Chapter 2

The Antidoted Fanfreluches: or, a Galimatia of extravagant Conceits found in an ancient Monument.

No sooner did the Cymbrians’ overcomer Pass through the air to shun the dew of summer, But at his coming straight great tubs were fill’d, With pure fresh butter down in showers distill’d: Wherewith when water’d was his grandam, Hey, Aloud he cried, Fish it, sir, I pray y’; Because his beard is almost all beray’d; Or, that he would hold to ‘m a scale, he pray’d.

To lick his slipper, some told was much better, Than to gain pardons, and the merit greater. In th’ interim a crafty chuff approaches, From the depth issued, where they fish for roaches; Who said, Good sirs, some of them let us save, The eel is here, and in this hollow cave You’ll find, if that our looks on it demur, A great waste in the bottom of his fur.

To read this chapter when he did begin, Nothing but a calf’s horns were found therein; I feel, quoth he, the mitre which doth hold My head so chill, it makes my brains take cold. Being with the perfume of a turnip warm’d, To stay by chimney hearths himself he arm’d, Provided that a new thill-horse they made Of every person of a hair-brain’d head.

They talked of the bunghole of Saint Knowles, Of Gilbathar and thousand other holes, If they might be reduced t’ a scarry stuff, Such as might not be subject to the cough: Since ev’ry man unseemly did it find, To see them gaping thus at ev’ry wind: For, if perhaps they handsomely were closed, For pledges they to men might be exposed.