Timothy Taurus, Astrologer, in love with Tryphena. Slyboots, a Quaker, and his two Daughters. Dullman, a City Broker. Deacon Samuel. Brigadier-General Nimrod. Lawyer Ludwick. Parson Pedro. Doctor Sangrado. Saunders, a Horse Jockey. Gubbin, a Tavern-keeper. Scalpella Gubbin, his Wife. Mithollan, a Farmer. My morning of life is beclouded with care! I will go to Passaick, I say and I swear-- To the falls of Passaick, that elegant scene, Where all is so pretty, and all is so green-- That river Passaick!--celestial indeed! That river of rivers, no rivers exceed.-- Now why, I would ask, should I puzzle my brain The nature of stars, or their use to explain-- To trace the effects they may have on our earth, How govern our actions, or rule at our birth? Five years have I been at these studies, and scanned All the books on the subject that sophists have planned! I am sorry to say (yet it ought to be said) The stars have not sent me one rye loaf of bread! Not a shilling to purchase a glass of good beer,-- By my soul, it's enough to make ministers swear. Tryphena may argue, and say what she will, I am sure all my fortune is going down hill: Dear girl! if you wait 'till the planets are for us Your name will scarce alter to Tryphena Taurus. Tryphena! I love you--have courted you long-- But find all my labours will end in a song!-- "Will you play at all-fours?"--she said, very jolly;-- I answered, The play at all-fours is all folly! "Will you play, then, at whist?"--she obligingly said;-- I answered, the game is gone out of my head-- Indeed, I am weary--I feel rather sick, So, I leave you, Tryphena, to win the odd trick.-- There's a music some talk of, that's play'd by the spheres:-- I wish him all luck who this harmony hears; And the people who hear it, I hope they may find It is not a music that fills them with wind.-- There's Saturn, and Venus, and Jove, and the rest: Their music to me is not quite of the best.-- These orbs of the stars, and that globe of the moon To me, I am certain, all play a wrong tune. Not a creature that plods in, or ploughs up the dirt, But from the mean clod gets a better support: Then farewell to Mars, and the rest of the gang, And the comets--I tell them they all may go hang; I mean, if they only with music will treat, It is not to me the best cooked of all meat. They may go where they will, and return when they please,-- And I hope they'll remember to pay up my fees-- So I leave them awhile, to be cheerful below, And away to Passaick most merrily go! The month, it was August, and meltingly warm, Not a cloud in the sky nor the sign of a storm; So I jumped in the stage, with the freight of the fair, And in less than a day at Passaick we were.-- Well, arrived at the Falls, I procured me a bed In a box of a house--you might call it a shed;