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Albeit, ne flatt'ry did corrupt her truth ;
title did debauch her ear ; Goody, good-woman, goslip, n'aunt, for footh,
Or dame, the sole additions she did hear;
Ne would esteem him act as mought behove,
One ancient hen she took delight to feed,
The plodding pattern of the busy dame, Which ever and anon, impell’d by need,
Into her school, begirt with chickens, came; Such favour did her paft deportment claim :
And if neglect had lavish'd on the ground Fragment of bread, she would collect the same;
For well she knew, and quaintly could expound, What fin it were to waste the smallest crumb the found.
Herbs, too, she knew, and well of each could speak,
That in her garden fipp'd the filv'ry dew, Where no vain flow'r disclos'd a gaudy streak,
But herbs for use, and physick, not a few, Of
grey renown, within those borders grew; The tufted basil, pun-provoking thyme, Fresh baum, and marygold of chearful hue,
The lowly gill, that never dares to climb,
Yet euphrafy may not be left unsung,
That gives dim eyes to wander leagues around, And pungent radish, biting infant's tongue,
And plantain ribb'd, that heals the reaper's wound;
BEAUTIES OF POETRY.
And marj'ram sweet, in shepherd's pofie found;
And lavender, whose spikes of azure bloom Shall be, crewhile, in arid bundles bound,
To lurk amidst the labours of her loom, And crown her kerchiefs clean with inickle rare perfume.
And here trim rosemarine, that whilom crown'd
The daintiest garden of the proudest peer,
A sacred shelter for it's branches here,
Oh, wassel days! O customs meet and well!
Simplicity then fought this humble cell, Nor ever would she more with thane and lordling dwell.
Here oft the dame, on Sabbath's decent eve,
Hymned such psalms as Sternhold forth did mete ; If winter 'twere, she to her hearth did cleave,
But in her garden found a summer-feat: Sweet melody! to hear her then repeat
How Israel's sons, beneath a foreign king, While taunting foe-men did a song entreat,
All for the nonce untuning ev'ry ftring, Up-hung their useless lyres—small heart had they to fing.
For she was just, and friend to virtuous lore,
And pass’d much time in truly virtuous deed ; And in those elfin's ears would oft deplore
The times when Truth by Popish rage did bleed, And tortious death was true Devotion's mued ;
And simple Faith in iron chains did mourn, That nould on wooden image place her creed;
And lawny faints in smould'ring flames did burn: Ah, deareft Lord! forefend thilk days should e'er return.
In elbow-chair, like that of Scottish ftem,
By the sharp tooth of cank’ring Eld defac'd, In which, when he receives his diadem,
Our sov'reign prince and liefest liege is plac'd, The matron sate : and some with rank she grac’d;
(The source of children's and of courtier's pride!) Redrefs'd affronts, (for vile affronts there pass'd ;)
And warn’d them not the fretful to deride, But love each other dear, whatever them betide.
Right well she knew each temper to descry,
To thwart the proud, and the submiss to raise ; Some with vile copper prize exalt on high,
And fome entice with pittance small of praise ; And other some with baleful sprig she 'frays :
E’en absent, she the reins of pow'r doth hold, While with quaint arts the giddy crowd she sways ;
Forewarn’d, if little bird their pranks behold, "Twill whisper in her ear, and all the scene unfold.
Lo, now, with state the utters the command !
Eftfoons the urchins to their tasks repair ;
Which with pellucid horn secured are,
The work so gay, that on their back is feen, St. George's high atchievements does declare,
On which thilk wight that has y-gazing been, Kens the forth-coming rod, unpleasing fight, I ween!
Ah ! luckless he, and born beneath the beam
Of evil ftar! it irks me whilft I write ! As erst the bard *, by Mulla's silver stream,
Oft as he told of deadly dolorous plight,
Sigh'd as he sung, and did in tears indite;
For, brandishing the rod, the doth begin
And down they drop; appears his dainty skin,
O ruthful scene! when from a nook obscure
His little sister doth his peril see ;
She finds full soon her wonted spirits flee;
Nor gentle pardon could this dame deny, (If gentle pardon could with dames agree)
To her sad grief that swells in either eye, And wrings her so that all for pity she could die.
No longer can she now her shrieks comma
And hardly she forbears, thro' awful fear,
To stay harsh justice in it's mid career.
(Ah! too remote to ward the Mameful blow!) She sees no kind domestick visage near,
And soon a flood of tears begins to flow, And gives a loose at last to unavailing woe.
Bui, ah! what pen his piteous plight may trace ?
Or what device his loud laments explain ?
The pallid hue that dyes his looks amain ?
When he in abject wife implores the dame,
Or when from high she levels well her aim,
The other tribe, aghaft, with fore dismay
Attend, and conn their talks with mickle care ; By turns, aftony'd, ev'ry twig furvey,
And from their fellows hateful wounds beware, Knowing; I wilt, how each the fame may share ;
Till fear has taught them a performance meet, And to the well-known chest the dame repair,
Whence oft with fugar'd cates the doth 'em greet; And gingerbready-rare, now, certes, doubly sweet!
See, to their seats they hye with merry glee,
And in beseemly order fitten there, All but the wight of bum y-galled; he
Abhorreth bench, and stool, and fourm, and chair, (This hand in mouth y-fix'd, that rend's his hair)
And eke with snubs profound, and heaving breast, Convulsions intermitting! does declare,
His grievous wrong, his dame's unjust behest, And scorns her offer'd love, and shuns to be caress’d.
His face besprent; with liquid chryftal shines ;
His blooming face, that feems a purple flow'r, Which low to earth it's drooping head declines,
All smear'd and fully'd by a vernal show'r. O the hard bofoms of despotick pow'r !
All, all, but she, the author of his shame; All, all, but she, regret this mournful hour :
Yet hence the youth, and hence the flow'r shall claimt, If so I deem aright, transcending worth and famé.
Behind some door, in melancholy thought,
Mindless of food, he, dreary caitiff! pines ; Ne for his fellows joyaunce careth aught,
But to the wind all merriment resigns,