TO SIR JOHN MENNIS,

BEING INVITED FROM CALAIS TO BOULOGNE, TO EAT A PIG.

1 All on a weeping Monday, With a fat vulgarian sloven, Little admiral John To Boulogne is gone, Whom I think they call old Loven.

2 Hadst thou not thy fill of carting,[1] Will Aubrey, Count of Oxon, When nose lay in breech, And breech made a speech, So often cried, A pox on?

3 A knight by land and water Esteem'd at such a high rate, When 'tis told in Kent, In a cart that he went, They'll say now, Hang him, pirate.

4 Thou might'st have ta'en example From what thou read'st in story; Being as worthy to sit On an ambling tit As thy predecessor Dory.

5 But, oh, the roof of linen, Intended for a shelter! But the rain made an ass Of tilt and canvas, And the snow, which you know is a melter.

6 But with thee to inveigle That tender stripling Astcot, Who was soak'd to the skin, Through drugget so thin, Having neither coat nor waistcoat.

7 He being proudly mounted, Clad in cloak of Plymouth, Defied cart so base, For thief without grace, That goes to make a wry mouth.

8 Nor did he like the omen, For fear it might be his doom One day for to sing, With gullet in string, A hymn of Robert Wisdom.

9 But what was all this business? For sure it was important; For who rides i' th'wet When affairs are not great, The neighbours make but a sport on't.

10 To a goodly fat sow's baby, O John! thou hadst a malice; The old driver of swine That day sure was thine, Or thou hadst not quitted Calais.

[1] 'Fill of carting': we three riding in a cart from Dunkirk to Calais, with a fat Dutch woman.