Iter Boreal 2, Poem 14 – Poem 16
THE Norfolk and Wisbich. COCK-FIGHT.
By R. W.
GO you tame Gallants, you that have a Name,
And would accounted be Cocks of the Game;
That have brave Spurs to ſhew for't, and can crow,
And count all Dunghil-breed, that cannot ſhow
Suc… painted plumes as yours; which think't no vice
With Cock-like luſt to tread your Cockatrice;
Though Peacocks, Weathercocks, Woodcocks you be,
If y'are not Fighting Cocks, y'are not for me.
I of two feathered Combatants will write;
And he that means to th'life to expreſs their Fight,
M…ke his Ink the blood which they did ſpill,
An…their dying Wings muſt take his quill.
No ſo… were the doubtful People ſet,
The Match made up, and all that would had bet;
But ſtraight the skilful Judges of the Play
Brought forth their ſharp-heel'd Warriors; & they
Were both in Linnen Bags, as if 'twere meet
Before they dy'd, to have their Winding-ſheet.
Into the Pit they'r brought, and being there
Upon the Stage, the Norfolk Chanticleer
Looks ſtoutly at his ne'r-before-ſeen Foe,
And like a Challenger began to crow,
And clap his Wings, as if he would diſplay
His Warlike colours, which were black and gray.
Mean time the wary Wisbich walks and breathes
His active Body, and in fury wreaths
His comely Creſt; and often looking down,
He beats his angry Beak upon the ground.
This done, they meet, not like that coward Breed
Of Aeſope's; theſe can better fight then feed:
They ſcorn the Dunghil; 'tis their only p…ize
To dig for Pearls within each others Eyes.
They fought ſo nimbly, that 'twas hard to know,
To th' skilful, whether they did fight or no;
If that the blood which dy'd the fatal floor,
Had not born witneſs of't. Yet fought they more,
As if each wound were but a Spur to prick
Their fury forward. Lightnings not more quick
Or red, then were their Eyes: 'Twas hard to know
Whether 'twas blood, or anger made them ſo.
I'm ſure they had been out, had they not ſtood
More ſafe, being walled in each others blood.
Thus they vy'd blows; but yet, alas, at length,
Although their courage were ful tri'd, theirſtrength
And blood began to ebb. You that have ſeen
A Watry Combat on the Sea, between
Two angry-roaring-boiling Billows, how
They march, and meet, and daſh their curled brow;
Swelling like graves, as though they did intend
T'intomb each other, ere the quarrel end;
But when the wind is down, and bluſtring weather,
They are made friends, & ſweetly run together;
May think theſe Champions ſuch: their blood grows low
And they which leap'd but now, now ſcarce can go
For having left th' advantage of the Heel,
Drunk with each others blood, they only reel;
And yet they would fain fight: they came ſo near,
Methought they meant into each others ear
To whiſper wounds; and when they could not riſe
They lay and look'd blows int' each others eyes.
But now the Tragick part! After this fit,
When Norfolk Cock had got the beſt of it,
And Wisbich lay a dying, ſo that none,
Though ſober, but might venture ſeven to one,
Contracting, like a dying Taper, all
His ſtrength, intending with the blow to fall,
He ſtruggles up, and having taken wind,
Ventures a blow, and ſtrikes the other blind.
And now poor Norfolk, having loſt his Eyes,
Fights guided only by Antipathies:
With him, alas! the Proverb is not true,
The blows his Eyes ne'r ſaw, his heart muſt rue.
At laſt, by chance, he ſtumbling on his Foe,
Not having any ſtrength to give a blow,
He falls upon him with his wounded Head,
And makes his Conquerors wings his Featherbed.
His friends ran in, and being very chary,
Sent in all haſte to call a Pothecary:
But all in vain, his body did ſo bliſter,
That 'twas not capable of any Clyſter.
Phyſick's in vain, and 'twill not him reſtore;
Alas poor Cock, he was let blood before
Then finding himſelf weak, op'ning his Bill,
He calls a Scrivener, and thus makes his Will;
Imp. Firſt of all, let never be forgot,
My Body freely I bequeath to th' Pot,
Decently to be boyl'd; and for its Tomb,
Let it be buried in ſome hungry Womb,
Item, For Executors I'll have none,
But he that on my ſide laid ſeven to one;
And, like a Gentleman that he may live,
To him, and to his Heirs, my Comb I give,
Together with my Brains, that all may know,
That oftentimes his Brains did uſe to crow.
Item, For Comfort of thoſe Weaker ones
Whoſe wives complain of, let them have my Stones
For Ladies that are light, it is my Will,
My Feathers make a Fan. And for my Bill;
I'll give a Taylor: But 'faith 'tis ſo ſhort,
I am afraid, he'll rather curſe me ſor't.
And for that worthy Doctor's ſake, who meant
To give me a Clyſter, let my Rump be ſent.
Laſtly, becauſe I find my ſelf decay,
I yield, and give to Wisbich Cock the day.
R. W.
UPON THE DEATH OF Dennis Bond, Eſq; Who died four Dayes before the LORD PROTECTOR.
NOw whil'ſt Whitehall wears black, and men do fear
'Tis Treaſon any Colour elſe to wear;
Whilſt Mourners, like a flock of Crows, reſort
To the great Lion's Carcaſe, at the Court;
Whilſt the ſad Members of the Tother Houſe
(That Mountain wch laſt year brought forth a Mouſe)
Lament his Fall, who Madam'd all their Wives,
And Thurloe wiſhes he had nine Lives;
Whilſt ſome lament, he dy'd without an Ax,
And fear the Funeral will coſt Tax;
Whilſt cunning Scotland counterfeits a Groan,
And Ireland cudgell'd into her A hone;
Whilſt England puts her Finger in her Eye,
And Welchmen uſe their Leeks to make them cry;
Whilſt Grief doth chime All-in, and every Tribe
Eycleped, Mayor and Aldermen, ſubſcribe
(Or make their Marks at leaſt) how ful of Sadneſs
That Oliver is dead, and eke of gladneſs
That Richard reigns! though the Slaves lie, I fear,
For their old Gowns are lin'd with Cavalier:
Whilſt the ſad Poetaſters of the times
Plaiſter the Hearſe with miſerable Rhymes,
And I, poor Man, might mend my Fortune too,
As ſure as ever Lord Hewſon mended Shoo,
If I could baſte my Muſe, and make her go:
I, by that great Ghoſts leave, am well content
To wait upon a meaner Monument;
Yet fit to ſtand by this, if not above,
As having, though leſs Pomp, yet no leſs Love;
'Tis Dennis Bond, that true bred Engliſh Squire,
Whoſe worth, if my rude Fancy ſhould aſpire
To reach the Sinews; juſt, pious, valiant wiſe,
Able for Counſel or for Enterprize;
Fit to ſet Cato Copies, if alive,
Able to make a Bankrupt Nation thrive;
Th' Alchimy of whoſe ſingle Judgement could
Convert a Leaden Councel into Gold.
Atlas of State! oh! if King Charls that's gone,
In ſtead of Digby and old Cottington,
Had had one Dennis; he had ſtood till now,
And kept the Crown faſt on his Royal Brow.
Cromwel could not out-live him; ſo our State
In one week loſt their Pilot, and his Mate:
And though he dy'd in's Bed, 'tis not deny'd;
Yet was his Head ſtruck off when Dennis dy'd.
Adieu, brave Bond! My aged Muſe ſhall burn
Her with'red Lawrel at thy ſcared Urn.
Live thine own Monument, and ſcorn a Stone;
Marbles themſelves have flaws, thy Name has none
That plat of Earth which graſps thee in her womb,
Proud of ſuch Treaſure, ſwells into a Tomb.
When the next Parliament together come,
And miſs their Weſtern Patriot from his room,
Deſpairing that their Meeting will not ſpeed,
Grief will diſſolve them, no Protector need.
R. W.
Ʋpon ſome Bottles of Sack and Claret, laid in Sand, and covered with a Sheet.
ENter, and ſee this Tomb (Sirs) do not fear
No Spirits, but of Wine, will frightyou here:
Weep o're this Tomb, your Sorrows here may have
Wine for their ſweet Companions in the Grave.
A dozen Shakeſpears here interr'd do lie;
Two dozen Johnſons full of Poetry.
Did not the Mother Hogſhead, from whoſe womb
Theſe Babes ſprang forth, burſt when ſhe ſaw this Tomb,
And ſwell with grief? Did not the Butler ſink,
To ſee himſelf turn Sexton to his Drink?
'Twere commendable Sacriledge, no doubt,
Could I come at your Grave, to ſteal you out:
Howe'er, from this thy anxious Grave I will
Some virtuous Aſhes take, wherewith I'll fill
The Glaſs I preach by; for I muſt be juſt,
There lies Divinity within thy Duſt.
Unhappy Grape, could not one preſſing do,
But now alive you muſt be buryed too?
Sleep on, but ſcorn to die, immortal Liquer:
The burying of thee thus will make thee quicker:
Mean while thy Friends prayloud, that thou maiſt have
A ſpeedy Reſurrection from the Grave,