Classic Poem

What Latin Sir? why there is no man
That e're thought you an English-Roman .
Your Father Horse could teach you none,
Nor was it e're your Mother tongue,
Your Education too assures
Me, that your Poem is not yours:
Besides, I thought you did detest
The Language of the Latin Beast ,
But now your Impudence I see
Did hereby shew its Modesty;
Each syllable would blush you thought,
If it had bin plain English taught,
And that your foul debauched stuff
Might do its Errand fast enough,
Forsooth your Wisedom thought it meet
That Words might run to give 'em feet,
Pardon me, Sir, I'm none of those
That love Love-verse , give me your Prose,
I wish each Verse to make delay,
Had turn'd lame Scazon by the way,
I read a Hell in every line
Of your Polluted Fescennine;
Your Verses stunk; to keep 'em sweet
You should have put Socks on their Feet.
And that the Answer which I shall
Now write, may be Methodicall,
I'le briefly make ('tis not amiss)
An Anacephalaeosis .
And first I look'd for Nestor; when
Mere Cupid trickl'd from your Pen,
Who was your Father, you make proof
By your Colt's tooth, though not your hoof,
She that was great with you, you hold
Did not lye in, but was with fole'd.
I wonder one so old, so grave
Should yet such Youth, such Lightnesse have;
Of the Five Members you alone
Shall be esteem'd the Privy One,
Who (like the Gnosticks ) preach your Text ,
Increase and Multiply, and next
Convincing Doctrines you deduce,
Put out the Lights, and make Use.
You say I am a Maid exceeding
Apt to be taught by you good breeding.
But where there's breeding, it is said
There's none, unlesse a broken Maid
Turn Papist, ( Stallion ) they'le dispence
With Whoredom, by an Indulgence,
Turn Fryer, that thou mayst be free
At once with a whole Nunnery,
There 'twill be vertue to ride on
The Purple Whore of Babylon
Thou mayst as soon turn Turk , as King ,
And that, O that's the tempting thing
That thou mayst glut thy Appetite
With a Seraglio of Delight.
I am no Proserpine , that thus
I should desire an Incubus:
But you must vote (if Me you'le win)
No Fornication to be Sin,
You say the House takes it not well
The King 'gainst Rebells should Rebell;
And that's the reason why you stand
To be Dictator of the Land,
Which mov'd me to a mighty toyle
Of getting Vardygrease and Oyle.
'Cause such Itch-Med'cine is a thing
That's fittest to anoint you King .
You say youl'd undertake and do
Wonders, would I undergo you,
For my sake you would Cobler play,
Your Trade should be to underlay,
For Me you'd your chiefest blood,
Pray spend it on the Sisterhood,
You wish to dye in those great Fights
Of Venus , where each Wound delights,
And should I once to Heaven take wing,
Youl'd follow me, though in a string;
Thank you (good Sir) it is our Will
You your last Promise doe fulfill;
There's nothing spoke that pleaseth us
Like your ( In funes Cedulus )
Next come those idle Twittle-twats,
Which calls me many God-knows-whats,
As hallowed, beautifull, and faire,
Supple and kind, and Debonaire .
You talk of Women that did wooe,
When I am mad I'le do so too;
Then that my Father may not spye
The coupling of you and I,
He shall be guiltlessly detected,
As a true Subject ill-affected,
And so the Protestant shall lye
In Gaol for fear of Popery.
(From hence it is that every Town ,
Almost is now a Prison grown,
Where Loyalty lies fetter'd, then
You do commit more sins than men.)
But those your words I have thought best,
Should punisht be by being prest;
And that this Body Politick
May then be well, which now lyes sick,
May the Greek II, that fatal Tree ,
This Spring bear all such fruit as thee.