Classic Poem

I Sing the strange adventures and sad Fate,
That did befall a Collonel of late,
A portly Squire; a Warlike hardy wight,
And pity 'tis, we cannot call him Knight,
A stout man at Custard, and Son of Mars ,
But oh the foul disaster of his — —
Before the Worthies , and the rest beside,
Who saw how he his Courser did bestride,
Weilding his Truncheon , like a Weavers beam,
And yet — — — his hose in every seam;
I cannot tell how fair he was i'th' Cradle,
But sure I am he was foul enough i'th' Saddle:
For feats of Armes none could come near him then,
He smelt so strong, and when eight thousand men
Discharg'd their Musquets, he discharged too,
But what? his Office and his Guts? what though
He made a House of Office of his Hose?
Stand further off, if it offend your Nose:
Belike he meant to hansell his New Satten,
Or, like fat Oxen, in his dung to batten;
But when in triumph he from Finsbury
Came home to Leaden-hall , he call'd to see
His Hellena , his Sultanesse, when she
At's first approach smelt out his Knavery;
And lest by the hot skirmish of the day,
Her Paris might miscarry in the way,
Or mett with some wounds, sends for in all haste
Shambrook the skilfull Chirurgion, who begins at th' waste
T'untruss, and as he stumbling downwards tends,
He had the businesse at his fingers ends;
Foh, quoth the Chirurgion, call the Kitchin Queen
With clout in hand to make his Worship clean;
Then about the Master all the Servants shuffl'd,
He, like old Lockwood in the Counter, scuffl'd,
Shew'd two broad mighty Hanches all bewray'd,
Nay then, quoth Shambrook , how shall I be paid;
The Devil a wound I see, is this the prime
Of six City Colonels in good time?
They say that shitten luck is good, and I
Will put it to the Vote of Chivalry,
Whether all be not likely well to jump
In th' New Militia, when a — — — is trump.