But the, poor fhe, began to doubt,
(Best knowing what she'd been about)
The marriage earnest-penny lay
And burnt her pocket, as we say.
She now invokes, to ease her foul,
The dagger, and the poifon'd bowl;
And, felf-condemn'd for breach of vow,
To lofe her life and honour too,
Talk'd in as tragical a ftrain, as
Your craz'd Monimia's and Roxana's.
But as he in her cell lay fighing,
Diftracted, weeping, drooping, dying,
The fiend (who never wants addrefs
To fuccour damfels in diftrefs)
Appearing, told her he perceiv'd
The fatal caufe for which fhe griev'd;
But promis'd her en cavalier,

She fhould be freed from all her fear,
And with her Thyrfis lead a life
Devoid of all domestic strife,

If he would fign a certain fcrawl---
Aye, that she would, if that was all.
She fign'd, and he engag'd to do
Whate'er the pleas'd to fet him to.

The critics muft excufe me now; They both were freed, no matter how : For when we epic writers use Machines to difengage the Mufe, We're clean acquit of all demands, The matter's left in abler hands;

And

And if they cannot loofe the knot,
Should we be cenfur'd I think not.
The fcene thus alter'd, both were gay,
For pomp and pleasures who but they,
Who might do every thing but pray?
Madam in her gilt chariot flaunted,
And Pug brought every thing the wanted;
A flave devoted to her will;

But women will be wavering ftill.
Ev'n vice without variety

Their fqueamish appetites will cloy:
And having ftol'n from Lady Abbels
One of our merry modern Rabbies,
She found a trick the thought would pafs,
And prove the devil but an afs.

His next attendance happen'd right
Amidft a moonlefs ftormy night,
When madam and her fpoufe, together
Guefs'd at his coming by the weather.
He came To-night, fays he, I drudge
To fetch a heriot for a judge, .
A gouty nine-i'th' hundred knave;
But, madam, do you want your flave!
I need not presently be gone,
Because the doctors have not done.
A rofy vicar and a quack
Repuls'd me in my last attack :
But all in vain, for mine he is
A fig for both the faculties.

}

The dame produc'd a fingle hair, But whence it came I cannot fwear; Yet this I will affirm is true;

It curl'd like any bottle-fcrew.

Sir Nic, quoth fhe, you know us all,
We ladies are fantastical :

You fee this hair---Yes, madam---Pray
In prefence of my husband stay,
And make it ftrait; or elfe you grant
Our folemn league and covenant
Is void in law.---It is, I own it:
And fo he fets to work upon it.

He tries, not dreaming of a cheat,
If wetting would not do the feat:
And 'twas, in truth, a proper notion;
But ftill it kept th' elaftic motion.
Well! more ways may be found than one
To kill a witch that will not drown.

If I, quoth he, conceive its nature,
This hair has flourish'd nigh the water.
'Tis crifp'd with cold, perhaps, and then
The fire will make it strait again.
In hafte he to the fire applies it,

And turns it round and round, and eyes it.
Heigh jingo, worse than 'twas before!
The more it warms, it twirls the more.
He ftamp'd his cloven foot, and chaf'd;
The husband and the lady laugh'd.
Howe'er he fancy'd fure enough
He fhould not find it hammer-proof.

No

No Cyclops e'er at work was warmer,
At forging thunder-bolts or armour,
Than Satan was; but all in vain ;
Again he beats.---It curls again !
At length he bellow'd in a rage,
This hair will take me up an age.
This take an age! the husband fwore,
Z-ds! Betty has five hundred more.
More! Take your bond, quoth Pug; adieu,

'Tis lofs of time to ply for you.

A N

EPISTLE TO MR. SOUTHERNE, FROM KENT, JANUARY 28, 1710-11.

BOLD is the Mufe to leave her humble cell,

And fing to thee, who know'ft to fing fo well:
Thee! who to Britain ftill preferv'ft the crown,
And mak'ft her rival Athens in renown.
Could Sophocles behold in mournful state
The weeping Graces on Imoinda wait;
Or hear thy Isabella's moving moan,
Diftrefs'd and loft for vices not her own;
If envy could permit, he'd fure agree
To write by nature were to copy thee:
So full, fo fair, thy images are shown,
He by thy pencil might improve his own.

There

There was an age (its memory will last!)
Before Italian airs debauch'd our taste,
In which the fable Muse with hopes and fears
Fill'd every breast, and every eye with tears.
But where's that art which all our paffions rais'd,
And mov'd the fprings of Nature as it pleas'd?
Our poets only practise on the pit

With florid lines, and trifling turns of wit.
Howe'er 'tis well the present times can boast
The race of Charles's reign not wholly lost.
Thy scenes, immortal in their worth, shall stand
Among the chofen claffics of our land:
And whilft our fons are by tradition taught
How Barry spoke what thou and Otway wrote,
They'll think it praise to relish and repeat,
And own thy works inimitably great.

Shakespeare, the genius of our ifle, whofe mind
(The univerfal mirror of mankind)
Exprefs'd all images, enrich'd the stage,
But fometimes ftoop'd to please a barbarous age.
When his immortal bays began to grow,
Rude was the language, and the humour low :
He, like the God of Day, was always bright,
But rolling in its course, his orb of light
Was fully'd, and-obscur'd, though soaring high,
With spots contracted from the nether sky.
But whither is th' adventrous Muse betray'd?
Forgive her rashness, venerable shade!

May Spring with purple flowers' perfume thy urn,
And Avon with his greens thy grave adorn :

Be