A wall of brafs and one of lead

Divide the living from the dead :
Repell'd by this the gather'd rain

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Of tears beats back to earth again;

In t'other the collected found

Of groans, when once receiv'd, is drown'd.

'Tis therefore vain one hour to grieve

What time itself can ne'er retrieve.

By nature foft, I know a dove

Can never live without her love;

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Then quit this flame, and light another,

Dame, I advise you like a brother.

T. What, I to make a fecond choice!

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Let me indulge my pleafing woe
Thus fighing, cooing, eafe my pain,

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But never wish nor love again:
Diftrefs'd for ever let me moan

Who mock'd thee in their mimic tone,
And wept Columbo, dead and gone.

T. Whate'er the jay or parrot faid,
My hopes are loft, my joys are fled,
And I for ever muft deplore
Columbo, dead and gone.-

-S. Encore!

For fhame, forfake this Byon-ftyle;

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We'll talk an hour and walk a mile.
Does it with fenfe or health agree

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To fit thus moping on a tree

To throw away a widow's life,

When you again may be a wife?

Come on, I'll tell you my amours;

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Who knows but they may influence your's?

Example draws when precept fails,
And fermons are lefs read than tales.

T. Sparrow, I take thee for my friend;
As fuch will hear thee: I defend;
Hop on and talk; but, honeft bird,
Take care that no immodeft word
May venture to offend my ear.

S. Too faint-like Turtle, never fear;
By method things are beft difcuft,
Begin we then with wife the first:
A handfome, fenfelefs, awkward, fool,
Who would not yield, and could not rule,
Her actions did her charms difgrace,
And ftill her tongue talk'd of her face;
Count me the leaves of yonder tree,
So many diff'rent wills had the,

And, like the leaves, as chance inclin'd,
Those wills were chang'd with ev'ry wind :
She courted the beau-monde to-night,
L'affemblée her fupreme delight;
The next fhe fat immur'd, unfeen,
And in full health enjoy'd the spleen;
She cenfur'd that, fhe alter'd this,
And with great care set all amifs;

She now could chide, now laugh, now cry,
Now fing, now pout, all God knows why:
Short was her reign, fhe cough'd and dy’d.
Proceed we to my fecond bride.
Well-born fhe was, genteelly bred,
And buxom both at board and bed;
Glad to oblige, and pleas'd to please,
And, as Tom Southern wifely fays,
No other fault had the in life,
But only that she was my wife."
O widow Turtle! ev'ry fhe,
(So nature's pleasure does decree)
Appears a goddess till enjoy'd ;

But birds, and men, and gods, are cloy'd. ·

See the Wife's Excufe, a comedy

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Was Hercules onè woman's man,

Or Jove for ever Læda's fwan ?
Ah! Madam, cease to be mistaken,

Few marry'd fowl peck Dunmow bacon.
Variety alone gives joy;

The fweeteft meats the fooneft cloy.
What fparrow, dame, what dove alive,
Tho' Venus fhould the chariot drive,
But would accuse the harness' weight,
If always coupled to one mate,
And often with the fetter broke?
'Tis freedom but to change the yoke.
T. Impious to wish to wed again

Ere death diffolv'd the former chain!

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S. Spare your remark, and hear the reft.

She brought me fons, but Jove be blest

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She died in childbed on the nest.

Well, reft her bones, quoth I, fhe's gone;

But muft I therefore lie alone?

What, am I to her mem'ry ty'd?

Muft I not live because fhe dy'd?

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And thus I logically faid,

('Tis good to have a reas'ning head)

Is this my wife? Probatur not;

For death diffolv'd the marriage knot:

She was, concedo, during life;

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But is a piece of clay a wife?
Again, if not a wife, do ye fee,
Why then, no kin at all to me;
And he who gen'ral tears can fhed
For folks that happen to be dead
May e'en with equal juftice mourn
For those who never yet were born.

T. Thofe points, indeed, you quaintly prove,
But logic is no friend to love.

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S. My children then were just pen-feather'd; 265 Some little corn for them I gather'd,

And fent them to my fpoufe's mother,

So left that brood to get another;

And as old Harry whilom faid,
Reflecting on Anne Boleyn dead,

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Cockbones, I now again do stand

The jolly'ft bachelor i'th' land.

T. Ah me! my joys, my hopes are fled;

As yet my

I woo'd my coufin, Philly Sparrow,

O' th' elder houfe of Chirping-End,

From whence the younger branch descend.
Well feated in a field of peafe

She liv'd, extremely at her ease;

But when the honey-moon was paft,

The following nights were foon o'ercaft;
She kept her own, could plead the law,
And quarrel for a barley-itraw:
Both, you may judge, became lefs kind,
As more we knew each other's mind.
She foon grew fullen, I hard-hearted;
We fcolded, hated, fought, and parted.
To London, bleffed town, I went;
She boarded at a farm in Kent:
A magpie from the country fled,
And kindly told me she was dead:
I prun'd my feathers, cock'd my tail,
And fet my heart again to fale.

My fourth, a mere coquette, or fuch
I thought her, nor avails it much.
If true or falfe: our troubles spring
More from the fancy than the thing.
Two ftaring horns, I often faid,
But ill become a sparrow's head;
But then to fet that balance even
Your cuckold fparrow goes to heav'n.
The thing you tear, fuppofe it done,
If you enquire you make it known;

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Whilft at the root your hornsa re fore,
The more you scratch they ache the more.
But turn the tables and reflect,

All may not be that you fufpect:
By the mind's eye the horns we mean,

Are only in ideas feen;

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'Tis from the infide of the head

Their branches fhoot, their antlers fpread;

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Fruitful fufpicions often bear 'em,

You feel 'em from the time you fear 'em ;

Cuckoo! Cuckoo! that echo'd word

Offends the ear of vulgar bird;

But thofe of finer tafte have found
There's nothing in't befide the found.
Preferment always waits on horns,
And household peace the gift adorns :
This way or that let factions tend,
The fpark is ftill the cuckold's friend :
This way or that let madam roam,
Well pleas'd and quiet the comes home.
Now weigh the pleasure with the pain,
The plus and minus, loss and gain,
And what La Fontaine laughing says
Is ferious truth in fuch a cafe:

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"Who flights the evil finds it least :

"And who does nothing does the best.”

'Tis mutual love alone can tell.

S. My pretty am'rous foolish bird, A moment's patience. In one word, The three kind fifters broke the chain; She dy'd, I mourn'd, and woo'd again.

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