Poet. No, royal Pluto, no, (altho’, indeed, we are the poorest cuckolds that come hither, I believe) we are of the learned rout.
We have on PARNASSUS slept,
And in the sacred stream
(To guild our amorous theam)
Of HELICON our pens have dipt.
And thro’ AVERNUS and black STYX
By which to swear
The Gods do fear,
We hither slipt;
And fairly bilked old CHARON
As we were wont to do of yore
Poor HACK, or CHAIR-MAN,
Or our half-starv’d whore.
Wherefore, O Sir PLUTO,
Since we cannot bilk you too.——
Luc. Hold, hold I know your tribe of old; if you once get to repeating your works, or into the jingle of your rhimes, you’ll never have done. Away with them to old Sternhold and Hopkins, and the rest of the crambo-sparks: ye senseless scoundrels, that make wives of your mules when single, and whores of your wives when marry’d.
Poet. O passi graviora!——
Solamen miseris, socios habuisse dolorum.
Luc. Clear the court, and let no more come in: the fatigue of this sitting has been enough: for my part, the follies of mankind are such, that the very hearing of them has quite turn’d my stomach for this month at least.
Porter. Great Sir, here is a throng of wild Irish, that will take no denial, but thrust in whether we will or no.
Irish. Nay, nay, my deer joy, chreest bless the sweet majestees faash indeed; poor Teague is St. Patrick’s own country-man, be chreest, and poor Teague will come into St. Patrick’s purgatory; and if there be no vacancee, indeed thee must make a vacancee.
Porter. Nay, but this is hell, and not St. Patrick’s purgatory: therefore keep back.
Irish. Boo! boo, boo, boo, boo, hoo, hoo! hell indeed! say’st thou mee deer joy! be mee shoul, and bee chreest and St. Patrick, ee was think that hee that was in the highway to hell, cou’d not miss St. Patrick’s purgatory, since there is but a wall betwixt them.
Porter. Ouns, stand back, or I’ll send you back to the Boyne, ye impudent pultroons you.