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(All this was only in a dream);

On married men, that dar'd be bad, And, thrusting it beyond his joint,

She thought no mercy should be had; 'Tis done, he cry'd: I've gain'd my point.- They should be hang’d, or starv’d, or flay'd, What point, said she, you ugly beast?

Or serv'd like Romish priests in Swede.You neither give me joy nor rest:

In short, all lewdness she defied: 'Tis done:-What's done, you drunken bear?

And stiff was her parochial pride.
You've thrust your finger God knows where.

Yet, in an honest way, the dame
Was a great lover of that same;

And could from scripture take her cue, PAULO PURGANTI AND HIS WIFE; That husbands should give wives their due.

Her prudence did so justly steer
AN HONEST, BUT A SIMPLE PAIR.

Between the gay and the severe, * Est enim quiddam, idque intelligitur in omni virtute, quod

That if in some regards she chose
deceat: quod cogitatione magis à virtute potest quàm re
separari."

To curb poor Paulo iv too close,
Cic. de Off. 1. i.

In others she relax'd again,
Beyond the fix'd and settled rules

And govern’d with a looser rein. Of vice and virtue in the schools,

Thus though she strictly did confine Beyond the letter of the law

The doctor from excess of wine: Which keeps our men and maids in awe,

With oysters, eggs, and vermicelli, The better sort should set before 'em

She let him almost burst his belly: A grace, a manner, a decorum ;

Thus drying coffee was denied ; Something, that gives their acts a light;

But chocolate that loss supplied: Makes them not only just, but bright;

And for tobacco (who could bear it?) And sets them in that open fame,

Filthy concomitant of claret: Which witty malice cannot blame.

(Blest revolution !) one might see For 'tis in life, as 'tis in painting:

Eringo roots, and Bohea tea. Much may be right, yet much be wanting ;

She often set the doctor's band, From lines drawn true, our eye may trace

And strok'd his beard and squeez'd his hand: A foot, a knee, a hand, a face;

Kindly complain'd, that after noon May justly own the picture wrought

He went to pore on books too soon : Exact to rule, exempt from fault;

She held it wholesomer by much Yet, if the colouring be not there,

To rest a little on the couch: The Titian stroke, the Guido air:

About his waist in bed a-nights To nicest judgments show the piece,

She clung so close-for fear of sprites. At best 'twill only not displease :

The doctor understood the call; It would not gain on Jersey's eye;

But had not always wherewithal. Bradford would frown, and set it by.

The lion's skin too short, you know, Thus in the picture of our mind

(As Plutarch's morals finely show) The action may be well design'd;

Was lengthen’d by the fox's tail : Guided by law, and bound by duty;

And art supplies, where strength may fail. Yet want this je ne scai quoi of beauty :

Unwilling then in arms to meet And though its error may be such,

The enemy he could not beat; As Knags and Burgess cannot hit;

He strove to lengthen the campaign, It yet may feel the nicer touch

And save his forces by chicane. Of Wycherley's or Congreve's wit.

Fabius, the Roman chief, who thus What is this talk ? replies a friend,

By fair retreat grew Maximus, And where will this dry moral end?

Shows us, that all that warrior can do, The truth of what you here lay down

With force inferior, is cunctando. By some example should be shown.

One day then, as the foe drew near, With all my heart—for once; read on.

With love, and joy, and life, and dear; An honest but a simple pair

Our Don, who knew this tittle-tattle (And twenty other I forbear)

Did, sure as trumpet, call to battle, May serve to make this thesis clear.

Thought it extremely a propos, A doctor of great skill and fame,

To ward against the coming blow : Paulo Purganti was his name,

To ward: but how? Ay, there's the question; Had a good, comely, virtuous wife;

Fierce the assault, unarm'd the bastion. No woman led a better life :

The doctor feign’d a strange surprise : She to intrigues was ev'n hard-hearted:

He felt her pulse; he view'd her eyes: She chuckled when a bawd was carted;

That beat too fast, these rollid too quick; And thought the nation ne'er would thrive,

he said, or would be sick; Till all the whores were burnt alive.

He judg'd it absolutely good,

She was,

That she should purge, and cleanse her blood.

HER RIGHT NAME. Spa waters for that end were got:

As Nancy at her toilet sat, If they past easily or not,

Admiring this, and blaming that, What matters it? The lady's fever

Tell me, she said ; but tell me true; Continued violent as ever.

The nymph who could your heart subdue, For a distemper of this kind

What sort of charms does she possess ? (Blackmore and Hans are of my mind),

Absolve me, fair-one ; I'll confess If once it youthful blood infects,

With pleasure, I reply'd. Her hair, And chiefly of the female sex,

In ringlets rather dark than fair, Is scarce remov'd by pill or potion;

Does down her ivory bosom roll, Whate'er might be our doctor's notion.

And, hiding half, adorns the whole. One luckless night then, as in bed

In her high forehead's fair half round The doctor and the dame were laid;

Love sits in open triumph crown'd: Again this cruel fever came,

He in the dimple of her chin, High pulse, short breath, and blood in flame.

In private state, by friends is seen. What measures shall poor Paulo keep

Her eyes are neither black nor gray; Witha madam in this piteous taking ?

Nor fierce nor feeble is their ray ; She, like Macbeth, has murder'd sleep,

Their dubious lustre seems to show And won't allow him rest, though waking.

Something that speaks nor yes, nor no. Sad state of matters! when we dare

Her lips no living bard, I weet, Nor ask for peace, nor offer war;

May say, how red, how round, how sweet; Nor Livy nor Comines have shown

Old Homer only could indite What in this juncture may be done.

Their vagrant grace and soft delight: Grotius might own, that Paulo's case is

They stand recorded in his book, Harder than any which he places

When Helen smil'd, and Hebe spokeAmongst his Belli and his Pacis.

The gipsy, turning to her glass, He strove, alas! but strove in vain,

Too plainly show'd she knew the face; By dint of logic to maintain

And which am I most like, she said,
That all the sex was born to grieve,

Your Cloe, or your Nut-brown Maid?
Down to her ladyship from Eve.
He rang'd his tropes, and preach'd up patience,
Back'd his opinion with quotations,

DOWN-HALL, A BALLAD.
Divines and moralists; and run ye on

To the tune of King John and the Abbot of Canterbury. Quite through from Seneca to Bunyan.

1715. As much in vain he bid her try To fold her arms, to close her eye ;

I sing not old Jason, who travellid through Greece, Telling her, rest would do her good,

To kiss the fair maids, and possess the rich fleece; If any thing in nature could :

Nor sing 1 Æneas, who, led by his mother, So held the Greeks quite down from Galen,

Got rid of one wife, and went far for another. Masters and princes of the calling :

Derry down, down, hey derry down. So all our modern friends maintain (Though no great Greeks) in Warwick-lane.

Nor him who through Asia and Europe did roam, Reduce, my Muse, the wandering song:

Ulysses by name, who ne'er cry'd to home, A tale should never be too long.

But rather desir'd to see cities and men, The more he talk'd, the more she burn'd,

Than return to his farms, and converse with old Pen. And sigh'd, and tost, and groan'd, and turn’d: At last, I wish, said she, my dear

Hang Homer and Virgil! their meaning to seek, (And whisper'd something in his ear)

A man must have pok'd into Latin and Greek ; You wish! wish on, the doctor cries:

Those who love their own tongue, we have reason Lord! when will womankind be wise ?

to hope, What, in your waters? Are you mad?

Have read them translated by Dryden and Pope. Why poison is not half so bad. I'll do it-but I give you warning:

But I sing of exploits that have lately been done You'll die before tomorrow morning.–

By two British heroes, callid Matthew and John; 'Tis kind, my dear, what you advise ;

And how they rid friendly from fine London town, The lady with a sigh replies !

Fair Essex to see, and a place they call Down. But life, you know, at best is pain; And death is what we should disdain.

Now ere they went out you may rightly suppose So do it therefore, and adieu:

How much they discours'd both in prudence and For I will die for love of you.

prose;

(certed, Let wanton wives by death be scar'd:

For, before this great journey was thoroughly conBut, to my comfort, I'm prepar’d.

Full often they met, and as often they parted.

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go

And thus Matthew said, Look you here, my friend By my troth! she replies, you grow younger, ! I fairly have travell’d years thirty and one; (John,

think:

[drink And, though I still carry'd my sovereign's warrants, And pray, Sir, what wine does the gentleman I only have gone upon other folks' errands.

Why now let me die, Sir, or live upon trust, And now in this journey of life I would have If I know to which question to answer you first! A place where to bait, 'twixt the court and the grave; Why things, since I saw you, most strangely have Where joyful to live, not unwilling to die

vary'd, Gadzooks! I have just such a place in my eye. The hostler is hang'd, and the widow is marry'd.

There are gardens so stately, and arbours so thick, And Prue left a child for the parish to nurse: A portal of stone, and a fabric of brick:

And Cicily went off with a gentleman's purse; The matter next week shall be all in your power ; And as to my sister, so mild and so dear, But the money, gadzooks ! must be paid in an hour. She has lain in the church-yard full many a year.

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Are the Harrisons here, both the old and the Look again, says mild Morley! gadzooks! you are young?

(song?

blind: And where stands fair Down, the delight of my The mill stands before, and the house lies behind.

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POPE-A.D. 1688-1744.

THE MESSIAH.
Ye nymphs of Solyma! begin the song:
To heavenly themes sublimer strains belong.
The mossy fountains and the sylvan shades,
The dreams of Pindus and th' Aonian maids,
Delight no more-0 thou my voice inspire
Who touch'd Isaiah's hallow'd lips with fire!

Rapt into future times, the bard begun!
A Virgin shall conceive, a Virgin bear a Son!
From Jesse's root behold a branch arise,
Whose sacred flower with fragrance fills the skies:
Th' Æthereal spirit o'er its leaves shall move,
And on its top descends the mystic Dove.
Ye Heavens! from high the dewy nectar pour,
And in soft silence shed the kindly shower!
The sick and weak the healing plant shall aid,
From storms a shelter, and from heat a shade.
All crimes shall cease, and ancient frauds shall fail;
Returning Justice lift aloft her scale;
Peace o'er the world her olive wand extend,
And white-rob’d Innocence from Heaven descend.
Swift fly the years, and rise th' expected morn!
Oh, spring to light, auspicious babe, be born!
See, nature hastes her earliest wreaths to bring,
With all the incense of the breathing spring:
See lofty Lebanon his head advance,
See nodding forests on the mountains dance:
See spicy clouds from lowly Sharon rise,
And Carmel's flowery top perfume the skies !
Hark! a glad voice the lonely desert cheers;
Prepare the way! a God, a God appears !
A God, a God! the vocal hills reply,
The rocks proclaim th’approaching Deity.
Lo, earth receives him from the bending skies ;
Sink down, ye mountains; and ye vallies rise ;
With heads declin'd, ye cedars homage pay ;
Be smooth, ye rocks: ye rapid floods, give way!
The Saviour comes ! by ancient bards foretold:
Hear him, ye deaf; and all ye blind, behold !
He from thick films shall purge the visual ray,
And on the sightless eye-ball pour the day:
'Tis he th' obstructed paths of sound shall clear,
And bid new music charm th' unfolding ear:
The dumb shall sing, the lame his crutch forego,
And leap exulting like the bounding roe.
No sigh, no murmur, the wide world shall hear;
From every face he wipes off every tear.
In adamantine chains shall death be bound,
And hell's grim tyrant feel th' eternal wound.
As the good shepherd tends his fleecy care,
Seeks freshest pasture, and the purest air ;
Explores the lost, the wandering sheep directs,
By day o'ersees them, and by night protects;

The tender lambs he raises in his arms,
Feeds from his hand and in his bosom warms;
Thus shall mankind his guardian care engage,
The promis'd father of the future age.
No more shall nation against nation rise,
Nor ardent warriors meet with hateful eyes,
Nor fields with gleaming steel be cover'd o'er,
The brazen trumpets kindle rage no more :
But useless lances into scythes shall bend,
And the broad falchion in a ploughshare end.
Then palaces shall rise ; the joyful son
Shall finish what his short-liv'd sire begun;
Their vines a shadow to their race shall yield,
And the same hand that sow'd, shall reap the field.
The swain in barren deserts with surprise
Sees lilies spring, and sudden verdure rise;
And starts, amidst the thirsty wilds to hear
New falls of water murmuring in his ear.
On risted rocks, the dragon's late abodes,
The green reed trembles, and the bulrush nods.
Waste sandy valleys, once perplex'd with thoro,
The spiry fir and shapely box adorn :
To leafless shrubs the flowery palms succeed,
And odorous myrtle to the noisome weed. (mead,
The lambs with wolves shall graze the verdant
And boys in flowery bands the tiger lead :
The steer and lion at one crib shall meet,
And harmless serpents lick the pilgrim's feet.
The smiling infant in his hand shall take
The crested basilisk and speckled snake;
Pleas'd, the green lustre of the scales survey,
And with their forky tongue shall innocently play.
Rise, crown’d with light, imperial Salem, rise!
Exalt thy towery head, and lift thy eyes!
See a long race thy spacious courts adorn;
See future sons, and daughters yet unborn,
In crowding ranks on every side arise,
Demanding life, impatient for the skies!
See barbarous nations at thy gates attend,
Walk in thy light, and in thy temple bend;
See thy bright altars throng'd with prostrate kings,
And heap'd with products of Sabean springs.
For thee Idume's spicy forests blow,
And seeds of gold in Ophir's mountains glow.
See Heaven its sparkling portals wide display,
And break upon thee in a flood of day!
No more the rising sun shall gild the morn,
Nor evening Cynthia fill her silver horn;
But lost, dissolv'd in thy superior rays,
One tide of glory, one unclouded blaze
O'erflow thy courts: the Light himself shall shine
Reveal'd, and God's eternal day be thine!
The seas shall waste, the skies in smoke decay,

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