WELL; ’tis as Bickerstaff has guessed, | |
| Though we all took it for a jest— | |
| Partridge is dead; nay more, he died, | |
| Ere he could prove the good ’squire lied. | |
| Strange, an astrologer should die | 5 |
| Without one wonder in the sky; | |
| Not one of all his crony stars | |
| To pay their duty at his hearse! | |
| No meteor, no eclipse appear’d! | |
| No comet with a flaming beard! | 10 |
| The sun has rose and gone to bed, | |
| Just as if Partridge were not dead; | |
| Nor hid himself behind the moon | |
| To make a dreadful night at noon. | |
| He at fit periods walks through Aries, | 15 |
| Howe’er our earthly motion varies; | |
| And twice a year he’ll cut th’ Equator, | |
| As if there had been no such matter. | |
| Some wits have wonder’d what analogy | |
| There is ’twixt cobbling and astrology; | 20 |
| How Partridge made his optics rise | |
| From a shoe-sole to reach the skies. | |
| A list the cobbler’s temples ties, | |
| To keep the hair out of his eyes; | |
| From whence ’tis plain the diadem | 25 |
| That princes wear derives from them; | |
| And therefore crowns are now-a-days | |
| Adorn’d with golden stars and rays; | |
| Which plainly shows the near alliance | |
| ’Twixt cobbling and the planet’s science. | 30 |
| Besides, that slow-paced sign Bootes, | |
| As ’tis miscalled, we know not who ’tis; | |
| But Partridge ended all disputes; | |
| He knew his trade, and called it Boots. | |
| The horned moon, which heretofore | 35 |
| Upon their shoes the Romans wore, | |
| Whose wideness kept their toes from corns, | |
| And whence we claim our shoeing-horns, | |
| Shows how the art of cobbling bears | |
| A near resemblance to the spheres. | 40 |
| A scrap of parchment hung by geometry, | |
| (A great refiner in barometry,) | |
| Can, like the stars, foretell the weather; | |
| And what is parchment else but leather? | |
| Which an astrologer might use | 45 |
| Either for almanacks or shoes. | |
| Thus Partridge, by his wits and parts | |
| At once did practise both these arts; | |
| And as the boding owl (or rather | |
| The bat, because her wings are leather) | 50 |
| Steals from her private cell by night, | |
| And flies about the candle-light; | |
| So learned Partridge could as well | |
| Creep in the dark from leathern cell, | |
| And in his fancy fly as far | 55 |
| To peep upon a twinkling star. | |
| Besides, he could confound the spheres, | |
| And set the planets by the ears; | |
| To show his skill, he Mars could join | |
| To Venus in aspect malign; | 60 |
| Then call in Mercury for aid, | |
| And cure the wounds that Venus made. | |
| Great scholars have in Lucian read, | |
| When Philip King of Greece was dead, | |
| His soul and spirit did divide, | 65 |
| And each part took a different side; | |
| One rose a star, the other fell | |
| Beneath, and mended shoes in hell. | |
| Thus Partridge still shines in each art, | |
| The cobbling and star-gazing part, | 70 |
| And is install’d as good a star | |
| As any of the Cæsars are. | |
| Triumphant star! some pity show | |
| On cobblers militant below, | |
| Whom roguish boys, in stormy nights, | 75 |
| Torment by p———out their lights, | |
| Or through a chink convey their smoke, | |
| Enclosed artificers to choke. | |
| Thou, high exalted in thy sphere, | |
| May’st follow still thy calling there. | 80 |
| To thee the Bull will lend his hide, | |
| By Phœbus newly tanned and dried; | |
| For thee thy Argo’s hulk will tax, | |
| And scrape her pitchy sides for wax; | |
| Then Ariadne kindly lends | 85 |
| Her braided hair to make thee ends; | |
| The points of Sagittarius’ dart | |
| Turns to an awl by heavenly art; | |
| And Vulcan, wheedled by his wife, | |
| Will forge for thee a paring-knife. | 90 |
| For want of room by Virgo’s side, | |
| She’ll strain a point, and sit astride, | |
| To take thee kindly in between; | |
| And then the Signs will be Thirteen. | |
| |
The Epitaph Here, five feet deep, lies on his back | 95 |
| A cobbler, starmonger, and quack; | |
| Who to the stars, in pure good will, | |
| Does to his best look upward still. | |
| Weep, all you customers that use | |
| His pills, his almanacks, or shoes; | 100 |
| And you that did your fortune’s seek, | |
| Step to his grave but once a-week; | |
| This earth, which bears his body’s print, | |
| You’ll find has so much virtue in’t, | |
| That I durst pawn my ears, ’twill tell | 105 |
| Whate’er concerns you full as well, | |
| In physic, stolen goods, or love, | |
| As he himself could, when above. | |
| |
