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Matthew Prior - Merry Andrew
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Sly Merry Andrew, the last Southwark fair;
(At Bartholomew he did not much appear,
So peevish was the dict of the Mayor)
At Southwark, therefore, as his tricks he show`d,
To please our masters, and his friends the crowd,
A huge neat`s tongue he in his right hand held,
His left was with a good black pudding fill`d.
With a grave look, in this odd equipage,
The clownish mimic traverses the stage:
Why, how now, Andrew! cries his brother droll,
To-day`s conceit methinks is something dull.
Come on, Sir, to our worthy friends explain
What does your emblematic Worship mean?
Quoth Andrew, honest English let us speak;
Your emble — (what d`ye call it?) is Heathen Greek.
To tongue or pudding thou hast no pretence;
Learning thy talent is, but mine is sense.
That busy fool I was which thou art now,
Desirous to correct, not knowing how,
Blaming or praising things as I thought fit:
I for this conduct had what I deserved.
And dealing honestly was almost starved.
But thanks to my indulgent stars, I eat,
Since I have found the secret to be great.
O dearest Andrew, says the humble droll,
Henceforth may I obey and thou control;
Provided thou impart thy useful skill —
Bow then, says Andrew, and for once I will.—
Be of your patron`s mind, whate`er he says;
Sleep very much; think little, and talk less:
Mind neither good nor bad, nor right nor wrong,
But eat your pudding, slave, and hold your tongue.

A reverend prelate stopp`d his couch-and-six
To laugh a little at our Andrew`s tricks:
But when he heard him give this golden rule,
Drive on (he cried) this fellow is no fool.
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