Quite through the Scean gate, among
The Trojan and the Grecian throng:
When Agamemnon 'midst the crew,
And eke the sly Ulysses too,
Both rose, and made a handsome bow.
And now the blue-coat beadles, grac'd
With large red caps all silver-lac'd,
The method of the farce to fix,
Some Greek and Trojan beverage mix;
Then pour a little on the hand
Of each commander, as they stand;
But have our priestly way of thinking,
To save the most for private drinking:
Lastly, – this grand affair to close,
His knife the Grecian gen'ral draws,
And cutting from the beasts some hair,
The beadles gave each chief a share,
To show that all things should be fair.
Then with a thund'ring voice, that made
A dev'lish noise, to Jove they pray'd:
O Jupiter! who every Friday
Art worshipp'd on a mount call'd Ida:
O Phœbus! and thou mother Earth!
That gives to thieves and lawyers birth:
O demons! and infernal furies!
Whose counsels aid Westminster juries:
Thou discord-making fiend I that trudges
The six months' circuits with the judges;
And thou, the hellish imp, that brings
Brimstone to singe all wicked kings!
Hear what we promise, and depend on't,
We'll keep our words, or mark the end on't.
Should Paris drub this Menelaus;
To pox and poverty betray us,
If we don't leave the brimstone Helen
Safe in her present Trojan dwelling
For Paris' use! Much good may't do him,
And make her true and faithful to him;
Whilst we poor devils will depart,
And trudge it home with all our heart.
But if by Menelaus' blows
Paris should get a bloody nose,
They shall again restore his Nelly,
With what belongs her back and belly;
A forfeit too consent to pay
For stealing of the girl away;
And Paris cannot think it much
To pay a piece for every touch:
If they refuse, again we'll fight,
And force the rogues to do us right.
With that he seiz'd the sheep by th' crown.
And cut their throats or knock'd them down
By death they soon were overtaken,
Though they kick'd hard to save their bacon.
The chiefs then tipp'd, the other round,
And pour'd a little on the ground;
Adding withal a shorter prayer,
Because they'd not much time to spare:
Hear, Jove, and all ye gods on high!
Whose vicars say you hate a lie
(Though amongst them, for lies and swearing,
There's scarce a barrel better herring),
Whoever takes a thing in hand,
And will not to their bargain stand,
May their heart's blood run out much quicker
Than from the jug we pour this liquor;
And may their wives such harlots be,
That a whole parish can't serve three!
Thus both the armies clubb'd a prayer,
Which Jove refus'd, and kick'd in air.
Now, when these popish rites were done,
Old square-toes hasten'd to be gone:
It will be rather hard, quoth he,
For one so very old as me,
Bruises and broken pates to see:
But Jove knows best, who rules us all,
Which knave shall stand, or which shall fall.
To stay within yond' walls I choose,
And be the last to hear bad news:
Then instantly his chair ascended;
Antenor by his side attended:
But first, and rightly did he judge it,
He stuff'd both lambs within his budget.
Ulysses then, and Hector stout,
The limits of the fight mark'd out:
They both agreed that chance might try
Who first should let his broomstick fly.
The people pray on bended knees,
And mutter out such words as these:
O Jupiter! who hast by odds
The greatest head of all the gods,
Let him that did this mischief brew
Return with ribs all black and blue;
Or let him be demolish'd quick,
And sent full gallop to Old Nick!
Such rogues once hang'd, all wars would cease,
And soldiers eat their bread in peace.
Hector, who was a wary chap
At pitch and chuck, or hustle-cap,
An old Scotch bonnet quickly takes,
In which he three brass farthings shakes:
Then turn'd his head without deceit,
To show them th he scorn'd to cheat;
And cries aloud, Here goes, my boy,
'Tis heads for Greece, and tails for Troy;
Then turns the cap: Great Troy prevails,
Two farthings out of three were tails,
Paris now arms himself in haste,
And ty'd his jacket round his waist
With a buff belt, and then with 'traps
About his legs some hay-bands wraps;
To guard his heart he closely press'd
A sheet of tin athwart his breast;
His trusty sword across his breech
Was hung, to be within his reach;
A horse's tail, just like a mop,
He stuck upon his scull-cap's top.
Thus arm'd complete, with care and skill,
He seem'd as stout as Bobadil:
And Menelaus, you might see,
Appear'd as stout and fierce as he.
Ready for fight, they both look'd sour,
And eyed each other o'er and o'er.
Paris puts on a warlike phiz,
And from his hand his staff goes whiz,
Which