At the pickle of poor Rubinelli;
For Rubi, the father of screeches,
In laughing at Mara, so strain’d it,
That his pipe let the piss in his breeches,
For no cistern has he to retain it.
Hurlowe Thrumbo, your wonder ’twill raise,
Is of catgut so charming a scraper,
That, old Orpheus-like, when he plays,
The trees and the brutes round him caper.
He blasted the Thing I won’t name,