MERRY ANDREW. Sly Merry Andrew, the last Southwark Fair (At Barthol'mew He did not much appear; So peevish was the Edict of the May'r.) At Southwark, therefore, as his Tricks He show'd, To please our Masters, and his Friends, the Croud; A huge Neats-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't?) is Heathen Greek. To Tongue or Pudding Thou hast no Pretence: Learning Thy Talent is; but Mine is Sense. That busie Fool I was, which Thou art now; Desirous to correct, not knowing how; With very good Design, but little Wit, Blaming or praising Things, as I thought fit. I for this Conduct had what I deserv'd; And dealing honestly, was almost starv'd. 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 Controll: 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 Rev'rend Prelate stopt his Coach and Six, To laugh a little at our Andrew's Tricks. But when He heard him give this Golden Rule; Drive on; (He cry'd) This Fellow is no Fool.