A Burlesque Translation of Homer. Francis Grose

      Two scolding brims of royal blood

      Assist the Greeks – if not, they should;

      But, perch'd above, like daws they sit,

      Nor they to help their friends think fit;

      But, suff'ring Greece to go to ruin,

      Content themselves with mischief brewing;

      Whilst grateful Venus in the throng,

      To aid her lecher, scours along;

      With nimble bum, or nimbler wrist,

      She guides his weapon where she list;

      Knowing a touch of her soft hand,

      If fallen down, will make him stand.

      But, messmates, since we have begun,

      'Tis time to fix what must be done.

      The book of Fate then let us scan,

      And view what is ordain'd for man;

      That we about them may determine,

      To kill, or keep alive, the vermin:

      Say then, shall smiling peace ensue,

      Or dreadful broils, with face of rue?

      If now your godships think that Nelly

      Should go and warm her husband's belly,

      And Paris pay for doing work

      Would glad the heart of Jew or Turk;

      Why then the borough may stand firm

      A thousand years, or any term;

      May back recall its old renown,

      And once more be a market-town.

      Whilst thus he preach'd, his angry queen

      With Pallas whispering was seen;

      And as they jabber'd pate to pate,

      Against poor Troy express'd their hate

      The boxing vixen, though in wrath,

      Yet holds her peace, and nothing saith;

      Nor would, had Jove preach'd e'er so long,

      For heavenly wisdom rul'd her tongue;

      She prudent acts; not so Jove's wife,

      Whose joy consists in noise and strife.

      Begun: Don't think your dunder-pate

      Shall use your queen at such a rate:

      On whoring Troy I've made just war;

      Have rous'd my Grecians near and far;

      My post-chaise rattled many a mile,

      My peacocks sweating all the while;

      And all to bring destruction on

      This perjur'd, lying, whoring4 town.

      But spouse my cares and toils derides;

      Because they're rogues, he's on their sides;

      To punish rogues in grain refuses,

      And thus his loving wife abuses:

      Though, if the gods will take my side,

      In spite of Jove I'll trim their hide.

      At this same speech you cannot wonder

      The thunder-driver look'd like thunder:

      He wav'd his locks, and fit to choke

      With rage, he to his vixen spoke:

      Why, how now, hussy! whence this hate

      To Priam and the Trojan state?

      Can mortal scoundrels thee perplex,

      And the great brim of brimstones vex,

      That thou should'st make such woeful pother,

      And Troy's whole race desire to smother;

      Then level, out of female spite,

      Their spires, with weather-cocks so bright;

      And all because that rogue on Ida

      Fancy'd your mouth an inch too wide-a?

      Pray how can I the varlet blame,

      Who fifty times have thought the same?5

      But for this once I'll give thee string

      Enough, to let thy fury swing:

      Burn the whole town; blow up the walls;

      Destroy their shops and coblers' stalls:

      Murder old Priam on the place,

      And smother all his bastard race;

      With his boil'd beef and cabbage glut

      The fury of thy greedy gut.

      Peace, then, perhaps I may enjoy

      When there shall be no more of Troy:

      But should I choose to be uncivil,

      And send your scoundrels to the devil,

      Don't think, good Mrs. Brim, that you

      Shall hold my hand: remember how

      I suffer harmless Troy to tumble,

      To stop your everlasting grumble.

      I tell thee, brim, of all I know

      In heav'n above, or earth below,

      Bastards of mortal rogues or gods,

      I value Troy the most by odds:

      No men on earth deserve my favour

      Like Trojan boys, for good behaviour;

      Because, whene'er they pay their vows,

      They kill good store of bulls and cows;

      Nor do they ever grudge the least,

      To lend their daughters to the priest;

      From whence it cannot be deny'd,

      But true religion is their guide.

      Juno, like puppet, rolls her eyes,

      And, meditating, thus replies:

      Three boroughs have I got in Greece,

      Most dearly lov'd in war and peace;

      Mycenae, Argos, aye, and Sparta,

      Destroy 'em all6, care I a f – t-a?

      With the dry pox or thunder strike 'em;

      'Tis fault enough for me to like 'em.

      Must thy poor wife's good friends be drubb'd,

      And she herself thus hourly snubb'd,

      As if her family, Sir Cull,

      Was not as good as yours to th' full?

      I know I ought, were you well bred,

      To share your power as well as bed;

      But there I know, and so do you,

      I'm robb'd of more than half my due.

      Your dad

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