Th’ Immortal Mouse who saw the Viceroy come
So far to see Her, did invite her Home.
There’s a pretty Name now for the Spotted Mouse, the Viceroy!
Smith.
But pray why d’e call her so?
Bayes.
Why! Because it sounds prettily: I’le call her the Crown-General presently if I’ve a mind to it. Well.
— did invite her Home
To smoak a Pipe, and o’re a sober Pot
Discourse of Oates and Bedloe, and the Plot.
She made a Court’sy, like a Civil Dame,
And, being much a Gentlewoman, came
Well, Gentlemen, here’s my first part finish’d, and I think T have kept my Word with you, and given it the Majestick turn of Heroick Poesy. The rest being matter of Dispute, I had not such frequent occasion for the magnificence of Verse, tho I’gad they speak very well. And I have heard Men, and considerable Men too, talk the very same things, a great deal worse.
Iohn.
Nay, without doubt, Mr. Bayes, they have received no small advantage from the smoothness of your numbers.
Bayes.
Ay, ay, I can do’t, if I list: though you must not think I have been so dull as to mind these things my self, but ’tis the advantage of our Coffee-house, that from their talk one may write a very good polemical discourse, without ever troubling ones head with the Books of Controversie. For I can take the slightest of their Arguments, and clap ’em pertly into four Verses, which shall stare any London Divine in the face. Indeed your knotty Reasonings with a long train of Majors and Minors, and the Devil and all, are too barbarous for my stile; but ‘i gad I can flourish better with one of these twinkling Arguments, than the best of ’em can fight with t’other. But we return to our Mouse, and now I’ve brought ’em together, let ’em ‘en speak for themselves, which they will do extreamly well, or I’m mistaken: and pray observe, Gentlemen, if in one you don’t find all the delicacy of a luxurious City-Mouse, and in the other all the plain simplicity of a sober serious Matron.
Dame, said the Lady of the Spotted Muff,
Methinks your Tiff is sour, your Cates meer stuff.
There did not I tell you she’d be nice?
Your Pipe’s so foul, that I disdain to smoak;
And the Weed worse than e’re Tom. I — s took.
Smith.
I did not hear she had a Spotted Muff before.
Bayes.
Why no more she has not now: but she has a Skin that might make a Spotted Muff. There’s a pretty Figure now unknown to the Ancients.
Leave, leave (she’s earnest you see) this hoary Shed and lonely Hills,
And eat with me at Groleau’s, smoak at Will’s.
What Wretch would nibble on a Hanging-shelf,
When at Pontack’s he may Regale himself?
Or to the House of cleanly Renish go;
Or that at Charing-Cross, or that in Channel-Row?
Do you mark me now? I would by this represent the vanity of a Town-Fop, who pretends to be acquainted at all those good Houses, though perhaps he nere was in ’em. But heark! she goes on.
Come, at a Crown a Head our selves we’ll treat,
Champain our Liquor, and Ragousts our Meat.
Then hand in hand we’ll go to Court, dear Cuz,
To visit Bishop Martin, and King Buz.
With Evening Wheels we’ll drive about the Park,
Finish at Locket’s, and reel home i’th’ Dark.
Break clattering Windows, and demolish Doors
Of English Manufactures — Pimps, and Whores.
Iohn.
Methinks a Pimp or a Whore, is an odd sort of a Manufacture, Mr. Bayes.
Bayes.
I call ’em so, to give the Parliament a hint not to suffer so many of ’em to be exported, to the decay of Trade at home.
With these Allurements Spotted did invite
From Hermits Cell, the Female Proselyte.
Oh! with what ease we follow such a Guide,
Where Souls are starv’d, and Senses gratifi’d.
Now would not you think she’s going? but I gad, you’re mistaken; you shall hear a long Argument about Infallibility, before she stirs yet.
But here the White, by observation wise,
Who long on Heaven had fixt her prying Eyes,
With thoughtful Countenance, and grave Remark,
Said, or my Judgment fails me, or ’tis dark.
Lest therefore we should stray, and not go right,
Through the brown horrour of the starless Night.
Hast thou Infallibility,that Wight?
Sternly the Savage grin’d, and thus reply’d:
That Mice may err, was never yet deny’d.
That I deny, said the immortal Dame,
There is a Guide — Gad I’ve forgot his Name,
Who lives in Heaven or Rome, the Lord knows where,
Had we but him, Sweet-heart, we could not err.
But heark you, Sister, this is but a Whim;
For still we want a Guide to find out Him.
Here you see I don’t trouble my self to keep on the Narration, but write white Speaks or dapple Speaks by the side. But when I get any noble thought which I envy a Mouse should say, I clap it down in my own Person with a Poeta Loquitur; which, take notice, is a surer sign of a sine thing in my Writings, than a Hand in the Margent any-where else. Well now says White,
What need we find Him, we have certain proof
That he is somewhere, Dame, and that’s enough:
For if there is a Guide that knows the way,
Although we know not him, we cannot stray.
That’s true, I Gad: Well said White. You see her Adversary has nothing to say for her self, and therefore to confirm the Victory, she shall make a Simile.
Smith.
Why then I find Similes are as good after Victory, as after a Surprize.
Bayes.
Every Jot, I Gad, or rather better. Well, she can do it two ways, either about Emission or Reception of Light, or else about Epsom-waters, but I think the last is most familiar; therefore speak, my pretty one.
As though ’tis controverted in the School,
If Waters pass by Vrine or by Stool.
Shall we who are Philosophers, thence gather
From this dissention that they work by neither.
And I Gad, she’s in the right on’t; but mind now, she comes upon her swop!
All this I did, your Arguments to try.
And I Gad, if they had been never so good, this next Line confutes ’em.
Hear, and be dumb, thou Wretch, that Guide am I.
There’s a Surprize for you now! How sneakingly t’other looks? Was not that pretty now, to make her ask for a Guide first, and then tell her she was one? Who could have thought that this little Mouse had the Pope and a whole General Council in her Belly? Now Dapple had nothing to say to this; and therefore you’ll see she grows peevish.
Come leave your Cracking tricks, and as they say,
Use not, that Barber that trims time, delay
Which I gad is new, and my own.
I’ve Eyes as well as you to find the way.
Then on they jogg’d, and since an hour of talk
Might cut a Banter on the tedious walk;
As I remember said the sober Mouse,
I’ve heard much talk of the Wits Coffee-House.
Thither, says Brindle, thou shalt go, and see
Priests sipping Coffee Sparks and Poets Tea;
Here rugged Freeze, there Quality well drest,
These bafling the Grand-Seigniour; those the Test
And hear shrew’d guesses made, and reasons given,
That humane Laws were never made in Heaven.
But above all, what shall oblige thy sight,
And fill thy Eye-Balls with a vast delight;
Is the Poetic Iudge of sacred Wit,
Who do’s i’ th’ Darkness of his Glory sit.
&nb
sp; And as the Moon who first receives the light,
With which she makes these neither Regions bright;
So does he shine, reflecting from a far,
The Rayes he borrow’d from a better Star:
For rules which from Corneille and Rapin slow,
Admir’d by all the scribling Herd below.
From French Tradition while he does dispence,
Unerring Truths, ’tis Schism, a damn’d offence,
To question his, or trust your private sense.
Hah! Is not that right, Mr. Iohnson? Gad forgive me he is fast a sleep! Oh the damn’d stupidity of this Age! a sleep! Well, Sir, Since you’r so drousy, your humble Servant.
Iohns.
Nay, Pray Mr. Bayes, Faith I heard you all the while. The white Mouse.
Bayes.
The white Mouse! ay, ay, I thought how you heard me. Your Servant, Sir, your Servant.
Iohn.
Nay, Dear Bayes, Faith I beg thy Pardon, I was up late last Night, Prithee lend me a little Snuff, and go on.
Bayes.
Go on! Pox I don’t know where I was, well I’ll begin. Here, mind, now they are both come to Town.
But now at Peccadille they arrive,
And taking Coach, t’wards Temple-Bar they drive;
But at St. Clement’s Church, eat out the Back;
And slipping through the Palsgrave, bilkt poor Hack.
There’s the Vtile which ought to be in all Poetry, Many a young Templer will save his shilling by this Stratagem of my Mice.
Smith.
Why, will any young Templer eat out the back of a Coach?
Bayes.
No, I gad, but you’ll grant it is mighty natural for a Mouse.
Thence to the Devil, and ask’d if Chanticleer,
Of Clergy kind, or Councellour Chough was there;
Or Mr. Dove, a Pigeon of Renown,
By his high crop, and corny Gizzard known,
Or Sister Partlet, with the Hooded head;
No, Sir. She’s hooted hence, said Will, and fled.
Why so? Because she would not pray a Bed.
Iohn.
aside.
‘Sdeath! Who can keep awake at such stuff? Pray, Mr. Bayes, lend me your Box again.
Bayes.
Mr. Iohnson, How d’e like that Box? Pray take notice of it, ’twas given me by a person of Honour for looking over a Paper of Verses; and indeed I put in all the lines that were worth any thing in the whole Poem. Well, but where were we? Oh! Here they are, just going up stairs into the Apollo; from whence my White takes occasion to talk very well of Tradition.
Thus to the place where Iohnson sat we climb,
Leaning on the same Rail that guided him;
And whilst we thus on equal helps rely,
Our Wit must be as true, our thoughts as high.
For as an Author happily compares
Tradition to a well-sixt pair of Stairs,
So this the Scala Sancta we believe,
By which his Traditive Genius we receive.
Thus every step I take my Spirits soar,
And I grow more a Wit, and more, and more.
There’s humour! Is not that the liveliest Image in the World of a Mouses going up a pair of Stairs. More a Wit, and more and more?
Smith.
Mr. Bayes, I beg your Pardon heartily, I must be rude, I have a particular Engagement at this time, and I see you are not near an end yet.
Bayes.
Godsokers! Sure you won’t serve me so: All my finest Discriptions and best Discourse is yet to come.
Smith.
Troth, Sir, if ‘twere not an Extraordinary concern I could not leave you.
Bayes.
Well; but you shall take a little more, and here I’ll pass over two dainty Episodes of Swallows, Swifts, Chickens, and Buzzards.
Iohns.
I know not why they should come in, except to make yours the longest Fable that ever was told.
Bayes.
Why, the excellence of a Fable is in the length of it. AESOP indeed, like a Slave as he was, made little, short, simple stories, with a dry Moral at the end of ’em; and could not form any noble design. But here I give you Fable upon Fable; and after you are satisfied with Beasts in the first course, serve you up a delicate Dish of Fowl for the second; now I was at all this pains to abuse one particular person; for I gad I’ll tell you what a trick he serv’d me. I was once translating a very good French Author, but being something long about it, as you know a Man is not always in the Humour; What does this Iack do, but put’s out an Answer to my Friend before I had half finished the Translation: so there was three whole Months lost upon his Account. But I think I have my revenge on him sufficiently, for I let all the World know, that he is a tall, broadback’d, lusty fellow, of a brown Complexion, fair Behaviour, a Fluent Tongue, and taking amongst the Women; and to top it all that he’s much a Scholar, more a Wit, and owns but two Sacraments. Don’t you think this Fellow will hang himself? But besides, I have so nickt his Character in a Name as will make you split. I call him — I gad I won’t tell you unless you remember what I said of him.
Smith.
Why that he was much a Scholar, and more a Wit —
Bayes.
Right; and his name is Buzzard, ha! ha! ha.
Iohns.
Very proper indeed, Sir.
Bayes.
Nay, I have a farther fetch in it yet than perhaps you imagine; for his true name begins with a B, which makes me slily contrive him this, to begin with the same Letter: There’s a pretty device, Mr. Iohnson; I learn’d it, I must needs confess, from that ingenious sport, I love my Love with an A, because she’s Amiable; and if you could but get a knot of merry Fellows together, you should see how little Bayes would top ’em all at it, I gad.
Smith.
Well, but good Faith, Mr. Bayes, I must leave you, I am half an hour past my time.
Bayes.
Well, I’ve done, I’ve done. Here are eight hundred Verses upon a rainy Night, and a Birds-Nest; and here’s three hundred more, Translated from two Paris Gazets, in which the Spotted Mouse gives an account of the Treaty of Peace between the Czars of Muscovy, and the Emperour, which is a piece of News. White does not believe, and this is her Answer. I am resolv’d you shall hear it, for in it I have taken occasion to prove Oral Tradition better than Scripture. Now you must know, ’tis sincerely my Opinion, that it had been better for the World, if we nere had any Bibles at all.
E’re that Gazet was printed, said the White,
Our Robin told another story quite;
This Oral Truth more safely I believ’d,
My Ears cannot, your Eyes may be deceiv’d.
By word of Mouth unerring Maxims slow,
And Preaching’s best, if understood, or no.
Words I confess bound by,and trip so light,
We have not time to take a steady sight;
Yet sleeting thus are plainer then when Writ,
To long Examination they submit.
Hard things — Mr. Smith, if these two lines don’t recompence your stay, ne’r trust Iohn Bayes again.
Hard things at the first Blush are clear and full,
God mends at second thoughts, but Man grows dull.
I gad I judge of all Men by my self, ’tis so with me, I never strove to be very exact in any thing but I spoil’d it.
Smith.
But allowing your Character to be true, is it not a little too severe?
Bayes.
’Tis no matter for that, these general reflections are daring, and savour most of a noble Genius, that spares neither Friend nor Foe.
Iohn.
Are you never afraid of a drubbing for that daring of your noble Genius?
Bayes.
Afraid! Why Lord you make so much of a beating, I’ gad ’tis no more to me than a Flea biting. No, No, if I can but be witty upon ’em, let ’em en lay on, I Faith, I’ll ne’r baulk my fancy to save my Carkass. Well,
but we must dispatch, Mr. Smith.
Thus did they merrily carouse all day,
And like the gaudy fly their Wings display;
And sip the sweets, and bask in great Apollo’s ray.
Well there’s an end of the Entertainment; and Mr. Smith, if your affairs would have permitted, you would have heard the best Bill of Fare that ever was serv’d up in Heroicks: but here follows a dispute shall recommend it self, I’ll say nothing for it. For Dapple, who you must know was a Protestant, all this while trusts her own Judgment, and foolishly dislikes the Wine; upon which our Innocent does so run her down, that she has not one word to say for her self, but what I put in her Mouth; and I gad, you may imagine they won’t be very good ones, for she has disoblig’d me, like an Ingrate.
Sirrah, says Brindle, Thou hast brought us Wine,
Sour to my tast, and to my Eyes unfine.
Says Will, all Gentlemen like it, ah! says White,
What is approv’d by them, must needs be right.
’Tis true, I thought it bad, but if the House
Commend it, I submit, a private Mouse.
Mind that, mind the Decorum, and Defference, which our Mouse pays to the Company.
Nor to their Catholic consent oppose
My erring Judgment, and reforming Nose.
Ah! ah! there she has nick’t her, that’s up to the Hilts, I gad, and you shall see Dapple resents it.
Why, what a Devil shan’t I trust my Eyes?
Must I drink Stum because the Rascal lyes?
And palms upon us Catholic consent,
To give sophisticated Brewings vent.
Says White, What ancient Evidence can sway,
If you must Argue thus and not obey?
Drawers must be trusted, through whose hands convey’d,
You take the Liquor, or you spoil the Trade.
For sure those Honest Fellows have no knack
Of putting off stum’d Claret for Pontack.
How long, alas! would the poor Vintner last,
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