Chapter XLVI

Bold monk, forbear! this, I'll assure ye, Proceeds all from poetic fury; Warmed by the god, inspired with wine, His human soul is made divine. For without jest, His hallowed breast, With wine possessed, Could have no rest Till he'd expressed Some thoughts at least Of his great guest. Then straight he flies Above the skies, And mortifies, With prophecies, Our miseries. And since divinely he's inspired, Adore the soul by wine acquired, And let the tosspot be admired.

Thou, who canst water turn to wine, Transform my bum, by power divine, Into a lantern, that may light My neighbour in the darkest night.

From Pythian Tripos ne'er were heard More truths, nor more to be revered. I think from Delphos to this spring Some wizard brought that conjuring thing. Had honest Plutarch here been toping, He then so long had ne'er been groping To find, according to his wishes, Why oracles are mute as fishes At Delphos. Now the reason's clear; No more at Delphos they're, but here. Here is the tripos, out of which Is spoke the doom of poor and rich. For Athenaeus does relate This Bottle is the Womb of Fate; Prolific of mysterious wine, And big with prescience divine, It brings the truth with pleasure forth; Besides you ha't a pennyworth. So, Friar John, I must exhort you To wait a word that may import you, And to inquire, while here we tarry, If it shall be your luck to marry.

How, marry! By St. Bennet's boot, And his gambadoes, I'll never do't. No man that knows me e'er shall judge I mean to make myself a drudge; Or that pilgarlic e'er will dote Upon a paltry petticoat. I'll ne'er my liberty betray All for a little leapfrog play; And ever after wear a clog Like monkey or like mastiff-dog. No, I'd not have, upon my life, Great Alexander for my wife, Nor Pompey, nor his dad-in-law, Who did each other clapperclaw. Not the best he that wears a head Shall win me to his truckle-bed.

Wherefore thou shalt, thou filthy beast, Be damned twelve fathoms deep at least; While I shall reign in Paradise, Whence on thy loggerhead I'll piss. Now when that dreadful hour is come, That thou in hell receiv'st thy doom, E'en there, I know, thou'lt play some trick, And Proserpine shan't scape a prick Of the long pin within thy breeches. But when thou'rt using these capriches, And caterwauling in her cavern, Send Pluto to the farthest tavern For the best wine that's to be had, Lest he should see, and run horn-mad. She's kind, and ever did admire A well-fed monk or well-hung friar.