An honeft but a fimple pair
(And twenty other I forbear)

May serve to make this thefis clear.
A doctor of great skill and fame,
Paulo Purganti was his name,
Had a good, comely, virtuous wife;
No woman led a better life:

She to intrigues was ev'n hard-hearted :
She chuckled when a bawd was carted;
And thought the nation ne'er would thrive,
Till all the whores were burnt alive.

On married men, that dar'd be bad,
She thought no mercy fhould be had;
They should be hang'd, or ftarv'd, or flead,
Or ferv'd like Romish priests in Swede.
In short, all lewdnefs the defied:
And ftiff was her parochial pride.

1

Yet, in an honest way, the dame
Was a great lover of that fame;
And could from Scripture take her cue,
That hufbands fhould give wives their due.
Her prudence did fo justly steer

Between the gay and the fevere,
That if in fome regards the chofe
To curb poor Paulo in too close;
In others the relax'd again,
And govern'd with a loofer rein.

Thus though fhe ftrictly did confine
The Doctor from excefs of wine:
With oyfters, eggs, and vermicelli,
She let him almok burft his belly:

Thus

Thus drying coffee was denied ;
But chocolate that lofs fupplied:

And for tobacco (who could bear it?),
Filthy concomitant of claret :

(Bleft revolution !) one might fee
Eringo roots, and Bohea tea.

She often fet the Doctor's band,

And ftroak'd his beard, and squeez'd his hand :
Kindly complain'd, that after noon

He went to pore on books too foon:
She held it wholefomer by much,

To reft a little on the couch :

About his waist in bed a-nights

-

She clung fo close for fear of fprites.

The Doctor understood the call;

But had not always wherewithal.

The lion's fkin too fhort, you know,
(As Plutarch's Morals finely fhow)
Was lengthen'd by the fox's tail :
And art fupplies, where ftrength may fail.
Unwilling then in arms to meet
The enemy he could not beat;
He strove to lengthen the campaign,
And fave his forces by chicane.
Fabius, the Roman chief, who thus
By fair retreat grew Maximus,
Shews us, that all that warrior can do,
With force inferior, is cun&ando.

One day then, as the foe drew near,
With love, and joy, and life, and dear;

VOL. I.

L

Our

Our Don, who knew this tittle-tattle
Did, fure as trumpet, call to battle,
Thought it extremely à propos,

To ward against the coming blow :

To ward: but how? Ay, there's the question;
Fierce the affault, unarm'd the bastion.

The Doctor feign'd a ftrange furprize:
He felt her pulfe; he view'd her eyes :
That beat too fast, these roll'd too quick ;
She was, he faid, or would be fick :

He judg'd it abfolutely good,

That the fhould purge, and cleanse her blood.

Spa waters for that end were got:

If they paft eafily or not,

What matters it? the lady's fever
Continued violent as ever.

For a distemper of this kind
(Blackmore and Hans are of my mind),
If once it youthful blood infects,
And chiefly of the female fex,
Is fcarce remov'd by pill or potion;
Whate'er might be our Doctor's notion.
One lucklefs night then, as in bed
The Doctor and the Dame were laid;
Again this cruel fever came,

High pulfe, fhort breath, and blood in flame.
What measures fhall poor Paulo keep

With Madam in this piteous taking?

She, like Macbeth, has murder'd fleep,
And won't allow him reft, though waking.

Sad

Sad ftate of matters! when we dare
Nor afk for peace, nor offer war;
Nor Livy nor Comines have fhown
What in this juncture may be done.
Grotius might own, that Paulo's cafe is
Harder, than any which he places
Amongst his Belli and his Pacis.

He ftrove, alas! but ftrove in vain,
By dint of logick to maintain,
That all the fex was born to grieve,
Down to her Ladyfhip from Eve.

He rang'd his tropes, and preach'd-up patience,
Back'd his opinion with quotations,
Divines and Moralifts; and run ye on
Quite through from Seneca to Bunyan.
As much in vain he bid her try
To fold her arms, to close her eye;
Telling her, reft would do her good,
If any thing in nature could :

So held the Greeks quite down from Galen,
Masters and princes of the calling :

So all our modern friends maintain

(Though no great Greeks) in Warwick-lane. Reduce, my Mufe, the wandering fong:

A tale fhould never be too long.

The more he talk'd, the more the burn'd, And figh'd, and toft, and groan'd, and turn'd: At laft, I wish, faid fhe, my dear

(And whifper'd fomething in his ear).

L 2

}

You

You wish! wish on, the Doctor cries:
Lord! when will womankind be wife?
What, in your waters ? are you mad?
Why poifon is not half fo bad.

I'll do it

but I give you warning:

You'll die before to-morrow morning.

'Tis kind, my dear, what you

The lady with a figh replies !

advise ;

But life, you know, at best is pain ;
And death is what we should disdain.
So do it therefore, and adieu :

For I will die for love of

you.

Let wanton wives by death be fcar'd:
But, to my comfort, I'm prepar'd.

THE LADLE.

THE

HE fceptics think, 'twas long ago, Since gods came down incognito, 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-spinning;

Supine they in their Heaven remain,
Exempt from paffion and from pain :
And frankly leave us human elves,
To cut and fhuffle for ourselves :
To stand or walk, to rife or tumble,
As matter and as motion jumble.