T. Let me with jufter grief deplore My dear Columbo, now no more;
Let me with conftant tears bewail
S. Your forrow does but spoil my tale. My fifth the prov'd a jealous wife,
Lord fhield us all from fuch a life;
'Twas doubt, complaint, reply, chit-chat,
'Twas this to-day, to-morrow that.
Sometimes, forfooth, upon the brook
I kept a mifs; an honest rook
Told it a fnipe, who told a fteer,
Who told it thofe who told it her.
One day a linnet and a lark
Had met me ftrolling in the dark;
The next a woodcock and an owl,
Quick fighted, grave, and fober fowl,
Would on their corp'ral oath alledge
I kiss'd a hen behind the hedge.
Well, madam Turtle, to be brief,
(Repeating but renews our grief)
As once the watch'd me from a rail,
Poor foul! her footing chanc'd to fail,
And down fhe fell and broke her hip;
The fever came, and then the pip:
Death did the only cure apply;
T. Could Love unmov'd these changes view?
S. My dearest Dove, one wife man says,
"We're here to-day and gone to-morrow ;"
She was at quiet, fo was I.
His forrows as his joys are true.
Alluding to our prefent cafe,
Then what avails fuperfluous forrow?
Another, full as wife as he,
Adds, that “a marry'd man may see
"Two happy hours;" and which are they?
The first and last, perhaps you'll fay:
'Tis true, when blithe fhe goes to bed,
And when the peaceably lies dead;
"Women'twixt sheets are beft," 'tis faid,
Be they of Holland or of lead,
Now cur'd of Hymen's hopes and fears, ·
And sliding down the vale of years,
I hop'd to fix my future rest,
And took a widow to my neft.
Ah! Turtle! had the been like thee,
Sober yet gentle, wife yet free ;
But he was peevish, noisy, bold,
A witch ingrafted on a scold.
Jove in Pandora's box confin'd
A hundred ills to vex mankind;
To vex one bird in her bandore
He hid at least a hundred more,
And foon as time that veil withdrew
The plagues o'er all the parish flew;
Her ftock of borrow'd tears grew dry,
And native tempefts arm'd her eye;
Black clouds around her forehead hung,
And thunder rattled on her tongue.
We, young or old, or cock or hen,
All liv'd in Eolus' den;
The nearest her the more accurft,
Ill-far'd her friends, her husband worst ;
But Jove amidit his anger fpares,
Remarks our faults, but hears our pray❜rs.
In fhort the dy'd. Why then she's dead,
Quoth I, and once again I'll wed.
Would Heav'n this mourning year were past
One may have better luck at last.
Matters at worst are fure to mend ;
The devil's wife was but a fiend.
T. Thy tale has rais'd a Turtle's spleen;
Uxorious inmate, bird obfcene,
Dar'ft thou defile thefe facred groves,
Thefe filent feats of faithful loves?
Begone; with flagging wings fit down
On fome old penthoufe near the town;
In brewers ftables peck thy grain,
Then wash it down with puddled rain,
And hear thy dirty offspring fquall
From bottles on a fuburb-wall.
Where thou haft been, return again,
Vile bird! thou haft convers'd with men :
Notions like these from men are giv'n,
Thofe vileft creatures under heav'n.
To cities and to courts repair,
Flatt'ry and falfehood flourish there;
There all thy wretched arts employ
Where riches triumph over joy,
Where paffions do with int'reft barter,
And Hymen holds by Mammon's charter;
Where truth by point of law is parry'd,
And knaves and prudes are fix times marry'd
O Dearest daughter of two dearest friends*
To thee my Mufe this little Tale commends.
Loving and lov'd, regard thy future mate,
Long love his perfon, tho' deplore his fate;
Seem young when old in thy dear husband's arms,
For conftant virtue has immortal charms;
And when I lie low fepulchred in earth,
And the glad year returns thy day of birth,
Vouchfafe to fay, Ere I could write or spell,
The bard who from my cradle wifh'd me well
Told me I fhould the prating Sparrow blame,
And bid me imitate the Turtle's flame.
HE Sceptics think 'twas long ago
To fee who were their friends or foes,
And how our actions fell or rofe;
That fince they gave things their beginning,
And fet this whirligig a-fpinning,
Supine they in their heav'n remain,
Exempt from paffion and from pain,
The Duchefs of Portland, daughter of Edward late Earl ofOxford &c. See Gayton's feftivious notes on Don Quixote, p. 26, 27, from whence,
this Rory is fuppofed to betaken.
And frankly leave us human elves
To cut and shuffle for ourselves;
To ftand or walk, to rise or tumble,
As matter and as motion jumble.
The poets now, and painters, hold
This thefis both abfurd and bold,
And your good-natur'd gods, they fay,
Defcend fome twice or thrice a-day,
Elfe all these things we toil fo hard in
Would not avail one fingle farthing,
For when the hero we rehearse
Το grace his actions and our verse,
'Tis not by dint of human thought
That to his Latium he is brought;
Iris defcends by Fate's commands
To guide his steps through foreign lands,
And Amphitrite clears his way
From rocks and quickfands in the fea.
And if you fee him in a sketch
(Tho' drawn by Paulo or Carache)
He shows not half his force and ftrength
Strutting in armour and at length;
That he may make his proper figure
The piece muft yet be four yards bigger:
The nymphs conduct him to the field,
One holds his fword, and one his shield,
Mars, ftanding by, afferts his quarrel,
And Fame flies after with a laurel.
These points, I fay, of fpeculation, (As 'twere to fave or fink the nation) Men idly learned will difpute,
Affert, object, confirm, refute;
Each mighty angry, mighty right,
With equal arms fuftains the fight,
Till now no umpire can agree'em,
So both draw off and fing Te Deum.
Is it in equilibrio
If deities defcend or no?
Then let th' affirmative prevail,
As requifite to form my Tale;
For by all parties 'tis confeft
That thofe opinions are the best
Which in their nature moft conduce
To prefent ends and private ufe.
Two gods came, therefore, from above, One Mercury, the other Jove;
The humour was, it seems, to know
If all the favours they beltow
Could from our own perverfenefs ease us,
And if our with enjoy'd would please us.
Difcourfing largely on this theme,
O'er hills and dales their godfhips came,
Till well nigh tir'd, at almost night,
They thought it proper to alight.
Not here, that it as true as odd is,、
That in difguife a god or goddess
Exerts no fupernat`ral pow'rs,
But acts on maxims much like ours.
They spy'd at laft a country farm,
Where all was fnug, and clean, and warm;
For woods before and hills behind
Secur'd it both from rain and wind:
Large oxen in the field were lowing,
Good grain was fow'd, good fruit was growing
Of last year's corn in barns great store;
Fat turkeys gobbling at the door;
And Wealth in short, with Peace confented
That people here fhould live contented;
But did they in effect ao so ?
Have patience friend and thou fhalt know.
The honeft farmer and his wife,
To years declin'd from prime of life,
Had ftruggled with the marriage noose,
As almost ev'ry couple does :
Sometimes my plague! fometimes my darling!
Kiffing to-day, to morrow inarling;
Jointly fubmitting to endure
That evil which admits no cure.
Our gods the outward gate unbarr'd;
Our farmer met 'em in the yard;
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