Whose thread of life the Fatal Sisters 1
Did twist together with its whiskers,
And twine so close, that Time should never,
In life or death, their fortunes sever;
But with his rusty sickle mow,
Both down together at a blow.
So learned Taliacotius,2 from
The brawny part of Porter's bum,
Cut supplemental noses, which
Would last as long as parent breech;
But when the date of Nock 3 was out,
Off dropt the sympathetic snout.
His back, or rather burden, show'd
As if it stoop'd with its own load:
For as Æneas bore his sire,
Upon his shoulders thro' the fire,
Our Knight did bear no less a pack
Of his own buttocks on his back:
Which now had almost got the upper-
Hand of his head, for want of crupper.
To poise this equally, he bore
A paunch of the same bulk before,
Which still he had a special care
To keep well-cramm'd with thrifty fare;
As white-pot, butter-milk, and curds,
Such as a country-house affords ;
With other victual, which anon
We farther shall dilate upon,
When of his hose we come to treat,
The cupboard, where he kept his meat.
'Fatal Sisters' Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos, the Three Destinies.— 2Learned Taliacotius: Gasper Taliacotius was born at Bononia, A.D. 1516, and was professor of physic and surgery there. He died 1599. He excelled in ingrafting noses, ears, lips, &c.- Nock:' a cant name for Cromwell.White-pot: a Devonshire dish.
His doublet was of sturdy buff,
And tho' not sword, yet cudgel-proof;
Whereby 'twas fitter for his use,
Who fear'd no blows but such as bruise.
His breeches were of rugged woollen,
And had been at the Siege of Bullen;
To old King Harry so well known,
Some writers held they were his own.
Thro' they were lined with many a piece
Of ammunition bread and cheese,
And fat black-puddings, proper food
For warriors that delight in blood :
For, as we said, he always chose
To carry victual in his hose,
That often tempted rats and mice
The ammunition to surprise:
And when he put a hand but in
The one or t'other magazine,
They stoutly in defence on't stood,
And from the wounded foe drew blood;
And till they were storm'd, and beaten out,
Ne'er left the fortify'd redoubt.
And tho' knights-errant, as some think,
Of old did neither eat nor drink,
Because when thorough deserts vast,
And regions desolate, they pass'd,
Where belly-timber, above ground,
Or under, was not to be found,
Unless they grazed, there's not one word
Of their provision on record;
Which made some confidently write,
They had no stomachs but to fight.
1 The Siege of Bullen :' Boulogne, besieged by King Henry VIII. in person July 14, 1544, and surrendered in September.
'Tis false; for Arthur wore in hall
Round table, like a farthingal,
On which, with shirts pull'd out behind,
And eke before, his good knights dined.
Though 'twas no table some suppose,
But a huge pair of round trunk hose,
In which he carried as much meat
As he and all his knights could eat,
When, laying by their swords and truncheons,
They took their breakfasts, or their nuncheons. 1
But let that pass at present, lest
We should forget where we digress'd,
As learned authors use, to whom
We leave it, and to th' purpose come.
His puissant sword unto his side,
Near his undaunted heart, was ty'd;
With basket-hilt, that would hold broth,
And serve for fight and dinner both :
In it he melted lead for bullets,
To shoot at foes, and sometimes pullets,
To whom he bore so fell a grutch,
He ne'er gave quarter t' any such.
The trenchant blade, Toledo trusty,
For want of fighting, was grown rusty,
And ate into itself, for lack
Of somebody to hew and hack.
The peaceful scabbard, where it dwelt,
The rancour of its edge had felt;
For of the lower end two handful
It had devour'd, 'twas so manful,
And so much scorn'd to lurk in case,
As if it durst not show its face.
16 Nuncheons: an afternoon meal, like the Scotch 'four-hour-Toledo trusty:' the capital city of New Castile.
In many desperate attempts
Of warrants, exigents, contempts,
It had appear'd with courage bolder
Than Serjeant Bum invading shoulder.
Oft had it ta'en possession,
And pris'ners too, or made them run.
This sword a dagger had, his page,
That was but little for his age,
And therefore waited on him so,
As dwarfs upon knights-errant do:
It was a serviceable dudgeon,1
Either for fighting or for drudging:
When it had stabb'd, or broke a head,
It would scrape trenchers, or chip bread;
Toast cheese or bacon, tho' it were
To bait a mouse-trap, 'twould not care :
"Twould make clean shoes, and in the earth
Set leeks and onions, and so forth :
It had been 'prentice to a brewer, 2
Where this and more it did endure;
But left the trade, as many more
Have lately done on the same score.
In th' holsters, at his saddle-bow,
Two aged pistols he did stow,
Among the surplus of such meat
As in his hose he could not get :
These would inveigle rats with th' scent,
To forage when the cocks were bent ;
And sometimes catch 'em with a snap,
As cleverly as th' ablest trap.
They were upon hard duty still,
And ev'ry night stood sentinel,
1 'Dudgeon:' small dagger.-2 'Brewer' alluding to Cromwell's original trade.
To guard the magazine i' th' hose
From two-legg'd and from four-legg'd focs.
Thus clad and fortify'd, Sir Knight,
From peaceful home, set forth to fight.
But first, with nimble active force,
He got on th' outside of his horse;
For having but one stirrup tied
T'his saddle, on the farther side,
It was so short, h' had much ado
To reach it with his desp'rate toe:
But, after many strains and heaves,
He got up to the saddle-eaves,
From whence he vaulted into th' seat,
With so much vigour, strength, and heat,
That he had almost tumbled over
With his own weight, but did recover,
By laying hold on tail and mane,
Which oft he used instead of rein.
But, now we talk of mounting steed,
Before we farther do proceed,
It doth behove us to say something
Of that which bore our valiant Bumkin.
The beast was sturdy, large, and tall,
With mouth of meal, and eyes of wall;
I would say eye, for h' had but one,
As most agree, tho' some say none.
He was well stay'd, and in his gait
Preserved a grave, majestic state;
At spur or switch no more he skipt,
Or mended pace, than Spaniard whipt; 1
'Than Spaniard whipt:' alluding to the story in the fable, Sir Roger L'Estrange's Fables,' vol. ii. fab. 142, of the Spaniard under the lash, who made a point of honour of it not to mend his pace for the saving his body, and marched gravely off the stage.
|