_A Parson’s Ghost._ I was in the world above, most mighty king, of the reverend crew, and having a handsom wife, as most of us love, who was proud, as they generally are, my benefice (tho’ good) was too small to maintain the grandeur she affected; but I being of a good comely port, with a pair of broad shoulders, and sufficient abilities, and the man of God too boot, (which made an easy and open way for all the rest) I ventur’d to crack a commandment with some of my wealthy parishioners wives, that they being so oblig’d, (according to my text) might prevail with their husbands to be the more generous to me in supererrogatory offerings, which flow’d all into the bottomless bag of my spouse’s pride and lust; for that too, must be supply’d. [_They are carry’d off._ _Luc._ You, the rest of this mad foolish crew, what are you? And what the cause of your damnation? Poet’s Ghost. _Quis Talia fando_ _Myrmidonum, Dolopúmve, aut duri Miles Ulyssi_ _Temperet à Lacrymis?_ Ha! brothers of the quill, what fate for us remains! But death, or worse than death, inglorious chains. _Luc._ What ragged regiment are you that lag behind your fellows? what are you the black-guard of the cuckolds? _Poet._ No, royal _Pluto_, no, (altho’, indeed, we are the poorest cuckolds that come hither, I believe) we are of the learned rout. _We have on_ PARNASSUS _slept,_ _And in the sacred stream_ _(To guild our amorous theam)_ _Of_ HELICON _our pens have dipt._ _And thro’_ AVERNUS _and black_ STYX _By which to swear_ _The Gods do fear,_ _We hither slipt;_ _And fairly bilked old_ CHARON _As we were wont to do of yore_ _Poor_ HACK, _or_ CHAIR-MAN, _Or our half-starv’d whore._ _Wherefore, O Sir_ PLUTO, _Since we cannot bilk you too_.---- _Luc._ Hold, hold I know your tribe of old; if you once get to repeating your works, or into the jingle of your rhimes, you’ll never have done. Away with them to old _Sternhold_ and _Hopkins_, and the rest of the crambo-sparks: ye senseless scoundrels, that make wives of your mules when single, and whores of your wives when marry’d. Poet. _O passi graviora!_---- _Solamen miseris, socios habuisse dolorum._ _Luc._ Clear the court, and let no more come in: the fatigue of this sitting has been enough: for my part, the follies of mankind are such, that the very hearing of them has quite turn’d my stomach for this month at least. _Porter_. Great Sir, here is a throng of wild _Irish_, that will take no denial, but thrust in whether we will or no. _Irish_. Nay, nay, my deer joy, chreest bless the sweet majestees faash indeed; poor _Teague_ is St. _Patrick_’s own country-man, be chreest, and poor _Teague_ will come into St. _Patrick_’s purgatory; and if there be no vacancee, indeed thee must make a vacancee. _Porter._ Nay, but this is hell, and not St. _Patrick_’s purgatory: therefore keep back.