Before the Reign of Buxom _Dido_, When Beasts could speak as well as I do; Lyons and we convers'd together, And marry'd among one another. Nay, why not? they have more bravery, And are of the eldest Family. One of 'em walking in a Grove, Met with a Wench, and fell in Love. Says he, dear Girl, upon my Life, Y'are handsome, and must be my Wife. Then sees her Home, and asks her Father, Th' old Gentleman would have had rather A Son-in-Law of milder Nature, And not so terrible a Feature; He could not give her heartily, And yet 'twas dangerous to deny. Besides she lov'd a fierce Gallant, Says he, they have ask'd my Consent; If now I make a Noise about it, Who knows but they may do't without it. Therefore he us'd a Stratagem With honey-words to wheedle him. My Daughter thanks you, Sir, for the honour, Which you are pleas'd to bestow upon her. To talk of Joyntures would be rude; I know what's for my Children's good. She's wholly yours, and from this hour, Son, I resign her to your power. I only wish, because your Bride Has but a foolish tender Hide, That when you take her in your Arm, For fear your Claws might do her harm, You'd suffer somebody to pare 'em; And then your Spouse need not to fear 'em. Your Teeth indeed look fine and strong; But yet th'are somewhat sharp and long; If y'had 'em filed an Inch or two, 'T would be no prejudice to you, And she'd respect you ne'er the less, Admire the softness of your kiss, And be more free with you a Bed. So senceless is a Lover's head: The Lyon yields, and stupidly Lets 'em disarm him _Cap-a-pe_. And so the loving Son-in-Law, Remaining without Tooth or Claw, Look'd as defenceless as a Town With all the Walls and Gates broke down, With Dogs his complaisance they pay, To whom he falls an easy Prey.
_Where Love his Tyrany Commences; There, farewell Prudence, farewell Sences._
That little Fishes may be greater, And that, the larger th' are the better I know; but then, to let em swim, And all the while to stay for 'em; Since catching so uncertain is, I think's a foolish Business. An Angler patiently a fishing Employ'd with looking on, and wishing, Catches at last a little Carp That's very poor; but being sharp He thought 'twas something to begin, Opens his pouch to put him in. But cries the Prisoner pitiously Alas, what would you do with me! Let me grow bigger, throw me in. Some two Year hence you'll catch m' again; I'll stay for you, for you may be sure; Then sell me to some Epicure, But now I'm such a silly Fish, A hundred would not make a Dish; And if they should, when all is done, There would be only Skin and Bone. Says the Angler I've a Mind to try you, And if y' an't fit to Stew, I'll Fry you. Leave preaching till anon, and then Discourse your Mattets to the Pan.