And small Temptations make their Women Morts.
But that which adds to their intailed Curse,
Is store of Children, but an empty Purse.
Thus, if these are not Plagues enough, may Pox,
And all the Ails which cram’d Pandora’s Box,
Always severely Torture them; and be
The Portion of their wild Posterity.
This Satyr being Truth and Matter of Fact, how well it pleas’d the Irish Collegians may be easily guess’d, however taking leave of my learned Company, I went out to look about me in the City, where I star’d and gap’d around, like our Country Hicks upon the Signs in London, the Monument, or Tombs in Westminster-Abby. Ringsend Coaches, so call’d from a Place of that Name about a Mile or two out of the Dublinian Suburbs, I saw were more numerous than Hackney or Gentlemen’s Coaches; and which being a sort of Carts made with a Seat before, wherein People may be jolted 3 or 4 Miles for 2 Pence, your topping City Cuckolds and their Wives very often ride out of Town in ’em, to make a Demolition of Cakes and Ale. Being mounted next upon Lousie-Hill, and asking whence the Place deriv’d its Name, some knowing People inform’d me, that an old Woman once dwelling there, to whom honest St. Patrick, a Swineherd, and tutelary Patron of that Kingdom promis’d to clear that Nation of Lice, she fell a weeping, and humbly besought the good old Man not to destroy them, because the Inhabitants had no other Diversion on Sundays, than to sit at home and louse themselves; whereupon her Request being granted, the Irish enjoy the Company of their native Cattle to this Day, in Memory of which peculiar Favour this Street ever since bears the Name of Lousie-Hill. At last I rambled into Smock-Alley, where the Irish Theatre is situated; Curiosity led me soon into it, when Dryden’s Opera, call’d King Arthur, was to be acted, which is a Play I lik’d well enough, excepting these two Lines in Act I. Scene I.
On yon proud Towers, before the Day be done,
My glittering Banners shall be wav’d against the setting Sun.