he best end of Juno, By which they had often
been "Junctus in Uno," The bowl went about with much simp'ring and
winking, Each God lick'd his lips, at the health he was drinking;
Whilst Venus and Pallas look'd ready to rave, That her Goddesship's
scut should such preference have; The bowl being large, hoping the
rather Their amiable rumps might have swam altogether. Thus both being
vex'd, Venus swore by her power, The nectar had something in't, made it
drink sowre: Which Pallas confirm'd by her shield and her sword, And
vow'd 'twas as musty besides as a T----d But Juno perceiving 'twas out
of ill-nature, That Venus and Pallas abus'd the good creature, Because
to her Peacock, precedence was given, As the best and finest fledg'd
bird in the Heaven; Insinuating under a wink and a snicker, As if the
good health had corrupted the liquor: And finding they'd cast this
reflection upon her, In Juno 'twas justice to stand by her honour: Who
raising her bum from her seat in a passion, To Venus and Pallas she
made this oration: "Pray Goddesses! What do you mean, I beseech it, To
basely reflect on my Tippet-de-wichet? I know by your smiles, leering
looks, and your winks, And your items and jeers, you'd insinuate it
stinks: Dispraising the nectar, well knowing you meant, That a health
to my Tw----t gave the juice an ill scent. Nay, laugh if you please,
for I know I'm extreamly To blame, thus to blurt out a word so
unseemly. But all know the proverb, wherein it is said, That a What is
a What, and a Spade is a Spade; And now I'm provok'd, for a truth I may
tell it, Tho' as red as a fox, yet it smells like a vi'let. By Jove
I'll be judge, if I am not as sweet, I may say, as a primrose, from
head to my feet. And he, you may swear, who's my husband and lover, Has
kist me, and felt me, and smelt me all over, And if he can say an ill
scent does arise, From my ears, or my armpits, my c----t, or my thighs,
Like rotten old Cheshire, low Vervane or Ling, And altho' I'm goddess,
I'll hang in a string. Your self, Lady Fair, that arose from the sea,
Sure will not presume to be fragrant as me: The spark that has laid at
your feet all his trophies, Has smelt you sometimes strong as pickl'd
anchovies: But what if he has, were you ranker and older, You'd be e'en
good enough for a smith or a soldier." These words put the Goddess of
Love in a fire, And make her look redder than Mars that was by her. "My
beauty," said Venus, "obtain'd the Gold Apple." "Mine