A POEM WRIT UPON COCKING. |
By a Person of Honour. T The lureing Falkner flies over the Downs, And Tom the Huntsman with his deep mouth’d Hounds, Joler, & Smooker make the Woods to ring, Whilst Poacher with his Light-foot in a String, Goes silent on, beating each Hedge and Bush, With a design to snap poor frightful Puss: And next Jockey comes prancing o’er the Plain, Guiding his Courser with an Artful Rein; And off the scoreful speed he scours away, And whips, and spurs in hopes to gain the Day. Whilst th’wanton Swains they Dance, and piping sit, As if in Amrous Airs were only Wit. Next these Gamesters at Cards and Dice we place, The Rook, the Silver Fool, and Sattin Ass, That play the Knave, and Cogg a Dye to make Themselves a gainer by the ill got stake. These are all sports that little profit bring: But noble Cocking is the Game I Sing, Worthy the greatest Captain, greatest King. This Pastime I above the rest prefer, In that it fits a Man for Peace or War. Cocking breeds courage where before was none, And makes men Stout and die that us’d to run, Cocking breeds cunning too, makes men contrive, And puts them in a way to live and thrive: And if the Pious Indians say true, It makes Men Witty, Good, and Godly too. Who then would Hunt and Hawk their time away, Or at the Cards, or Dice sit down to Play: When they by powerful Cocking, this may do, Gain Courage, Wit, and Wealth, and Heaven too.
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