Thy pride of being great and wife
I do but mention to despise;
I view with anger and difdain
How little gives thee joy or pain :
A print, a bronze, a flow'r, a root,
A shell, a butterfly, can do't:
Ev'n a romance, a tune, a rhyme,
Help thee to pass the tedious time,

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Which elfe would on thy hand remain ;

Tho' flown it ne'er looks back again :

And cards are dealt, and chefs-boards brought,
To ease the pain of coward thought:

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That Alma may herself forget.

Happy refult of human wit!

Dick, thus we act, and thus we are,
Or tofs'd by hope or sunk by care.
With endless pain this man purfues
What if he gain'd he could not use;
And th' other fondly hopes to lee
What never was nor e'er fshall be.
We err by ufe, go wrong by rules,
In gesture grave, in action fools :
We join hypocrify to pride,
Doubling the faults we strive to hide,
Or grant that with extreme furprise
We find ourselves at fixty wife,
And twenty pretty things are known,
Of which we can't accomplish one,
Whilft, as my Syltem fays, the Mind
Is to these upper rooms confin'd.
Should I, my Friend, at large repeat
Her borrow'd fenfe, her fond conceit.
The bede-roll of her vicious tricks,

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My Poem would be too prolix:

For could I my remarks fuftain,

Like Socrates or Miles Montaigne,

Who in these times would read my books,

But Tom o' Stiles or John o' Nokes?

515

At Brentford kings, difcreet and wife,

After long thought and grave advice,

T

Into Lardella's coffin peeping,

Saw nought to cause their mirth or weeping;
So Alma, now to joy or grief

Superior, finds her late relief;

Weary'd of being high or great,
And nodding in her chair of ftate,
Stunn'd and worn out with endless chat,
Of Will did this and Nan faid that,
She finds, poor thing, fome little crack,
Which Nature forc'd by time must make,
Thro' which the wings her deftin'd way;
Upward the foars and down drops clay;
While fome furviving friend fupplies
Hic jacet, and a hundred lies.

O Richard, till that day appears
Which must decide our hopes and fears,
Would Fortune calm her prefent rage,
And give us playthings for our age;
Would Clotho wash her hands in milk,
And twift our thread with gold and silk;
Would she in friendship, peace, and plenty,
Spin out our years to four times twenty;
And fhould we both in this condition
Have conquer'd love, and worfe ambition;
(Elfe those two paffions by the way
May chance to fhow us feurvy play)
Then, Richard, then fhould we fit down,
Far from the tumult of this town;

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Would fpoil thy grove and my collection:

Thy fon and his e'er that may die,
And time fome uncouth heir fupply,
Who fhall for nothing else be known
But fpoiling all that thou haft done.

553

Who fet the twigs shall he remember,
That is in hafte to fell the timber;
And what fhall of thy woods remain
Except the box that threw the main ?
Nay, may not time and death remove

560

The near relations whom I love?
And my Coz Tom, or his Coz Mary,

(Who hold the plough or fkim the dairy)

565

My fav'rite books and pictures fell

To Smart or Doiley by the ell?
Kindly throw in a little figure,

And fet their price upon the bigger?

Those who could never read their grammar,
When my dear volumes touch the hammer,
May think books beft as richest bound:
My copper medals by the pound

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May be with learned juftice weigh'd;
To turn the balance, Otho's head

575

May be thrown in; and for the mettle

The coin may mend a tinker's kettle

Tir'd with thefe thoughts-Lefs tir'd than I,

Quoth Dick, with your philofophy

580

That people live and die, I knew
An hour ago as well as you;
And if Fate fpins us longer years,
Or is in hafte to take the fhears,
I know we must both fortunes try,
And bear our evils wet or dry.
Yet let the goddess fmile or frown,
Bread we fhall eat or white or brown,

585

And in a cottage or a court

Drink fine Champaigne or muddled Port.
What need of books thefe truths to tell,

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Which folks perceive who cannot spell?
And must we fpectacles apply
To view what hurts our naked eye?
Sir, if it be your wisdom's aim

To make me merrier than I am,

I'll be all night at your devotion-

Comeon Friend; broach the pleafing notion;

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But if
you would depress my thought,
Your System is not worth a groat--

For Plato's fancies what care I?
I hope you would not have me die,
Like fimple Cato in the play,
For any thing that he can say?
E'en let him of ideas fpeak

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To Heathens in his native Greek:

605

Or Tully writ, or Wanley read.

Dear Drift*, to fet our matters right,

619

Remove thefe papers from my fight;

Burn Matt's Defcart and Ariftotle.

613

Here, Jonathan, your master's bottle.

THE NUT-BROWN MAID.

A POEM.

WRITTEN THREE HUNDRED YEARS SINCE,

BE it right or wrong, thefe men among

On women do complayne;

Affyrmynge this, how that it is

A labour spent in vaine

To love them wele; for never a dele

They love a man againe:

For lete a man do what he can

Ther favour to attayne,

Yet yf a new do them purfue,

Ther furft trew lover than

Laboureth for nought; for from her thought

He is a banithyd man.

I fay not nay, but that all day

That woman's fayth is as who faythe,

It is bothe writ and fayde

All utterly decayed.

* Adrian Drift, Esq. Mr. Prior's fecretary and executor.

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But nevertheless right good witness

I' this cafe might be layde,

That they love trewe, and continew,
Record the Nut-brown Mayde;

Which from her love (whan her to prove

He came to make his mone)

Wold not depart, for in her herte
She lovyd but him alone.

Than betweene us lettens difcuffe,

What was all the maner

Between them two; we wyl alfo
Telle all the peyne and fere

That she was in. Now I begynne,

So that ye me answere.

Wherefore all ye that present be

I pray ye give an eare.

MAN. I am the knyght, I come by nyght

As fecret as I can,

Saying, alas! thus ftandeth the cafe,

I am a banishyd man.

WOм. And I your wylle for to fulfylle

In this wyl not refuse,

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Trufting to fhew, in wordis fewe,

That men have an ill use,

(To ther own fhame) women to blame,

40

And causelese them accufe:

Therefore to you I answere now,

Alle women to excufe.

Myn own herte dere, with you what chere,

I pray you telle anone;

For in my mynde, of al mankynde,

I love but you alone.

MAN. It ftondeth fo; a dede is do,

Wherefore moche harm fhall growe ;

My defteny is for to-dey

A fhameful deth I trowe;

Or ellis to flee: the one muit be,

None other way I knowe,

But to withdrawe, as an outlawe,
And take me to my bowe.

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