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EBBA 31417

British Library - Roxburghe
Ballad XSLT Template
A Very Heroical EPISTLE
FROM MY
Lord ALL-PRIDE to DOL-COMMON.
The ARGUMENT.
Dol-Common being forsaken by my Lord All-pride, and having
written him a most lamentable Letter, his Lordship sends her the fol-
lowing answer.

IF youre deceived, it is not by my cheat,
For all disguises are below the great.
What Man or Woman upon earth can say
I ever usd em well above a day?
How is it then that I inconstant am?
He changes not, who alwayes is the same.
In my dear self, I center every thing,
My Servants, Friends, my Mistress, and my King,
Nay Heaven and earth to that one point I bring.
Well-mannerd, honest, generous and stout,
(Names by dull Fools to plague mankind found
out)
Should I regard, I must my self constrain,
And tis my maxim to avoid all pain.
You fondly look for what none ere could find
Deceive your self, and then call me unkind;
And by false reasons would my falshood prove,
For tis as natural to change as Love.
You may as justly at the Sun repine
Because alike it does not alwayes shine.
No glorious thing was ever made to stay,
My Blazing Star but visits and away;
As Fatal too, it shines as those ith skies,
Tis never seen but some great Lady dies.
The boasted favour you so precious hold
To mes no more than changing of my gold.
What ere you gave, I paid you back in bliss,
Then wheres the obligation, pray, of this?
If heretofore you found grace in my eyes,
Be thankful for it, and let that suffice.
But Women Beggarlike, still haunt the door
Where theyve receivd a Charity before.
O happy Sultan! whom we barbarous call,
How much refind art thou above us all!
Who envies not the joys of thy Serrail!
Thee, like some God, the trembling crowd adore,
Each mans thy slave, and Woman-kind thy
Whore.
Methinks I see thee underneath the shade
Of golden Canopies supinely laid;
Thy crowching slaves all silent as the night,
But at thy nod all active as the light.
Secure in solid Sloath thou there dost raign,
And feelst the joys of love without thy pain.
Each Female courts thee with a wishing eye,
While thou with awful pride walkst careless by.
Till thy kind pledge at last marks out the Dame

Thou fanciest most to quench thy present flame.
Then from thy bed submissive she retires,
And thankful for thy grace no more requires.
No loud reproach, nor fond unwelcome sound
Of Womens tongues thy sacred ear dares wound.
If any do, a nimble Mute straight tyes
The true love knot, and stops her foolish cries.
Thou fearst no injurd Kinsmans threatning
blade,
Nor Midnight ambushes by Rivals laid.
While here with aking hearts our joys we taste
Disturbd by Swords like Damocles his feast,

Epigram upon my Lord All-pride.
Bursting with pride the loathd Imposture swels,
Prick him he sheds his venom straight and smels,
But is so lewd, a Scribler that he writes
With as much force to nature as he fights.
Hardend in shame, tis such a baffled Fop
That every School-boy whips him like a Top.
And with his arm and heart his brains so weak,
That his starvd fancy is compelld to rake
Among the excrements of others wit
To make a stinking meal of what they shit.
So Swine for nasty meat to dunghills run,
And toss their gruntling Snouts up when theyve
done.
Against his stars the Coxcomb ever strives,
And to be something they forbid contrives.
With a red Nose, splay-foot, and goggle eye,
A plowmans looby meen, face all awry,
A filthy breath, and every loathsome mark
The Punchinello sets up for a Spark.
With equal self-conceit he takes up arms,
But with such vile successe his part performs,
That he burlesques the trade, and what is best
In others, turns like Harlequin to jest.
So have I seen at Smithfields wondrous fair
(When all his Brother Monsters flourish there)
A lubbard Elephant divert the Town
With making legs and shooting off a gun.
Go where he will he never finds a Friend,
Shame and derision all his steps attend,
Alike abroad, at home, ith Camp and Court
This Knight-oth burning pestle makes us sport.


Printed in the Year, 1679.

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