Who stole, and who receiv'd the goods. They'll question MARS, and, by his look, Detect who 'twas that nimm'd a cloke: Make MERCURY confess, and 'peach Those thieves which he himself did teach. 600 They'll find, i' th' physiognomies O' th' planets, all men's destinies.; Like him that took the doctor's bill, And swallow'd it instead o' th' pill Cast the nativity o' th' question, 605 And from positions to be guess'd on, As sure as it' they knew the moment Of natives birth, tell what will come on't. They'll feel the pulses of the stars, To find out agues, coughs, catarrhs; 610 And tell what crisis does divine The rot in sheep, or mange in swine In men, what gives or cures the itch; What makes them cuckolds, poor or rich; What gains or loses, hangs or saves; 615 What makes men great, what fools or knaves, But not what wise; for only of those The stars (they say) cannot dispose, No more than can the Astrologians. There they say right, and like true Trojans. This RALPHO knew, and therefore took 620 The other course, of which we spoke. Thus was the accomplish'd Squire endu'd With gifts and knowledge, per'lous shrew'd. Never did trusty Squire with Knight, Or Knight with Squire, e'er jump more right. 625 Their arms and equipage did fit, As well as virtues, parts, and wit. Their valours too were of a rate; And out they sally'd at the gate. 630 Few miles on horseback had they jogged, But Fortune unto them turn'd dogged; For they a sad adventure met, Of which anon we mean to treat; But ere we venture to unfold 635 Atchievements so resolv'd and bold, We shou'd as learned poets use, Invoke th' assistance of some muse: However, criticks count it sillier Than jugglers talking to familiar. 640 We think 'tis no great matter which They're all alike; yet we shall pitch On one that fits our purpose most Whom therefore thus do we accost: Thou that with ale, or viler liquors, 645 Did'st inspire WITHERS, PRYN <o>, and VICKARS, And force them, tho' it was in spite Of nature and their stars, to write; Who, as we find in sullen writs, And cross-grain'd works of modern wits, 650 With vanity, opinion, want, The wonder of the ignorant, The praises of the author, penn'd B' himself, or wit-insuring friend; The itch of picture in the front, 655 With bays and wicked rhyme upon't; All that is left o' th' forked hill, To make men scribble without skill; Canst make a poet spite of fate, And teach all people to translate, 660 Tho' out of languages in which They understand no part of speech; Assist me but this once, I 'mplore, And I shall trouble thee no more.