
           e'r
           mov'd
           upon
           all
           Four.
           The
           Temptation
           of
           a
           mouldy
           Crust
           cou'd
           prevail
           with
           'em
           at
           any
           time
           to
           break
           thro'
           all
           Obligations
           of
           Religion
           and
           Honour
           .
           The
           Suggestions
           
           of
           their
           Appetites
           they
           made
           the
           Rule
           of
           their
           Duty
           ,
           and
           pretended
           a
           Privilege
           ,
           under
           the
           Notion
           of
           
             Natural
             Freedom
          
           ,
           to
           plunder
           their
           Landlords
           and
           
             One
             another
          
           as
           often
           as
           they
           pleas'd
           :
           How
           then
           were
           the
           Caitiffs
           rigorously
           dealt
           with
           ?
           What
           reason
           had
           they
           to
           expect
           more
           favour
           than
           the
           Frogs
           ?
           In
           good
           earnest
           ,
           I
           think
           they
           had
           too
           much
           shew'd
           'em
           before
           ;
           and
           't
           was
           an
           Act
           of
           special
           Condescension
           in
           Jupiter
           to
           lay
           the
           Frogs
           at
           the
           Mercy
           of
           the
           Mice
           ,
           and
           not
           the
           Mice
           rather
           at
           the
           Mercy
           of
           the
           Frogs
           .
           And
           so
           much
           by
           way
           of
           Interpretation
           .
        
         
           If
           the
           Criticks
           shou'd
           be
           displeas'd
           at
           any
           Grammatical
           or
           Poetical
           Liberties
           I
           have
           taken
           ,
           they
           'd
           highly
           oblige
           me
           .
           And
           the
           longer
           Bill
           the●
           prefer
           ,
           the
           better
           :
           Though
           let
           'em
           distort
           Words
           ,
           mangle
           Periods
           ,
           and
           misapply
           
             Aristotle
             ,
             Horace
          
           ,
           and
           Bossu
           ,
           till
           they
           're
           out
           of
           breath
           ,
           I
           'll
           lay
           'em
           a
           Wager
           at
           last
           they
           cann't
           discover
           so
           many
           Faults
           in
           the
           Performance
           as
           
             their
             humble
             Servant
          
           .
           I
           earnestly
           beg
           of
           'em
           to
           honour
           me
           with
           a
           Hiss
           ,
           and
           shall
           be
           most
           proud
           of
           their
           Condemnation
           ,
           well-knowing
           their
           Sentence
           is
           always
           to
           be
           constru'd
           ,
           like
           O
           —
           ts's
           Depositions
           ,
           backward
           .
           Ever
           since
           I
           caught
           some
           termagant
           Ones
           in
           a
           Club
           ,
           undervaluing
           our
           new
           Translation
           of
           Virgil
           ,
           I
           've
           known
           both
           what
           Opinion
           I
           ought
           to
           harbour
           ,
           and
           what
           use
           to
           make
           of
           'em
           ,
           and
           since
           the
           Opportunity
           of
           a
           Digression
           so
           luckily
           presents
           it self
           ,
           I
           shall
           make
           bold
           to
           ask
           the
           Gentlemen
           their
           Sentiments
           of
           two
           or
           three
           Lines
           (
           to
           pass
           over
           a
           thousand
           other
           Instances
           )
           which
           they
           may
           meet
           with
           in
           that
           Work.
           The
           fourth
           Aeneid
           says
           of
           Dido
           ,
           after
           certain
           Effects
           of
           her
           taking
           Shelter
           with
           Aeneas
           in
           the
           Cave
           appear
           ,
           
             
               Conjugium
               vocat
               ,
               hoc
               praetexit
               nomine
               culpam
               .
            
             
               v.
               172.
               
            
          
        
         
           Which
           Mr.
           Dryden
           renders
           thus
           ,
           
             
               She
               call'd
               it
               Marriage
               ,
               by
               that
               specious
               Name
            
             
               To
               veil
               the
               Crime
               and
               
                 sanctifie
                 the
                 Shame
              
               .
            
          
        
         
           Nor
           had
           he
           before
           less
           happlily
           render'd
           the
           
           39th
           Verse
           of
           the
           second
           Aeneid
           ,
           
             
               
                 Scinditur
                 incertum
                 studia
                 in
                 contraria
                 vulgus
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 The
                 giddy
                 Vulgar
                 ,
                 as
                 their
                 Fansies
                 guide
                 ,
              
               
                 
                   With
                   noise
                   say
                   nothing
                
                 ,
                 and
                 in
                 Parts
                 divide
                 .
              
            
          
        
         
         
           If
           these
           are
           the
           Lines
           which
           they
           call
           Flat
           and
           Spiritless
           ,
           I
           wish
           mine
           cou'd
           be
           Flat
           and
           Spiritless
           too
           !
           And
           therefore
           to
           make
           short
           work
           ,
           I
           shall
           only
           beg
           Mr.
           
           Dryden's
           leave
           to
           congratulate
           him
           upon
           his
           admirable
           Flatness
           and
           Dulness
           in
           a
           Rapture
           of
           Poetical
           Indignation
           ,
        
         
           
             Then
             dares
             the
             *
             poring
             Critick
             snarl
             ?
             And
             dare
          
           
             The
             *
             puny
             Brats
             of
             Momus
             threaten
             War
             ?
          
           
             And
             cann't
             the
             proud
             perverse
             
             Arachne's
             Fate
          
           
             Deter
             the
             *
             Mungrils
             e'r
             it
             prove
             too
             late
             ?
          
           
             In
             vain
             ,
             alass
             !
             we
             warn
             the
             *
             harden'd
             Brood
             :
          
           
             In
             vain
             expect
             they
             'll
             ever
             come
             to
             good
             .
          
           
             No
             :
             They'd
             conceive
             more
             Venom
             if
             they
             cou'd
             .
          
           
             But
             let
             each
             *
             Viper
             at
             his
             Peril
             bite
             ,
          
           
             While
             you
             defie
             the
             most
             ingenious
             Spite
             .
          
           
             So
             Parian
             Columns
             rais'd
             with
             costly
             care
          
           
             *
             Vile
             Snails
             and
             Worms
             may
             dawb
             ,
             yet
             not
             impaire
             ,
          
           
             While
             the
             tough
             Titles
             and
             obdurate
             Rime
          
           
             Fateague
             the
             busie
             Grinders
             of
             old
             Time.
          
           
             Not
             but
             your
             Maro
             justly
             may
             complain
             ,
          
           
             Since
             your
             Translation
             ends
             his
             ancient
             Reign
             ,
          
           
             And
             but
             by
             your
             officious
             Muse
             outvy'd
             ,
          
           
             That
             vast
             Immortal
             Name
             had
             never
             dy'd
             .
          
        
         
           But
           asking
           my
           Reader
           's
           Pardon
           for
           my
           Impertinences
           ,
           I
           have
           now
           no
           more
           to
           add
           ,
           but
           desire
           him
           to
           
             fall
             to
             ,
             and
             much
             good
             may
             't
             do
             him
             .
          
        
      
       
         
           ERRATA
           .
        
         
           PAge
           9.
           line
           15.
           
             for
             Wight
          
           read
           Wights
           ,
           p.
           11.
           l.
           15.
           
             for
             were
          
           r.
           wee
           ,
           p.
           17.
           l.
           8.
           
             for
             fix
          
           r.
           fix'd
           ,
           p.
           17.
           l.
           20.
           
             for
             wreathing
          
           r.
           wreaking
           ,
           p.
           18.
           l.
           13.
           
             for
             Boaster
          
           r.
           Bogster
           .
        
      
    
     
       
         
         Homer
         in
         a
         Nutshell
         .
      
       
         
           CANTO
           I.
           
        
         
           
             WHEN
             now
             the
             murm'ring
             Vaulters
             of
             the
             Mead
          
           
             Had
             climb'd
             to
             Pow'r
             ,
             and
             rear'd
             a
             mighty
             Breed
             :
          
           
             Doom'd
             by
             Latona
             for
             a
             bruitish
             Crime
          
           
             To
             Stygian
             Mud
             and
             pestilential
             Slime
             ,
          
           
             'Till
             Application
             ,
             Stratagem
             ,
             and
             Trade
             ,
          
           
             A
             Blessing
             of
             the
             Malediction
             made
             ;
          
           
             And
             what
             with
             strenuous
             Limbs
             ,
             and
             slight
             of
             Art
             ,
          
           
             Tough
             Lungs
             ,
             auspicious
             Leaps
             ,
             and
             hollow
             Heart
             ,
          
           
             More
             Wealth
             ,
             more
             Splendor
             ,
             more
             Command
             acquir'd
             ,
          
           
             Than
             if
             the
             Boors
             had
             never
             been
             bemir'd
             .
          
        
         
           
             When
             now
             the
             little
             ,
             shaggy
             ,
             liqu'rish
             Race
          
           
             Of
             Animals
             that
             scud
             from
             Place
             to
             Place
             ,
          
           
             Or
             galloping
             through
             pliant
             Grass
             and
             Wheat
             ,
          
           
             Or
             gluttonously
             bury'd
             in
             their
             Meat
             ,
          
           
             Still
             trembling
             ,
             jealous
             ,
             malecontent
             ,
             altho'
          
           
             Thrice
             happy
             ,
             wou'd
             they
             let
             themselves
             be
             so
             ;
          
           
           
             Grown
             up
             t'
             a
             populous
             and
             potent
             State
          
           
             Had
             surfeited
             on
             Tides
             of
             luscious
             Fate
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             valu'd
             foreign
             Friends
             ,
             nor
             foreign
             Hate
             ,
          
        
         
           
             A
             dire
             Campaign
             commenc'd
             :
             Less
             veh'ment
             far
          
           
             Th'
             outragious
             Flame
             of
             the
             Titanian
             War
             ,
          
           
             Then
             when
             the
             lofty
             Boys
             of
             sullen
             Ops
          
           
             With
             Dragon
             Feet
             oppress'd
             the
             Mountain-tops
             :
          
           
             Rocks
             pil'd
             on
             Rocks
             ,
             from
             ruinous
             Ascents
          
           
             Crowding
             they
             storm'd
             Heav'n's
             Sapphir-Battlements
             ,
          
           
             While
             the
             warm
             Gods
             bright
             Vollies
             fast
             return'd
             ,
          
           
             And
             with
             vindictive
             Flames
             the
             hissing
             Aether
             burn'd
             .
          
        
         
           
             Desert
             ,
             harmonious
             Nine
             ,
             your
             sacred
             Hill
             ▪
          
           
             A
             Work
             divine
             proceeds
             :
             Inspire
             my
             Quill
             ,
          
           
             Inspire
             as
             when
             my
             Verse
             ye
             form'd
             of
             old
             :
          
           
             Verse
             that
             in
             lowd
             Heroick
             Numbers
             rowl'd
             :
          
           
             Your
             Bard
             invokes
             ,
             propitiously
             disclose
          
           
             From
             what
             malignant
             Seeds
             the
             Feud
             arose
             .
          
        
         
           
             Grim
             Puss
             ,
             the
             squeaking
             Nation
             's
             watchful
             Bane
          
           
             Pursu'd
             a
             Mouse
             ,
             and
             almost
             had
             o'rta'n
             ,
          
           
             Yet
             miss'd
             the
             Racer
             ,
             whose
             laborious
             Flight
             ,
          
           
             Full
             near
             as
             fatal
             as
             Grimalkin's
             Bite
             ,
          
           
             Enforc'd
             with
             Fears
             had
             Nature's
             Tone
             unstrung
             ,
          
           
             And
             to
             his
             droughthy
             Pallat
             glu'd
             his
             Tongue
             .
          
           
             The
             next
             cool
             Plash
             he
             seeks
             ,
             and
             soon
             arrives
          
           
             Where
             plunging
             deep
             his
             Beard
             the
             Wight
             revives
             .
          
           
             But
             scarce
             was
             drench'd
             when
             from
             th'
             unwholsome
             Flood
          
           
             King
             Bogrill
             issu'd
             ,
             and
             thus
             croak'd
             aloud
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             Soho
             !
             My
             Friend
             in
             venerable
             Fur
             !
          
           
             What
             are
             you
             ,
             say
             ,
             and
             whence
             ,
             Platonick
             Sir
             ?
          
           
             Fictions
             and
             Quibbles
             will
             disgrace
             your
             Coat
             :
          
           
             But
             if
             you
             hold
             in
             one
             consistent
             Note
             ,
          
           
             You
             're
             welcome
             to
             the
             Monarch
             of
             this
             Ditch
             ,
          
           
             A
             Monarch
             ,
             tho'
             I
             say
             't
             ,
             renown'd
             and
             rich
             ,
          
           
             By
             King
             Crocracro
             ,
             when
             his
             Love
             was
             hot
             ,
          
           
             Upon
             the
             Body
             of
             Queen
             Skip
             begot
             .
          
           
             And
             not
             to
             flatter
             ,
             in
             that
             Sylvan
             Face
          
           
             Methinks
             I
             read
             a
             brave
             Majestick
             Grace
             ,
          
           
             If
             my
             nice
             Opticks
             grosly
             don
             't
             deceive
             ,
          
           
             Or
             Laws
             of
             Phis'nomy
             we
             may
             believe
             .
          
           
             —
             My
             Life
             on
             't
             ,
             bred
             to
             War
             ,
             and
             nobly
             steel'd
             ,
          
           
             Thy
             Looks
             ,
             my
             Lad
             ,
             proclaim
             thee
             of
             the
             Field
             .
          
        
         
           
             To
             him
             Illustrious
             Nibble
             :
             For
             your
             Sense
             ,
          
           
             I
             say
             no
             more
             ;
             but
             your
             Intelligence
          
           
             Imperfect
             is
             ,
             or
             none
             ;
             else
             at
             first
             view
          
           
             You
             must
             have
             seen
             both
             whence
             I
             am
             and
             who
             .
          
           
             From
             Pypick
             and
             Queen
             Curdylip
             I
             spring
             ,
          
           
             Great
             
             Snapcrust's
             Daughter
             ,
             and
             my self
             a
             King.
          
           
             My
             Royal
             Mother
             ,
             Sir
             ,
             was
             brought
             a'
             Bed
          
           
             In
             Grange
             magnificent
             ,
             and
             there
             she
             bred
          
           
             Her
             Child
             so
             well
             ,
             ne'er
             Mousling
             better
             fed
             .
          
           
             Figs
             ,
             mellow
             Figs
             my
             Breakfast
             ev'ry
             Morn
             ,
          
           
             At
             Noon
             Plum-pudding
             ,
             and
             at
             Night
             young
             Corn.
          
           
             So
             far'd
             long
             since
             the
             plain
             Pypickian
             Court
             ,
          
           
             But
             now
             we
             Diet
             in
             a
             daintier
             sort
             .
          
           
           
             Then
             ,
             with
             Submission
             ,
             what
             your
             Highness
             croaks
             ,
          
           
             Tho'
             kindly
             meant
             ,
             appears
             a
             Paradox
             ;
          
           
             That
             you
             ,
             a
             Frog
             ,
             and
             I
             shou'd
             correspond
             :
          
           
             For
             how
             shou'd
             Frogs
             of
             Inland
             Mice
             grow
             fond
             ?
          
           
             Or
             We
             converse
             with
             Sprawlers
             of
             the
             Pond
             ?
          
           
             A
             most
             absurd
             Alliance
             't
             is
             we
             wish
             ,
          
           
             You
             cannot
             live
             in
             Meal
             ,
             nor
             I
             with
             Fish.
          
           
             Man's
             Meat
             is
             mine
             ,
             and
             of
             each
             sort
             the
             best
             ,
          
           
             Rich
             Soops
             ,
             Ragous
             ,
             and
             Hashes
             nicely
             drest
             :
          
           
             Your
             Marmalets
             ,
             your
             candy'd
             Peels
             I
             love
             ,
          
           
             The
             Ladies
             and
             my Self
             are
             Hand
             and
             Glove
             .
          
           
             Sated
             with
             Kickshaws
             I
             the
             Gentry
             quit
             ,
          
           
             To
             tast
             below
             ,
             for
             change
             ,
             a
             coarser
             Bit.
          
           
             Cream-cheese
             ,
             cold
             Capon
             ,
             Ven'son-Pasty
             ,
             Chine
             ,
          
           
             Just
             so
             the
             Gods
             themselves
             wou'd
             like
             to
             Dine
             ;
          
           
             For
             let
             Romantick
             Fools
             chant
             what
             they
             please
             ,
          
           
             Ambrosia's
             e'en
             
               Poor
               Iack
            
             compar'd
             to
             these
             .
          
           
             What
             skill
             in
             Arms
             and
             Courage
             I
             've
             exprest
             ,
          
           
             The
             Foe
             that
             felt
             their
             Force
             can
             tell
             you
             best
             .
          
           
             Mounting
             a
             Mole
             ,
             soon
             as
             the
             Charge
             we
             hear
             ,
          
           
             I
             still
             the
             foremost
             of
             our
             Troops
             appear
             .
          
           
             Death
             undismay'd
             in
             twenty
             Forms
             I
             meet
             ,
          
           
             And
             by
             my
             bold
             Example
             still
             defeat
          
           
             Our
             Army's
             Flight
             ,
             and
             all
             th'
             Invader's
             Heat
             .
          
           
             Nor
             Butlers
             me
             nor
             Bumkins
             can
             surprize
             ;
          
           
             My
             Courage
             bears
             proportion
             to
             their
             Size
             .
          
           
             Or
             if
             ●●y
             turgid
             Nerves
             shou'd
             chance
             to
             fail
             ,
          
           
             My
             vengeful
             Politicks
             ,
             be
             sure
             ,
             prevail
             .
          
           
             Does
             Cook-maid
             spy
             me
             mumping
             a
             Recruit
             ,
          
           
             And
             with
             a
             Woman's
             Fury
             pers●cute
             ?
          
           
           
             No
             sooner
             bouncing
             Bridget
             snoars
             in
             bed
             ,
          
           
             And
             dreams
             of
             Dalliances
             with
             Coachman
             Ned
             ,
          
           
             But
             up
             creeps
             Tit-mouse
             ,
             ventures
             at
             a
             bite
             ,
          
           
             Disturbs
             imagin'd
             Sweets
             ,
             and
             so
             
               good
               Night
            
             .
          
           
             O
             cou'd
             I
             once
             from
             Kites
             and
             Cats
             be
             freed
             ,
          
           
             Vermin
             by
             Fate
             arm'd
             to
             destroy
             the
             Breed
             !
          
           
             Cou'd
             I
             from
             that
             curs'd
             Fabrick
             be
             secure
             ,
          
           
             Dragg'd
             into
             which
             by
             some
             enchanting
             Lure
             ,
          
           
             Ourselves
             precipitate
             th'
             impending
             Snare
             ,
          
           
             And
             block
             up
             all
             Retreats
             but
             
               black
               Despair
            
             ,
          
           
             Confin'd
             above
             by
             stubborn
             Canopy
             ,
          
           
             Hew'n
             from
             the
             Trunk
             of
             the
             dread
             Thund'rer's
             Tree
             ,
          
           
             Champing
             in
             vain
             our
             Adamantine
             Grate
             ,
          
           
             As
             unrelenting
             as
             the
             force
             of
             Fate
             !
          
           
             O!
             might
             I
             get
             these
             Grievances
             redrest
             ,
          
           
             No
             Polycrates
             cou'd
             be
             half
             so
             blest
             !
          
           
             'Till
             then
             my
             want
             of
             Manners
             you
             'll
             excuse
             ,
          
           
             If
             such
             kind
             Invitations
             I
             refuse
             .
          
           
             You
             much
             oblige
             me
             ,
             Sir
             :
             But
             I
             profess
          
           
             I
             ne'er
             lov'd
             Duckry
             nor
             your
             Water-cress
             .
          
        
         
           
             He
             say'd
             :
             The
             marshy
             Monarch
             grinning
             wide
             ,
          
           
             To
             his
             departing
             Stranger
             thus
             reply'd
             ,
          
        
         
           
             Yet
             stay
             ,
             my
             Godlike
             Guest
             —
          
           
             Let
             me
             for
             once
             your
             Majesty
             convince
             ,
          
           
             These
             Realms
             yield
             Belly-timber
             for
             a
             Prince
             .
          
           
             On
             Dainties
             of
             the
             Garden
             or
             the
             Brook
          
           
             We
             glut
             ,
             and
             Nature
             our
             unerring
             Cook.
          
           
           
             With
             foreign
             Guegaws
             and
             domestick
             stor'd
          
           
             I
             'll
             furnish
             out
             ,
             believe
             me
             ,
             such
             a
             Board
             ,
          
           
             As
             might
             transport
             ,
             cou'd
             but
             the
             Trick
             be
             try'd
             ,
          
           
             Sardanapalus
             in
             a
             Mouses
             Hide
             .
          
           
             Only
             be
             pleas'd
             (
             and
             make
             no
             more
             ado
             )
          
           
             To
             board
             my
             Back
             instead
             of
             a
             Canow
             ,
          
           
             Securely
             so
             ,
             my
             Lord
             ,
             you
             'll
             ferry
             o'r
             ,
          
           
             And
             at
             the
             Pallace-stairs
             be
             set
             a'shoar
             .
          
        
         
           
             Advising
             thus
             the
             Prince
             expos'd
             his
             Back
             ,
          
           
             And
             Russet
             rode
             as
             soon
             a-pick-a-pack
             .
          
           
             He
             smirks
             ,
             he
             cocks
             his
             Ears
             ,
             and
             works
             his
             Tail
             ,
          
           
             O'rjoy'd
             to
             think
             how
             rarely
             he
             shall
             sail
             ;
          
           
             'Till
             his
             Canow
             plung'd
             all
             into
             the
             Deep
             ,
          
           
             And
             then
             the
             banter'd
             Knight
             begun
             to
             weep
             .
          
           
             In
             rage
             he
             plucks
             his
             Furs
             ,
             robustly
             spurns
          
           
             With
             quiv'ring
             Haunches
             ,
             while
             at
             Soul
             he
             burns
             .
          
           
             He
             felt
             his
             Honour
             had
             receiv'd
             a
             Wound
             ,
          
           
             And
             wish'd
             but
             for
             the
             sight
             of
             solid
             Ground
             .
          
           
             Much
             he
             resents
             his
             Fate
             ,
             but
             more
             he
             fears
             :
          
           
             Now
             with
             stiff
             Tail
             he
             rows
             ,
             and
             now
             he
             steers
             .
          
           
             Witness
             ,
             Immortal
             Pow'rs
             ,
             he
             cry'd
             ,
             and
             Thou
             —
          
           
             And
             then
             the
             Diver
             duck'd
             his
             Cargo
             low
             .
          
           
             Restor'd
             to
             kindly
             Draughts
             of
             upper
             Air
          
           
             He
             thus
             proceeds
             ,
             Great
             Iove
             once
             proud
             to
             bear
          
           
             Thy
             trembling
             Mistress
             on
             thy
             goodly
             Chine
          
           
             Thro'
             frothy
             Tumors
             of
             the
             dancing
             Brine
             ,
          
           
             Behold
             !
             —
             But
             e'r
             that
             Word
             his
             Lips
             escap'd
             ,
          
           
             A
             painted
             Floater
             ,
             formidably
             shap'd
          
           
           
             Travers'd
             the
             curling
             Tide
             ,
             a
             hungry
             Pest
             ,
          
           
             With
             Jaws
             Tartarian
             and
             erected
             Crest
             .
          
           
             The
             yellow
             Knight
             near
             Danger
             apprehends
             ,
          
           
             And
             biting
             poor
             
             Pilgarlick's
             Fingers-ends
             ,
          
           
             Breaks
             his
             Embrace
             ,
             and
             into
             Mud
             descends
             .
          
           
             In
             vain
             the
             vig'rous
             Chief
             deserted
             sprawls
             ,
          
           
             Beats
             the
             vext
             Element
             ,
             and
             pants
             ,
             and
             calls
             .
          
           
             Thrice
             through
             th'
             Abyss
             unwillingly
             he
             sinks
             ,
          
           
             Emerges
             thrice
             ,
             yet
             soon
             chill
             Death
             he
             drinks
             ,
          
           
             For
             now
             the
             soaky
             Hide
             too
             pond'rous
             grew
             ,
          
           
             And
             boding
             thus
             he
             bid
             the
             Light
             adieu
             .
          
        
         
           
             Yes
             ,
             Traytor
             ,
             thou
             shalt
             feel
             ,
             and
             that
             e'r
             long
             ,
          
           
             How
             much
             th'
             offended
             Gods
             resent
             my
             Wrong
             .
          
           
             Iove
             sends
             his
             Bolts
             on
             thy
             devoted
             Head
             ,
          
           
             My self
             infernal
             Scorpions
             from
             the
             Dead
             .
          
           
             O!
             had'st
             thou
             call'd
             me
             to
             the
             Lists
             ,
             and
             there
          
           
             Approv'd
             thy
             Skill
             —
             But
             ,
             Slave
             ,
             thou
             did'st
             not
             dare
             .
          
           
             Expect
             avenging
             Squadrons
             on
             thy
             Coast
          
           
             To
             sacrifice
             thee
             to
             my
             longing
             Ghost
             .
          
        
         
           
             He
             spoke
             :
             Then
             with
             a
             mighty
             Plunge
             expir'd
             ,
          
           
             And
             down
             to
             Styx
             his
             angry
             Shade
             retir'd
             .
          
        
      
       
         
         
           CANTO
           II.
           
        
         
           
             FIxt
             on
             the
             mossy
             Bank
             an
             Ozier
             Shed
          
           
             O'rlook'd
             the
             Lake
             ,
             long
             time
             inhabited
          
           
             By
             Tallow-lick
             ,
             a
             Mouse
             of
             Life
             obscure
             ,
          
           
             An
             humble
             Rustick
             ,
             honest
             ,
             old
             ,
             and
             poor
             .
          
           
             He
             from
             his
             Lattice
             first
             discern'd
             a'float
          
           
             Th'
             extended
             Hero
             ,
             and
             in
             pitteous
             Note
             ,
          
           
             Much
             injur'd
             Prince
             ,
             he
             screams
             ,
             nor
             stands
             to
             dress
             ,
          
           
             But
             up
             to
             Court
             flies
             with
             the
             sad
             Express
             .
          
           
             Revenge
             and
             Grief
             ,
             e'r
             scarce
             the
             Tale
             was
             heard
             ,
          
           
             In
             each
             wild
             Face
             Competitors
             appear'd
             .
          
           
             Full-proof
             against
             the
             Toyls
             and
             Storms
             of
             State
             ,
          
           
             The
             good
             old
             King
             now
             sunk
             beneath
             this
             Weight
             :
          
           
             To
             soothing
             Comforts
             deaf
             the
             frentick
             Queen
          
           
             Tears
             off
             her
             Ermin
             ,
             skulks
             and
             wo'n't
             be
             seen
             .
          
           
             The
             py-bald
             Nymphs
             his
             ev'ry
             Grace
             recal
             ,
          
           
             And
             much
             deplore
             the
             Youth
             's
             untimely
             Fall.
             
          
        
         
           
             Scarce
             was
             the
             King's
             cold
             Paroxysm
             spent
          
           
             Of
             Woe
             ,
             when
             Rage
             supplanting
             Discontent
             ,
          
           
             Four
             Heralds
             he
             around
             the
             Pallace
             sends
          
           
             To
             cite
             his
             faithful
             Counsellors
             and
             Friends
             .
          
           
             Soon
             to
             the
             Board
             the
             cited
             Council
             run
             ,
          
           
             Where
             thus
             aloud
             th'
             impatient
             King
             begun
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             Sirs
             ,
             't
             is
             a
             publick
             Wound
             .
             Not
             I'm
             alone
          
           
             Depriv'd
             of
             th'
             Heir
             and
             Collegue
             of
             my
             Throne
             .
          
           
             My
             Subjects
             too
             have
             lost
             a
             mighty
             stay
             :
          
           
             I
             miss
             my
             Child
             ,
             but
             their
             Defender
             They
             —
          
           
             Curst
             Fate
             of
             a
             declining
             Sire
             !
             To
             see
          
           
             Of
             three
             brave
             Sons
             the
             sad
             Catastrophe
             !
          
           
             My
             First
             by
             tabby
             Cannibal
             destroy'd
             ,
          
           
             My
             Second
             into
             Wooden
             Death
             decoy'd
             !
          
           
             And
             now
             the
             hopefull'st
             of
             my
             Stem
             is
             found
          
           
             By
             a
             false
             Monarch
             in
             his
             Marshes
             drown'd
             .
          
           
             To
             Arms
             ,
             to
             Arms
             !
             Th'
             Occasion
             checks
             Delay
             :
          
           
             Old
             as
             I
             am
             my self
             will
             lead
             the
             way
             .
          
        
         
           
             Scarce
             the
             gray
             Sage
             had
             clos'd
             his
             trembling
             Lips
             ,
          
           
             When
             from
             the
             Clouds
             the
             God
             of
             Battle
             slips
             ,
          
           
             And
             with
             rich
             Arms
             the
             zealous
             Wight
             equips
             .
          
           
             A
             Coat
             of
             Mail
             to
             cover
             Back
             and
             Side
             ,
          
           
             He
             plaited
             from
             a
             
               Snake's
               forsaken
               Hide
            
             .
          
           
             Dry
             Pescods
             ,
             whose
             green
             Embryos
             once
             had
             lin'd
          
           
             Their
             Bellies
             ,
             now
             around
             their
             Shanks
             they
             bind
             .
          
           
             Flat
             Cockle-shells
             on
             Gravel-Walk
             new
             lay'd
          
           
             Impenetrable
             ,
             radiant
             Corslets
             made
             .
          
           
             Nor
             sought
             th'
             assiduous
             Band
             in
             vain
             for
             Shields
             ,
          
           
             A
             Brazier's
             Shop
             a
             thousand
             Save-alls
             yields
             .
          
           
             A
             Foot
             of
             Wire
             each
             haughty
             Pikeman
             trails
             ,
          
           
             And
             at
             their
             Hips
             hang
             (
             four
             a
             Penny
             )
             Nails
             .
          
           
             Helmets
             of
             Acorn-cups
             their
             Fronts
             protect
             ,
          
           
             With
             Tags
             of
             Silk
             and
             waving
             Plume
             bedeckt
             .
          
           
           
             Appointed
             thus
             through
             Labyrinths
             of
             Grass
             ,
          
           
             The
             Warriors
             to
             their
             Expedition
             pass
             .
          
        
         
           
             Mean
             while
             preventing
             Fame
             ,
             of
             eager
             Flight
          
           
             As
             Northern
             Blasts
             ,
             pernicious
             as
             their
             Blight
             ,
          
           
             A
             sprouting
             Ill
             ,
             on
             her
             own
             Vitals
             fed
             ,
          
           
             At
             first
             a
             Dwarf
             ,
             in
             Cells
             and
             Grotto's
             bred
             ,
          
           
             But
             soon
             the
             yielding
             Clouds
             receive
             her
             Head
             ;
          
           
             With
             Noise
             ,
             and
             Lies
             ,
             and
             Obloquys
             ne'r
             cloy'd
             ,
          
           
             All
             Ears
             ,
             all
             Eyes
             ,
             all
             Tongue
             ,
             and
             All
             employ'd
             ,
          
           
             Alarms
             th'
             amphibious
             People
             of
             the
             Lake
             :
          
           
             To
             Shoar
             the
             terrify'd
             Musicians
             make
             .
          
           
             Grave
             Magistrates
             in
             a
             long
             rev'rend
             Train
          
           
             Hop
             to
             the
             shining
             Capitol
             a
             main
             ,
          
           
             The
             noisy
             Mob
             expecting
             all
             around
          
           
             Th'
             event
             of
             Consultations
             so
             profound
             .
          
           
             But
             e'r
             th'
             august
             Assembly
             deep
             had
             div'd
          
           
             Into
             the
             Meaning
             ,
             from
             the
             Mice
             arriv'd
          
           
             A
             valiant
             Herald
             ,
             portly
             Mumblebun
             ,
          
           
             Magnanimous
             
             Lapcustard's
             eldest
             Son
             ,
          
           
             Who
             boldly
             thus
             the
             Senators
             addrest
             ,
          
        
         
           
             My
             Lords
             ,
             my
             Master
             wou'd
             ha'
             scorn'd
             t'infest
          
           
             Your
             happy
             State
             ;
             but
             not
             to
             prosecute
          
           
             So
             foul
             a
             Fact
             wou'd
             make
             him
             Party
             to
             't
             .
          
           
             On
             him
             the
             Guilt
             of
             Murder
             must
             devolve
             ,
          
           
             Did
             he
             not
             now
             by
             Force
             of
             Arms
             resolve
          
           
             You
             Prince
             to
             punish
             ,
             who
             but
             yesternight
             ,
          
           
             Spight
             of
             all
             National
             and
             Private
             Right
             ,
          
           
           
             Betray'd
             and
             Drown'd
             great
             
             Pypick's
             gallant
             Heir
             :
          
           
             For
             War
             ,
             for
             hideous
             War
             ,
             ye
             Frogs
             ,
             prepare
             .
          
        
         
           
             He
             menacing
             withdrew
             ,
             and
             rugged
             Notes
          
           
             Result
             confus'dly
             from
             their
             lab'ring
             Throats
             .
          
           
             Against
             th'
             Aggressor
             lowd
             Complaints
             arise
             ,
          
           
             Who
             thus
             evades
             the
             Charge
             with
             specious
             Lies
             ,
          
        
         
           
             Witness
             ,
             ye
             Pow'rs
             ,
             to
             whose
             especial
             Care
          
           
             The
             Rights
             of
             Truth
             and
             Faith
             submitted
             are
             :
          
           
             Blast
             me
             with
             exemplary
             Plagues
             ,
             and
             shed
          
           
             Contagions
             thick
             on
             this
             perfidious
             Head
             ,
          
           
             If
             Bogrill
             e'r
             has
             instrumental
             been
          
           
             To
             the
             young
             Prince's
             Harm
             ,
             or
             e'r
             has
             seen
          
           
             Or
             heard
             of
             his
             Mishap
             !
             A-lack-a-day
             !
          
           
             I
             warrant
             you
             the
             Lad
             was
             got
             to
             Play
             ,
          
           
             And
             marking
             how
             the
             Pool
             were
             crost
             and
             crost
             ,
          
           
             He
             must
             be
             padling
             too
             ,
             and
             so
             was
             lost
             !
          
           
             Shall
             I
             then
             smart
             if
             such
             an
             Oaf
             as
             This
          
           
             Must
             have
             his
             Frolick
             ,
             and
             succeeds
             amiss
             ?
          
           
             Hard
             Fate
             of
             Innocence
             !
             to
             bear
             the
             Blame
          
           
             Of
             blackest
             Crimes
             ,
             because
             too
             meek
             and
             tame
             !
          
           
             Yet
             if
             your
             Lordships
             will
             my
             Counsel
             take
             ,
          
           
             The
             Foe
             shall
             feel
             ,
             Wounded
             it
             can
             awake
             .
          
           
             A
             Project
             I
             've
             conceiv'd
             ,
             which
             if
             pursu'd
          
           
             Infallibly
             roots
             out
             the
             dusky
             Brood
             .
          
           
             Rang'd
             in
             a
             File
             ,
             on
             some
             commodious
             Rise
             ,
          
           
             Wee
             'll
             watch
             their
             Troops
             ,
             and
             to
             the
             Bank
             entice
             :
          
           
             Then
             when
             their
             Onset
             they
             with
             Fury
             make
             ,
          
           
             Wheel
             off
             ,
             and
             let
             'em
             rush
             into
             the
             Lake
             :
          
           
           
             Or
             ,
             shou'd
             they
             halt
             in
             Rear
             ,
             our
             Wings
             defil'd
          
           
             Charge
             'em
             behind
             ,
             and
             drown
             each
             Mother's
             Child
             .
          
           
             So
             shall
             one
             wavy
             Tomb
             the
             Herd
             embrace
             ,
          
           
             And
             with
             rich
             Trophees
             we
             the
             Conquest
             grace
             .
          
        
         
           
             He
             say'd
             ;
             but
             mist
             of
             the
             propos'd
             Event
             ,
          
           
             The
             conscious
             Fairies
             publish'd
             his
             Intent
             .
          
        
         
           
             And
             now
             th'
             applauding
             Troglodytes
             adjourn
          
           
             To
             seek
             what
             Armour
             best
             may
             serve
             the
             turn
             .
          
           
             As
             round
             their
             little
             Alps
             I've
             often
             '
             spy'd
          
           
             Industrious
             Insects
             Aliment
             provide
             ;
          
           
             Here
             in
             stretch'd
             Mouth
             up
             steep
             unequal
             Ways
          
           
             A
             single
             Slave
             a
             single
             Seed
             conveys
             .
          
           
             There
             sable
             Troops
             confederating
             draw
          
           
             One
             Grain
             of
             Wheat
             ,
             or
             half
             an
             Inch
             of
             Straw
             .
          
           
             With
             frugal
             Fervency
             the
             Work
             they
             press
             ,
          
           
             And
             baffle
             bleak
             
             December's
             near
             Distress
             .
          
           
             Thus
             each
             brave
             Myrmidon
             designing
             Greaves
             ,
          
           
             Round
             his
             Supporters
             fibrous
             Mallows
             weaves
             .
          
           
             Light
             Corslets
             broken
             
               Shells
               of
               Eggs
            
             afford
             ,
          
           
             And
             a
             tough
             springy
             Bulrush
             many
             a
             Sword.
          
           
             For
             Targets
             empty
             Cockle-shells
             they
             found
             :
          
           
             Their
             Heads
             high
             Periwinkle-Turbants
             crown'd
             .
          
           
             Adorn'd
             ,
             the
             buxom
             Champions
             take
             their
             Post
             ,
          
           
             A
             menacing
             ,
             proud
             ,
             formidable
             Host.
             
          
        
         
           
             Observing
             Iove
             ,
             by
             
             Maia's
             active
             Son
          
           
             Summons
             the
             Gods
             :
             To
             Council-board
             they
             run
             ,
          
           
           
             Whence
             the
             pleas'd
             Thund'rer
             shews
             the
             comick
             Scene
          
           
             Of
             the
             new
             War
             ,
             and
             what
             the
             Rivals
             mean
             ,
          
           
             The
             Conduct
             of
             the
             Generals
             ,
             and
             their
             Strength
             ,
          
           
             Th'
             Invention
             of
             their
             Lances
             ,
             and
             their
             length
             ,
          
           
             And
             how
             the
             strutting
             Bands
             with
             Pride
             advanc'd
             ,
          
           
             As
             tow'rd
             the
             Foe
             the
             restiff
             Centaurs
             pranc'd
             .
          
           
             Then
             jocundly
             enquir'd
             —
          
           
             Say
             to
             which
             Int'rest
             ,
             Gods
             ,
             y'
             are
             most
             inclin'd
             ,
          
           
             
             Bogrill's
             or
             
             Pypick's
             :
             Freely
             tell
             your
             Mind
             .
          
           
             Minerva
             ,
             what
             say'st
             thou
             ,
             my
             Wench
             ,
             speak
             out
             —
          
           
             Ha!
             which
             dost
             like
             ,
             my
             Girl
             ?
             —
             The
             Mice
             ,
             no
             doubt
             ,
          
           
             The
             witty
             ,
             wanton
             Mice
             —
          
           
             With
             Aristippick
             Zeal
             and
             sly
             Design
          
           
             Frisking
             and
             bustling
             round
             thy
             Silver
             Shrine
             ,
          
           
             'Till
             Victims
             broil
             and
             unctuous
             Odours
             mount
             ;
          
           
             Their
             Vigilance
             then
             turns
             to
             good
             Account
             .
          
        
         
           
             No
             ,
             my
             dread
             Sire
             ,
             reply'd
             the
             martial
             Maid
             ,
          
           
             That
             sacrilegious
             Crew
             I
             'll
             never
             aid
             .
          
           
             Prophane
             Poultrons
             !
             that
             all
             my
             Garlands
             spoil
             ,
          
           
             Steal
             to
             my
             Lamps
             ,
             and
             lap
             away
             my
             Oil.
          
           
             What
             strange
             ,
             malicious
             Tricks
             ,
             each
             Hour
             they
             play
          
           
             'T
             were
             tedious
             to
             relate
             .
             But
             t'other
             Day
          
           
             Upon
             my
             Tissue-Vest
             by
             Hands
             divine
          
           
             Embroider'd
             ,
             did
             the
             hungry
             Caitiffs
             dine
             .
          
           
             The
             Mercer
             (
             for
             my
             Priest
             had
             tick'd
             for
             Silk
             )
          
           
             Duns
             as
             he
             were
             to
             break
             ,
             and
             smells
             a
             Bilk
             .
          
           
             Nor
             shall
             my
             Succour
             to
             the
             Frogs
             be
             lent
             ,
          
           
             The
             filthy
             Spawn
             of
             Nature's
             Excrement
             ,
          
           
           
             A
             lowd
             ,
             unfashion'd
             Species
             :
             Nay
             (
             t'evince
          
           
             How
             just
             my
             Accusation
             )
             four
             Days
             since
          
           
             Spent
             with
             the
             Trade
             of
             War
             ,
             and
             in
             pursuit
          
           
             Of
             gentle
             Morpheus
             for
             a
             kind
             recruit
             ,
          
           
             I
             lay'd
             me
             down
             upon
             an
             Oozy-bed
             ,
          
           
             When
             presently
             came
             droaning
             round
             my
             Head
          
           
             Ten
             thousand
             Skip-jacks
             ,
             and
             'till
             Night's
             dull
             shade
          
           
             Gave
             place
             to
             Day
             ,
             renew'd
             their
             Serenade
             .
          
           
             The
             silent
             Pow'r
             ,
             obnoxious
             to
             Surprize
             ,
          
           
             Abhorr'd
             the
             Din
             ,
             and
             fled
             my
             wishing
             Eyes
             .
          
           
             Impartialy
             let
             's
             all
             th'
             Event
             attend
             ,
          
           
             And
             neither
             Faction
             worry
             or
             befriend
             .
          
           
             There
             's
             Danger
             in
             th'
             Engagement
             ,
             for
             who
             knows
          
           
             But
             shou'd
             the
             '
             Squires
             once
             come
             to
             Handy-Blows
             ,
          
           
             Rough
             Mars
             agen
             might
             from
             a
             mortal
             Arm
          
           
             Receive
             a
             pungent
             ,
             rude
             ,
             opprobrious
             Harm
             ,
          
           
             And
             
             Cytherea's
             Hand
             forfeit
             another
             Charm
             ?
          
           
             Supinely
             rather
             and
             unmov'd
             survey
          
           
             The
             various
             Feats
             and
             Fortune
             of
             the
             Day
             .
          
        
         
           
             Thus
             She
             :
             The
             merry
             Pow'rs
             th'
             Advice
             approve
             ,
          
           
             And
             all
             to
             advantageous
             Posts
             remove
             .
          
        
      
       
         
         
           CANTO
           III.
           
        
         
           
             FOrth
             from
             each
             Camp
             two
             stalking
             Heralds
             came
             ,
          
           
             The
             near
             approach
             of
             Battle
             to
             proclaim
             .
          
           
             Behind
             shrill
             Hornets
             ,
             musical
             and
             large
             ,
          
           
             Tumultuous
             Clangors
             mingling
             sound
             the
             Charge
             :
          
           
             While
             
             Saturn's
             Son
             their
             Arms
             to
             dignify
          
           
             Rowls
             ominous
             Thunder
             through
             the
             ratling
             Sky
             .
          
        
         
           
             First
             fell
             gigantick
             Crambeef
             in
             the
             Van
             ,
          
           
             A
             daring
             Chief
             ,
             his
             length
             near
             half
             a
             Span
             ,
          
           
             Struck
             by
             a
             Lance
             from
             Gabberillo
             sent
             ;
          
           
             It
             pierc'd
             his
             Paunch
             and
             through
             the
             Liver
             went.
          
           
             The
             Champion's
             Fall
             resounding
             Earth
             bespeaks
             ,
          
           
             And
             clotted
             Dust
             deforms
             his
             grov'ling
             Cheeks
             .
          
           
             Rough
             Skulk
             a
             Jav'lin
             next
             at
             Bungy
             threw
             ,
          
           
             Hissing
             it
             pass'd
             ,
             and
             through
             his
             Corslet
             flew
             :
          
           
             Down
             ,
             down
             he
             sinks
             ;
             his
             eager
             Heart
             transfix'd
          
           
             Spews
             out
             sweet
             Life
             with
             purple
             Oceans
             mixt
             .
          
           
             At
             old
             
               Lapcustard
               Grub
            
             a
             Shaft
             let
             fly
             ,
          
           
             Which
             glancing
             through
             his
             Temples
             reach'd
             his
             Eye
             :
          
           
             An
             easy
             Conquest
             instant
             Fate
             obtain'd
             ,
          
           
             And
             clos'd
             the
             Luminary
             that
             remain'd
             .
          
           
             At
             bulky
             Groggle
             fierce
             Bisketto
             cast
          
           
             A
             Spear
             ,
             which
             singing
             in
             t
             '
             his
             Garbage
             past
             .
          
           
           
             He
             grunts
             not
             long
             nor
             welters
             in
             his
             Gore
             ,
          
           
             E'r
             his
             griev'd
             Soul
             finds
             out
             the
             new-made
             Door
             .
          
           
             No
             sooner
             Bogrill
             had
             the
             Loss
             beheld
             ,
          
           
             But
             black
             Revenge
             his
             angry
             Bosom
             swell'd
             .
          
           
             Collecting
             all
             his
             Force
             ,
             and
             straining
             oft
          
           
             The
             Monarch
             brandish'd
             with
             his
             Arms
             aloft
          
           
             A
             wild
             ,
             unhandy
             ,
             ragged
             Peble-stone
             ,
          
           
             Which
             crushing
             Sculk
             athwart
             the
             Shoulder-bone
             ,
          
           
             Scarce
             left
             him
             a
             Reprieve
             to
             fetch
             a
             Groan
             .
          
           
             His
             Son
             black
             Carrotscoop
             at
             
             Bogrill's
             Groin
          
           
             Enrag'd
             took
             aim
             ,
             nor
             mist
             of
             his
             Design
             .
          
           
             No
             sooner
             the
             Disaster
             Wamble
             knew
             ,
          
           
             But
             to
             the
             Water
             parrying
             he
             withdrew
             ,
          
           
             While
             Carrotscroop
             prest
             on
             ,
             'till
             Wamble
             reels
          
           
             Into
             the
             Ditch
             ,
             and
             pulls
             him
             in
             by
             th'
             Heels
             .
          
           
             Immerst
             their
             Blows
             the
             hardy
             Champions
             ply
             ,
          
           
             And
             Stripes
             of
             Crimson
             the
             Maeotis
             dye
             ,
          
           
             'Till
             truss'd
             along
             the
             Margin
             of
             the
             Flood
          
           
             Lay
             Wamble
             ,
             and
             the
             Mousling
             in
             the
             Mud.
             
          
        
         
           
             So
             when
             young
             Spaniel
             sent
             by
             clam'rous
             Boys
          
           
             A
             rough
             Athenian
             Fowl
             in
             Pond
             annoys
             ,
          
           
             The
             Philosophick
             Bird
             with
             Beak
             and
             Claw
          
           
             Returns
             his
             keen
             Salutes
             of
             Tooth
             and
             Paw
             .
          
           
             Now
             yelping
             Pups
             prevails
             ,
             now
             hooting
             Madge
             ,
          
           
             And
             Plumes
             and
             curling
             Locks
             bestrow
             the
             liquid
             Stage
             .
          
        
         
           
             Poppin
             at
             further
             distance
             from
             the
             Brook
             ,
          
           
             Assail'd
             sage
             Butterbeard
             and
             Pris'ner
             took
             .
          
           
           
             Sleek
             Gobbletart
             engag'd
             stout
             Specklebum
             ,
          
           
             But
             Speckle
             left
             his
             Shield
             and
             off
             he
             swum
             .
          
           
             Morasse
             discharg'd
             a
             Slat
             ,
             and
             with
             the
             stroak
          
           
             
             Mump's
             Neck
             most
             diomedicaly
             broke
             .
          
           
             From
             both
             his
             Nostrils
             mucous
             Brain
             distill'd
             ,
          
           
             And
             blended
             with
             black
             Gore
             enrich'd
             the
             barren
             Field
             .
          
           
             Wallow
             from
             Tallowlick
             receiv'd
             a
             Wound
             ,
          
           
             The
             Pike
             o'rturning
             fix
             him
             to
             the
             Ground
             .
          
           
             On
             Egdrain
             then
             disturb'd
             Treadwavio
             flew
             ,
          
           
             Tripp'd
             up
             his
             Heels
             ,
             and
             into
             Puddle
             drew
             ,
          
           
             There
             by
             main
             Strength
             he
             held
             the
             Pilf'rer
             down
             ,
          
           
             Insulting
             thus
             ,
             
               Drown
               ,
               rav'nous
               Monster
               ,
               drown
               :
            
          
           
             Since
             you
             're
             so
             good
             at
             sucking
             ,
             call
             me
             Fool
          
           
             If
             I
             don't
             give
             you
             now
             your
             Belly-full
             ,
          
           
             And
             dows'd
             him
             headlong
             down
             to
             Phlegeton
             .
          
           
             But
             Pypick
             ,
             now
             his
             dearest
             Friends
             were
             gone
             ,
          
           
             Driv'n
             by
             Revenge
             and
             rash
             Despair
             along
             ,
          
           
             As
             when
             Convulsions
             make
             a
             Patient
             strong
             ,
          
           
             Up
             to
             majestick
             Ambergillo
             made
             ,
          
           
             In
             the
             proud
             Croaker
             sheath'd
             his
             wreathing
             Blade
             ,
          
           
             And
             forc'd
             him
             through
             th'
             Infernal
             Mote
             to
             wade
             .
          
           
             Soon
             as
             Codrillo
             the
             Disaster
             '
             spy'd
             ,
          
           
             Grasping
             soft
             Clay
             and
             something
             soft
             beside
             ,
          
           
             The
             mellow
             Shot
             on
             Pypick
             he
             conferr'd
             ,
          
           
             Bung'd
             up
             his
             Eyes
             ,
             and
             damnify'd
             his
             Beard
             .
          
           
             Transported
             by
             fresh
             Injuries
             the
             King
          
           
             Grop'd
             out
             a
             Stone
             ,
             and
             with
             a
             veh'ment
             Spring
          
           
             Against
             Codrillo
             sent
             ,
             a
             rocky
             Stone
             ,
          
           
             Fit
             for
             a
             Pigmy-Leader
             to
             have
             thrown
             .
          
           
           
             
             Codrillo's
             Ankles
             felt
             the
             batt'ring
             Mass
             ,
          
           
             And
             groaning
             hoarse
             he
             dropt
             into
             the
             Grass
             .
          
           
             Duke
             Dabble
             brook'd
             not
             this
             unnat'ral
             Deed
             ,
          
           
             But
             fiercely
             brandishing
             his
             pointed
             Reed
             ,
          
           
             Inch-deep
             into
             the
             Cawl
             his
             Highness
             struck
             ,
          
           
             And
             with
             the
             Lance
             drew
             out
             Imperial
             Pluck
             .
          
           
             Grave
             Brewis
             on
             a
             verdant
             Ridge
             reclin'd
          
           
             To
             sooth
             his
             Wounds
             ,
             felt
             greater
             in
             his
             Mind
             .
          
           
             The
             mangled
             Monarch
             much
             his
             Sight
             offends
             ,
          
           
             And
             rather
             than
             be
             butcher'd
             like
             his
             Friends
             ,
          
           
             Into
             the
             Dike
             he
             chearfully
             descends
             .
          
           
             Old
             Snapcrust
             ,
             as
             gay
             Bogrill
             vaunting
             stood
             ,
          
           
             Wounded
             his
             Foot
             :
             The
             Boaster
             saw
             the
             Blood
             ,
          
           
             Perceiv'd
             the
             Smart
             ,
             and
             took
             in
             hast
             the
             Flood
             .
          
           
             Snapcrust
             precipitantly
             to
             pursue
          
           
             Th'
             unfinish'd
             Work
             of
             Death
             e'en
             stept
             in
             too
             .
          
           
             Stern
             Didap
             ,
             when
             he
             saw
             the
             King
             distrest
             ,
          
           
             Through
             the
             wild
             Tumult
             of
             the
             Battle
             prest
             ,
          
           
             And
             tost
             his
             taper
             Weapon
             ,
             though
             in
             vain
             ;
          
           
             The
             sounding
             Target
             sent
             it
             back
             again
             .
          
           
             But
             none
             of
             the
             Pypickians
             might
             compare
          
           
             For
             Backsword
             or
             Sasa
             with
             Scamblefare
             ,
          
           
             Undaunted
             Scamblefare
             the
             dear
             Delight
          
           
             Of
             surly
             Mars
             ,
             and
             Son
             to
             Gristlebite
             .
          
           
             Boasting
             he
             stemm'd
             the
             War's
             impetuous
             Tide
             ,
          
           
             Prevailing
             more
             than
             all
             the
             Mice
             beside
             .
          
           
             On
             the
             rais'd
             Bank
             he
             struts
             :
             Thence
             threat'ning
             lowd
          
           
             Portends
             Excision
             to
             the
             croaking
             Crowd
             :
          
           
             And
             had
             much
             more
             than
             menac'd
             
               (
               for
               his
               Word
            
          
           
             Was
             ne'r
             too
             big
             or
             little
             for
             his
             Sword
             )
          
           
           
             But
             Heav'n's
             grand
             Sov'reign
             saw
             the
             coming
             Stroak
             ,
          
           
             And
             melting
             into
             Pitty
             Silence
             broke
             ,
          
           
             With
             solemn
             Nod
             :
             See
             there
             ,
             ye
             Gods
             ,
             see
             there
          
           
             Th'
             attempts
             of
             bloody-minded
             Scamblefare
             !
          
           
             
               Minerva
               —
               Mars
            
             —
             stoop
             with
             a
             rapid
             Flight
             ,
          
           
             And
             drive
             the
             fell
             Insulter
             from
             the
             Fight
             !
          
           
             Thus
             Iove
             :
             To
             whom
             the
             God
             of
             Arms
             ,
             Not
             I
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             She
             ,
             nor
             all
             our
             Peers
             throughout
             the
             Sky
          
           
             Can
             aid
             the
             Frogs
             :
             However
             we
             may
             try
             .
          
           
             If
             our
             Joint-Pow'rs
             the
             Mischief
             cann't
             remove
             ,
          
           
             Still
             our
             Benignity
             we
             shall
             approve
             —
          
           
             Or
             what
             if
             downward
             you
             a
             Bolt
             shou'd
             dart
             ,
          
           
             A
             sputt'ring
             Bolt
             forg'd
             with
             laborious
             Art
             ?
          
           
             Such
             as
             on
             
             Phlaegra's
             execrable
             Plain
          
           
             Besieg'd
             your
             vext
             Divinity
             did
             rain
             ,
          
           
             When
             the
             tall
             Brood
             which
             Earth's
             damp
             Cayerns
             bore
             ,
          
           
             You
             riveted
             to
             Mountains
             whence
             their
             Arms
             they
             tore
             .
          
           
             He
             say'd
             .
             The
             Son
             of
             Saturn
             rising
             hurl'd
          
           
             A
             Lemnian
             Shaft
             ,
             and
             stunn'd
             the
             upper
             World.
          
           
             Down
             from
             the
             rocking
             Orbs
             the
             Tempest
             came
             ,
          
           
             Usher'd
             by
             Preludes
             of
             diffusive
             Flame
             .
          
           
             At
             first
             both
             Armies
             fear
             :
             Yet
             this
             Device
          
           
             Affrights
             not
             from
             Hostilities
             the
             Mice
             ,
          
           
             The
             Froggish
             Name
             t'
             extinguish
             boldly
             bent
             ,
          
           
             But
             squeamish
             Iove
             averse
             to
             their
             Intent
             ,
          
           
             Puissant
             Succours
             to
             the
             Buff-coats
             lent
             .
          
           
             Deform'd
             ,
             ungainly
             ,
             awkward
             ,
             sideling
             Sholes
             ,
          
           
             Testaceous
             Tenants
             of
             the
             slimy
             Holes
             ,
          
           
             Waving
             four
             slender
             Feet
             on
             either
             side
             ,
          
           
             With
             jetty
             Claws
             and
             rocky
             Shoulders
             wide
             :
          
           
           
             Their
             Backs
             in
             form
             of
             Snushbox-covers
             made
             ,
          
           
             And
             on
             their
             Chests
             Ebony
             Eyes
             inlaid
             ,
          
           
             Hight
             Crabs
             ,
             whose
             worse
             than
             Cornish
             Gripes
             alarm
          
           
             The
             Mice
             ,
             and
             bite
             away
             Leg
             ,
             Tail
             ,
             and
             Arm.
          
           
             Soon
             cool'd
             this
             grisly
             Pest
             their
             active
             Heat
             ,
          
           
             And
             in
             Disorder
             forc'd
             'em
             to
             retreat
             .
          
           
             Thus
             that
             Campaign
             which
             with
             the
             Day
             begun
             ,
          
           
             Clos'd
             at
             the
             late
             Immersion
             of
             the
             Sun.
             
          
        
      
    
     
       
         
           Advertisement
           .
        
         
           SIx
           Philosophical
           Essays
           upon
           several
           Subjects
           ,
           viz.
           Concerning
           1.
           
           Dr.
           
           Burnet's
           Theory
           of
           the
           Earth
           .
           2.
           
           Wit
           and
           Beauty
           .
           3.
           
           A
           Publick
           Spirit
           .
           4.
           
           The
           We●ther
           .
           5.
           
           The
           Certainty
           of
           Things
           ,
           and
           the
           Existence
           of
           a
           Deity
           .
           6.
           
           The
           Cartesian
           Idea
           of
           God.
           By
           
             Samuel
             Parker
          
           ,
           Gent.
           of
           Trinity-College
           in
           Oxford
           .
           Printed
           for
           
             Tho.
             Newborough
          
           ,
           at
           the
           
             Golden
             Ball
          
           in
           St.
           
           Paul's
           Church-yard
           .
        
         
      
       
         Notes, typically marginal, from the original text
         
           Notes for div A56392-e590
           
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