OVID is the surest guide,
You can name to show the
To any woman, maid, or bride,
Who resolves to go astray.
ON his death-bed poor Lubin lies;
His spouse is in despair:
With frequent sobs, and mutual cries,
They both express their care.
A diff'rent cause, says parson Sly,
The same effect may give:
Poor Lubin fears that he shall die
His wife, that he may live.
How old may Phyllis be, you ask,
Whose beauty thus all hearts engages?
To answer is no easy task,
For she has really two ages.
Stiff in brocade and pinch'd in stays,
Her patches, paint, and jewels on,
All day let envy view her face,
And Phyllis is but twenty-one.
Paint, patches, jewels laid aside,
At night, astronomers agree,
The evening has the day belied;
And Phyllis is some forty-three.
WHAT a frail thing is beauty, says Baron Le Cras,
Perceiving his mistress had one eye of glass:
And scarcely had he spoke it,
When she, more confus'd as more angry she grew,
By a negligent rage prov'd the maxim too true;
She dropp'd the eye, and broke it.
THE THIEF AND THE CORDELIER.
WHO has e'er been at Paris, must needs know the Grêve,
The fatal retreat of th' unfortunate brave:
Where honour and justice most oddly contribute
To ease heroes' pains by a halter and gibbet.
There death breaks the shackles which force had put on;
And the hangman completes what the judge but begun:
There the squire of the pad, and the knight of the post,
Find their pains no more balk'd, and their hopes no more
cross'd.
Great claims are there made, and great secrets are known;
And the king, and the law, and the thief has his own;
But my hearers cry out, what a deuce dost thou ail?
Cut off thy reflections, and give us thy tale.
'Twas there then, in civil respect to harsh laws,
And for want of false witness to back a bad cause,
A Norman, though late, was oblig'd to appear,
And who to assist, but a grave Cordelier?
The 'squire, whose good grace was to open the scene,
Seem'd not in great haste that the show should begin:
Now fitted the halter, now travers'd the cart;
And often took leave, but was loath to depart.
What frightens you thus, my good son? says the priest:
You murder'd, are sorry, and have been confess'd.
O father! my sorrow will scarce save my bacon;
For 'twas not that I murder'd, but that I was taken.
Pooh! pr'ythee ne'er trouble thy head with such fancies:
Rely on the aid you shall have from Saint Francis:
If the money you promis'd be brought to the chest,
You have only to die; let the church do the rest.
And what will folks say, if they see you afraid?
It reflects upon me, as I knew not my trade:
Courage, friend; to-day is your period for sorrow,
And things will go better, believe me, to-morrow.
To-morrow! our hero replied in a fright:
He that's hang'd before noon ought to think of to-night.
Tell your beads, quoth the priest, and be fairly truss'd up;
For you surely to-night shall in Paradise sup.
Alas! quoth the squire, howe'er sumptuous the treat,
Parbleu, I shall have little stomach to eat:
I should therefore esteem it great favour and grace,
Would you be so kind as to go in my place.
That I would, quoth the father, and thank you to boot;
But our actions, you know, with our duty must suit.
The feast, I propos'd to you, I cannot taste,
For this night, by our order, is mark'd for a fast.
Then, turning about to the hangman, he said,
Dispatch me, I pray thee, this troublesome blade;
For thy cord and my cord both equally tie,
And we live by the gold for which other men die.
INTERR'D beneath this marble stone,
Lie saunt'ring Jack and idle Joan.
While rolling threescore years and one
Did round this globe their courses run,
If human things went ill or well,
If changing empires rose or fell,
The morning past, the evening came,
And found this couple still the same.
They walk'd and eat, good folks: what then?
Why then they walk'd and eat again.
They soundly slept the night away:
They just did nothing all the day:
Nor sister either had, nor brother;
They seem'd just tallied for each other.
Their moral and economy
Most perfectly they made agree:
Each virtue kept its proper bound,
Nor trespass'd on the other's ground.
Nor fame nor censure they regarded:
They neither punish'd nor rewarded.
He car'd not what the footmen did;
Her maids she neither prais'd nor chid;
So ev'ry servant took his course,
And bad at first, they all grew worse.
Slothful disorder fill'd his stable;
And sluttish plenty deck'd her table.
Their beer was strong; their wine was port;
Their meal was large; their grace was short.
They gave the poor the remnant meat,
Just when it grew not fit to eat.
They paid the church and parish rate;
And took, but read not, the receipt,
For which they claim their Sunday's due
Of slumb'ring in an upper pew.
No man's defects sought they to know;
So never made themselves a foe.
No man's good deeds did they commend;
So never rais'd themselves a friend.
Nor cherish'd they relations poor;
That might decrease their present store:
Nor barn nor house did they repair;
That might oblige their future heir.
They neither added nor confounded;
They neither wanted nor abounded.
Each Christmas they accounts did clear,
And wound their bottom round the year.
Nor tear nor smile did they employ
At news of public grief or joy.
When bells were rung, and bonfires made,
If ask'd, they ne'er deny'd their aid:
Their jug was to the ringers carried,
Whoever either died or married.
Their billet at the fire was found,
Whoever was depos'd or crown'd.
Nor good, nor bad, nor fools, nor wise,
They would not learn, nor could advise ;
Without love, hatred, joy, or fear,
Nor wish'd, nor car'd, nor laugh'd, nor cried: And so they liv'd, and so they died.
|