A Burlesque Translation of Homer. Francis Grose

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      'Tis mighty civil, on my life,

      To keep all secrets from your wife:

      Is this the method, Mr. Jove,

      You take to show your wife your love?

      Pray who's that brimstone-looking quean,

      With whom you whispering was seen?

      Perhaps you're set some secret task,

      And I'm impertinent to ask.

      Is there a wife 'tween here and Styx,

      Like me, would bear your whoring tricks?

      But, goodman Roister! I'd have you know,

      Though you are Jove, I still am Juno!

      Madam, says Jove, by all this prate,

      I partly guess what you'd be at;

      You want the secrets to disclose,

      Which I conceal from friends and foes;

      You only seek your own disquiet;

      Secrets to women are bad diet.

      A secret makes a desp'rate rumble,

      Nor ceases in the gut to grumble

      Till vent it finds; then out it flies,

      Attended with ten thousand lies;

      All characters to pieces tears,

      And sets the neighbourhood by th' ears.

      What's proper I'll to you relate,

      The rest remains with me and Fate:

      But from this day I'll order, no man

      That's wise shall trust a tattling woman.

      The goddess with the goggle eyes

      Roll'd 'em about, and thus replies:

      I find 'twill be in vain to plead,

      When once you get it in your head

      To contradict your loving wife;

      You value neither noise nor strife,

      But, spite of all that we can say,

      You mules will always have your way.

      But yet for Greece I'm sore afraid,

      E'er since that cunning white-legg'd jade,

      That Thetis, a long conf'rence had;

      I'm sure she's hatching something bad,

      And hath some mighty favour won

      For her dear ranting roaring son?

      Else, by my soul, you'd not have given

      A nod that shook both earth and heaven;

      Perhaps you'll take the whore's-bird's side,

      And thrash my Grecians back and hide.

      Flux me! quoth Jove, thy jealous pate,

      Instead of love, will move my hate.

      I tell thee, cunning thou must be

      To worm this secret out of me;

      'Tis better far, good wife, to cease

      To plague me thus, and study peace;

      Or if you want to make resistance,

      Call all the gods to your assistance;

      So all your jackets will I baste,

      You'll not rebel again in haste.

      Juno, with face as broad as platter,

      Soon found she had mista'en the master;

      She relish'd not this surly dish,

      So sat her down as mute as fish:

      At which the guests were so confounded,

      That all their mirth was well nigh drowned

      Their knives and forks they every one

      Before their greasy plates laid down;

      Each mouth was ready cock'd, to beg

      Leave to depart, and make a leg;

      When Juno's son, ycleped Vulcan,

      A special fellow at a full can,

      Who was of handicrafts the top,

      And kept a noted blacksmith's shop,

      Where he made nets, steel caps, and thunder,

      And finish'd potlids to a wonder;

      He, finding things were going wrong,

      And that they'd fall by th' ears ere long,

      Starts up, and in a merry strain

      Hammer'd a speech from his own brain.

      Quoth he, What pity 'tis that we,

      Who should know nought but jollity,

      Should scold and squabble, brawl and wrangle,

      And about mortal scoundrels jangle!

      In peace put we the can about,

      Let Englishmen in drink fall out,

      And, at the meetings of the trade,

      Fight when the reck'ning should be paid.

      Mother, you know not what you're doing;

      To CALLOT thus will be your ruin;

      He'll some time, in a dev'lish fury,

      Do you some mischief, I'll assure you:

      Yet, I'll lay sixpence to a farthing,

      He'll kiss you, if you ask his pardon.

      This said, a swingeing bowl he takes,

      And drank it off for both their sakes;

      Then with a caper fill'd another,

      Which he presented to his mother:

      Not courtier-like I hand this bowl:

      But take it from an honest soul,

      That means and thinks whate'er he says;

      It won't be so in future days:

      Here, drink Jove's health, and own his sway:

      You know all women must obey.

      When once my father's in a passion,

      He's dev'lish cross, hear my relation:

      In your good cause I felt his twist,

      My leg he seiz'd in his strong wrist;

      In vain it was with him to grapple,

      He grasp'd me as you would an apple;

      And from his mutton-fist when hurl'd,

      For three long days and nights I twirl'd;

      At last upon the earth fell squash,

      My legs were broken all to smash:

      'Tis true, they're set, as you may see,

      But most folks think damn'd awkwardly.

      He then the bowl, with clownish grace,

      Fill'd round, and wip'd his sooty face,

      Then limp'd away into his place.

      This cur'd them all from being dull,

      And made 'em laugh their bellies full:

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