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      This brought such numbers on the lawn,

      The very earth was heard to groan,

      Nine criers went to still their noise;

      That they might hear their leader's voice.

      He haw'd and hemm'd before he spoke,

      Then rais'd his truncheon made of oak:

      'Twas Vulcan's making, which Jove gave

      To Mercury, a thieving knave;

      Who going down to Kent to steal hops,

      Resign'd his staff to carter Pelops;

      From Pelops it to Atreus came;

      He to Thyestes left the same,

      Who kept it dry, lest rain should rot it,

      And when he dy'd Atrides got it:

      With this he rules the Greeks with ease,

      Or breaks their noddles if he please;

      Now leaning on't, he silence broke,

      And with so grum an accent spoke,

      Those people that the circle stood in,

      Fancy'd his mouth was full of pudding.

      Thus he began: We've got, my neighbours,

      Finely rewarded for our labours:

      On Jove, you know, we have rely'd,

      And several conjurers have try'd,

      But both, I shame to say't, have ly'd.

      One says, that we on board our scullers

      Should all return with flying colours;

      Another, we should cram our breeches

      As full as they can hold with riches,

      For presents to our wives and misses,

      Which they'll repay us back with kisses.

      Instead of this, we're hack'd and worn,

      Our money spent, and breeches torn;

      And, to crown all, our empty sculls

      Fill'd with strange tales of cocks and bulls.

      Now Jove is got on t'other tack,

      And says we all must trundle back:

      Dry blows we've got, and, what is more,

      Our credit's lost upon this shore:

      Nor can I find one soul that's willing

      To trust us now a single shilling.

      No longer since than yesterday,

      Our butcher broke, and ran away:

      The baker swears too, by Apollo,

      If times don't mend he soon must follow:

      As for the alehouse-man, 'tis clear

      That half-penny a pot on beer

      Will send him off before next year;

      And then we all must be content

      To guzzle down pure element.

      A time there was, when who but we!

      Now were humbugg'd, you plainly see;

      And, what's the worst of all, you'll say,

      A handful makes us run away:

      For, if our numbers I can ken,

      Where Troy has one man, we have ten.

      Nine years, and more, the Grecian host

      Have been upon this cursed coast;

      And Troy's as far from being sack'd

      As when it was at first attack'd;

      The more we kill, the more appear;

      They grow as fast as mushrooms here!

      Like Toulon frigates rent and torn,

      Our leaky boats to stumps are worn;

      Then let's be packing and away;

      For what the vengeance should we stay?

      Our wives without it won't remain;

      Pray how the pox should they contain?

      For one that fasts, I'll lay there's ten

      Are now employing journeymen:

      If that's the case, I know you'll say

      'Tis time indeed to hyke away;

      Let us no more then make this fuss,

      Troy was not doom'd to fall by us.

      Most of the rabble, that were not

      Consulted in this famous plot,

      Were hugely pleas'd, and straight begin

      To cry, God save our noble king!

      He that spoke last, spoke like a man.

      So whipp'd about, and off they ran.

      As they jogg'd on, their long lank hair

      Did like the dyers' rags appear;

      Which you in every street will find

      Waving like streamers in the wind:

      To it they went with all their heart,

      To get things ready to depart;

      And made a sort of humming roar,

      Like billows rumbling to the shore.

      Halloo, cry'd some, here lend a hand

      To heave the lighters off the strand;

      Don't lounging stand to bite your nails,

      But bustle, boys, and bend the sails.

      Now all the vessels launch'd had been,

      If scolding Juno had not seen:

      That noisy brimstone seldom slept,

      But a sharp eye for ever kept;

      Not out of love to th' Grecian state,

      But to poor harmless Paris hate,

      Because on Ida's mountain he

      Swore Venus better made than she:

      And most are of opinion still,

      He show'd himself a man of skill;

      For Juno, ever mischief hatching,

      Had wrinkled all her bum with scratching,

      Whilst this enchanting Venus was

      As smooth all o'er as polish'd glass.

      Since then there was so wide a difference,

      Pray who can wonder at the preference?

      For wrinkles I'm myself no pleader:

      Pray what are you, my gentle reader?

      A simple answer to the question

      Will put an end to this digression:

      Why can't you speak now, when you're bid?

      You like smooth skins? I thought you did:

      And, since you've freely spoke your mind,

      We'll back return, and Juno find.

      Upon a cloud she sat astride,

      (As now-a-days our angels ride)

      Where calling Pallas, thus she spoke:

      Would it not any

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