twitches;'Twas thought by most he spoil'd his breeches.
As when you seek for stuff to grace
Some fine court lady's neck and face,
All o'er her muddy skin you spread
A load of paint, both white and red,
The diff'ring colours, sure enough,
Must help to set each other off,
Spite of the hue that glares within
The filthy, muddy, greasy skin:
Just so Atrides' blood you'd spy,
As it ran down his dirty thigh;
His knee, and leg, and ancle pass'd,
And reach'd his sweaty foot at last.
At this most dreadful, rueful sight,
Atrides' hair stood bolt upright,
And lifted, all the Grecians said,
His hat six inches from his head.
Nor less the honest cuckold quak'd;
His heart as well as belly ach'd;
Till looking at the place that bled,
He plainly saw the arrow's head
Stopp'd by his greasy belt: he then
Boldly took heart of grace again.
But the great chief, who thought the arrow
Had reach'd his brother's guts or marrow,
With bitter sobbing heav'd his chest,
And thus his heavy grief express'd;
Whilst all the Grecians, far and near,
Did nought but threaten, curse, and swear:
My dearest bro. for this did I
Desire a truce? Zounds! I could cry:
It proves a fatal truce to thee;
Nay, fatal both to thee and me.
Thou fought'st till all the fray did cease:
Now to be slain, in time of peace,
Is dev'lish hard: – with rueful phiz
He added? By my soul it is!
Those scoundrel Trojans all combine,
In hopes to ruin thee and thine;
They've stole thy goods, and kiss'd thy wife,
And now they want to take thy life:
With perjuries the rogues are cramm'd,
For which they will be double damn'd.
Now we good Grecians, when it meet is
To make with scoundrel neighbours treaties,
As Britons (but the Lord knows how)
With roguish Frenchmen often do,
We're strict and honest to our word;
So should each man that wears a sword.
What pity 'tis that rogues so base
Should thus bamboozle Jove's own race!
But let it be thy comfort, brother,
And with it thy resentment smother,
That Jove in flames such rogues will burnish;
Already he begins to furnish
With red-hot balls his mutton fist,
To singe and pepper whom he list.
Be sure, that when he once begins,
He'll smoke these scoundrels for their sins,
Make Priam's house of scurvy peers
Come tumbling down about their ears.
These Trojans, if they do not mend on't,
Will all be hang'd at least, depend on't:
For thee, my brother, who deserv'd
Much better fate than be so serv'd,
I trust thou wilt not die so sudden,
But still eat many a pound of pudding.
If aught but good should hap to thee,
God knows what must become of me.
When thou art gone, thy men of might
Will run, but rot me if they'll fight.
When once they've lost thy brave example,
They'll let the Trojan rascals trample
Their very guts out ere they'll budge;
They will, as sure as God's my judge.
Shall Helen then with Paris stay,
Whilst thy poor bones consume away;
And some sad dog, thy recent tomb,
Lug out his ware and piss upon?
Adding, that all Atrides got,
Was to come here to lie and rot;
Nor durst his bullying brother stay,
But very stoutly ran away.
Before this scandal on me peep,
May I be buried nine yards deep!
He spoke; and sighing rubs his eyes,
When Menelaus thus replies:
Thy tears, my hero, prithee keep,
Lest they should make our soldiers weep:
'Tis but, at worst, a harmless scratch;
I'll put upon't a lady's patch:
Or, if you think 'twill mend you faster,
I'll send for Borton's8 sticking-plaster.
But if a surgeon's help is meet,
Dispatch a messenger to th' Fleet;
There is a man, who well can do
For scratches, burns, and poxes too.
The brother king, with gracious look,
Once more resum'd the thread, and spoke
May all the gods thy life defend,
And all thy wounds and scratches mend!
Talthybius, fly, Machaon bid
Run faster than he ever did;
Let him await us in our tents,
And bring his box of instruments;
My brother's wounded with a dart,
For aught I know, in mortal part
With such a haste Talthybius run,
He knock'd two common troopers down;
Then search'd through every file and rank,
And found the surgeon in the flank.
The king, Machaon, wants your help;
You must not march, but run, you whelp;
And, with your box of instruments,
Attend the brothers in their tents:
Make speed, the best leg foremost put;
One brother's wounded in the gut;
And for the other, 'tis not clear
But he has burst his guts for fear.
The surgeon was a soldier good,
And in his regimentals stood.
Soon as he heard of what had pass'd,
No surgeon ever ran so fast.
Talthybius, who his speed did view,
Swears to this day he thought he flew.
Away
Borton, an honest chymist in Piccadilly.
