now-a-days our angels ride)Where calling Pallas, thus she spoke:
Would it not any soul provoke,
To see those Grecian hang-dogs run,
And leave their bus'ness all undone?
This will be pretty work, indeed;
For Greece to fly, and Troy succeed.
Rot me! but Priam's whoring race
(Sad dogs, without one grain of grace)
Shan't vamp it thus, whilst lovely Helen
Is kept for that damn'd rogue to dwell in;
That whoring whelp, who trims her so
She never thinks of Menelau:
But I shall stir my stumps, and make
The Greeks once more their broomsticks shake,
Then fly, my crony, in great haste,
Lest opportunity be past.
The cause, my girl, is partly thine;
He scorn'd thy ware as well as mine:
And, just as if he'd never seen us,
Bestow'd the prize on Madam Venus,
A blacksmith's wife, or kettle-mender,
And one whose reputation's slender;
Though her concerns I scorn to peep in,
Yet Mars has had her long in keeping.
Pallas obeys, and down the slope
Slides, like a sailor on a rope.
Upon the barren shore she found
Ulysses lost in thoughts profound:
His head with care so very full,
He look'd as solemn as an owl;
Was sorely grip'd, nor at this pinch
Would launch his boats a single inch.
And is it thus, she says, my king,
The Greeks their hogs to market bring?
See how they skip on board each hoy,
Ready to break their necks for joy!
Shall Priam's lecherous son, that thrives
By kissing honest tradesmen's wives,
Be left that heaven of bliss to dwell in,
The matchless arms of beauteous Helen?
O, no; the very thought, by Gad,
Makes Wisdom's goddess almost mad!
Though, by thy help, I think 'tis hard.
But yet I singe the rascal's beard.
Then fly, Ulysses, stop 'em all;
The captains must their troops recall.
Thou hast the gift o' th' gab, I know;
Be quick and use it, prithee do:
From Pallas thou shalt have assistance,
Should any scoundrel make resistance.
Ulysses ken'd her voice so shrill,
And mov'd to execute her will;
Then pull'd his breeches up in haste,
Which being far too wide i' th' waist,
Had left his buttocks almost bare —
He guess'd what made the goddess stare;
Next try'd his coat of buff to doff,
But could not quickly get it off,
So fast upon his arms it stuck,
Till Pallas kindly lent a pluck.
Off then it came, when, like a man,
He took him to his heels and ran.
The first that in his race he met
Was Agamemnon in a pet,
Striving, for breakfast, with his truncheon
To bruise a mouldy brown-bread luncheon.
Ulysses tells him, with a laugh,
I've better bus'ness for that staff,
And must request you'll lend it me
To keep up my authority.
Which having got, he look'd as big
As J-n-n's coronation wig;
Then flew, like wild-fire, through the ranks?
'Twas wond'rous how he ply'd his shanks.
Each captain by his name he calls;
I'm here, each noble captain bawls.
Then thus: O knights of courage stout,
Pray, what the devil makes this rout?
You that exalted are for samples,
Should set your soldiers good examples:
Instead of that, I pray, why strove ye
To run as if the devil drove ye?
You knew full well, or I belie ye,
Our general only spoke to try ye:
All that he meant by't was to know,
Whether we'd rather stay or go?
And is more vext to find us willing
To run, than if he'd lost a shilling;
Because at council-board, this day,
Quite different things you heard him say.
But if he met a common man,
That dar'd to contradict his plan;
Or, if the scoundrel durst but grumble;
Nay, if he did but seem to mumble;
He, with his truncheon of command,
First knock'd him down, then bid him stand
By this good management they stopp'd;
But not till eight or ten were dropp'd.
From launching boats, with one accord,
They trudg'd away to th' council-board.
The hubbub then began to cease:
The noise was hush'd, and all was peace.
Only one noisy ill-tongu'd whelp,
Thersites call'd, was heard to yelp:
The rogue had neither shame nor manners;
His hide was only fit for tanners:
With downright malice to defame
Good honest cocks, was all his aim:
All sorts of folks hard names he'd call,
But aldermen the worst of all.
Grotesque his figure was and vile,
Much in the Hudibrastic style:
One shoulder 'gainst his head did rest,
The other dropp'd below his breast;
His lank lean limbs in growth were stinted,
And nine times worse than Wilkes he squinted:
His pate was neither round nor flat,
But shap'd like Mother Shipton's hat.
You'd think, when this baboon was speaking,
You heard some damn'd blind fiddler squeaking.
Now this sad dog by dirty joking
Was every day the chief provoking:
The Greeks despis'd the rogue, and yet
To hear his vile harangues they'd sit
Silent as though he'd been a Pitt.
His screech-owl's voice he rais'd with
