And could from Scripture take her cue,
That husbands should give wives their due.
Her prudence did so justly steer
Between the gay and the severe,
That if in some regards she chose
To curb poor Paulo in too close,
In others she relax'd again,
And govern'd with a looser rein.
Thus, though she strictly did confine
The Doctor from excess of wine,
With oysters, eggs, and vermicelli,
She let him almost burst his belly:
Thus drying coffee was denied,
But chocolate that loss supplied;
And for tobacco (who could bear it?)
Filthy concomitant of claret,
(Blest revolution!) one might see
Eringo roots and Bohea tea.
She often set the Doctor's band,
And strok'd his beard, and squeez'd his hand;
Kindly complain'd, that afternoon
He went to pore on books too soon;
She held it wholesomer, by much,
To rest a little, on the couch.-
About his waist in bed a-nights
She clung so close-for fear of sprites.
The Doctor understood the call,
But had not always wherewithal.
The lion's skin, too short, you know,
(As Plutarch's morals finely show)
Was lengthen❜d by the fox's tail,
And art supplies where strength may fail.
Unwilling, then, in arms to meet
The enemy he could not beat;
He strove to lengthen the campaign,
And save his forces by chicane.
Fabius, the Roman chief, who thus
By fair retreat grew Maximus,
Shows us, that all the warrior can do
With force inferior, is cunctando.
One day, then, as the foe drew near,
With love, and joy, and life, and dear;
Our Don, who knew this tittle-tattle
Did, sure as trumpet, call to battle;
Thought it extremely à propos,
To ward against the coming blow:
To ward; but how? Aye, there's the question,
Fierce the assault, unarm'd the bastion.
The Doctor feign'd a strange surprise;
He felt her pulse, he view'd her eyes:
That beat too fast, these roll'd too quick;
She
was, he said, or would be sick:
He judg'd it absolutely good
That she should purge and cleanse her blood. Spaw waters for that end were got:
If they past easily 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 sex,
Is scarce remov'd by pill or potion,
Whate'er might be our Doctor's notion.
One luckless night, then, as in bed
The Doctor and the dame were laid,
* Sir Richard Blackmore, and Sir Edward Hans, physicians.
Again this cruel fever came,
High pulse, short breath, and blood in flame.
What measures shall poor Paulo keep
With madam in this piteous taking?
She, like Macbeth, has murder'd sleep,
And won't allow him rest, though waking.
Sad state of matters! when we dare
Nor ask for peace, nor offer war;
Nor Livy nor Comines have shown
What in this juncture may be done.
Grotius might own that Paulo's case is
Harder than any, which he places
Amongst his Belli and his Pacis.
He strove, alas! but strove in vain,
By dint of logic, to maintain
That all the sex was born to grieve,
Down to her ladyship from Eve.
He rang'd his tropes, and preach'd up patience;
Back'd his opinion with quotations,
Divines and moralists, 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 rest would do her good,
If any thing in nature cou'd;
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 Muse, the wandering song
A Tale should never be too long.
The more he talk'd, the more she burn'd, And sigh'd, and toss'd, and groan'd, and turn'd:
* Author of the Pilgrim's Progress.
At last, 'I wish,' said she, 'my dear'—
(And whisper'd something in his ear.)
'You wish! wish on,' the Doctor cries,
'Lord when will womankind be wise?
What, in your waters, are you mad?
Why, poison is not half so bad.
I'll do it but, I give you warning,
You'll die before to-morrow morning.'
"Tis kind, my dear, what you advise,
(The lady with a sigh replies)
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 scar'd;
But, to my comfort, I'm prepar'd.'
WHEN poets wrote and painters drew,
As Nature pointed out the view;
Ere Gothic forms were known in Greece,
To spoil the well-proportion'd piece;
And in our verse ere Monkish rhymes
Had jangled their fantastic chimes;
Ere on the flowery lands of Rhodes
Those knights had fix'd their dull abodes,
Who knew not much to paint or write,
Nor car'd to pray, nor dar'd to fight;
Protogenes, historians note,
Liv'd there, a burgess, scot and lot;
And, as old Pliny's writings show,
Apelles did the same at Co.
Agreed these points of time and place,
Proceed we in the present case.
Piqued by Protogenes's fame,
From Co to Rhodes Apelles came,
To see a rival and a friend,
Prepar❜d to censure, or commend;
Here to absolve, and there object,
As art with candour might direct.
He sails, he lands, he comes, he rings;
His servants follow with the things:
Appears the governante o' th' house,
For such in Greece were much in use;
If young or handsome, yea or no,
Concerns not me or thee to know.
'Does 'Squire Protogenes live here?—
Yes, sir, (says she, with gracious air,
And curt'sy low) but just call'd out
By lords peculiarly devout,
Who came on purpose, sir, to borrow
Our Venus, for the feast to-morrow,
To grace the church: 'tis Venus' day:
I hope, sir, you intend to stay
To see our Venus: 'tis the piece
The most renown'd throughout all Greece;
So like the' original, they say;
But I have no great skill that way.
But, sir, at six, ('tis now past three)
Dromo must make my master's tea:
At six, sir, if you please to come,
You'll find my master, sir, at home.'
Tea, says a critic, big with laughter,
Was found some twenty ages after:
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