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DUTCH PROVERB... PAULO

In short, the trade was still the same:
The dame went out: the colonel caine.
"What's to be done?" poor Carvel cry'd :
"Another battery must be try'd:
What if to spells I had recourse?
"Tis but to hinder something worse.
The end must justify the means;
He only sins who ill intends:
Since, therefore, 'tis to combat evil,
'Tis lawful to employ the Devil."

Forthwith the Devil did appear,
(For naine him, and he's always near)
Not in the shape in which he plies
At miss's elbow when she lies,
Or stands before the nursery doors,
To take the naughty boy that roars:
But, without sawcer-eye or claw,
Like a grave barrister at law.

"Hans Carvel, lay aside your grief," The Devil says; "I bring relief.”

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"Relief!" says Hans: pray, let me crave

Your name, sir?"-" Satan,”—“

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Sir, your slave;

I did not look upon your feet:
You'll pardon me:-Aye, now I sec't:
And pray, sir, when came you from Hell?
Our friends there, did you leave them well?”—
"All well; but pr'ythee, honest Hans,"
Says Satan, "leave your complaisance:
The truth is this: I cannot stay
Flaring in sun shine all the day;
For, entre nous, we hellish sprites
Love more the fresco of the nights;
And oftener our receipts convey,
In dreams, than any other way.
I tell you, therefore, as a friend,
Ere morning dawns, your fears shall end:
Go then, this evening, master Carvel,

Lay down your fowls, and broach your barrel;
Let friends and wine dissolve your care;
Whilst I the great receipt prepare:
Tonight I'll bring it by my faith!
Believe for once what Satan saith."

Away went Hans: Glad? Not a little;
Obey'd the Devil to a tittle;
Invited friends some half a dozen,
The colonel, and my lady's cousin.

The meat was serv'd; the bowls were crown'd;
Catches were sung; and healths went round;
Barbadoes waters for the close;

Till Hans had fairly got his dose :
The colonel toasted "To the best :"
The dame mov d off, to be undrest:

The chimes went twelve: the guests withdrew :
But when, or how, Hans hardly knew.
Some modern anecdotes aver,

He nodded in his elbow-chair;
From thence was carried off to bed:
John held his heels, and Nan his head.
My lady was disturb'd: new sorrow!
Which Hans must answer for to-morrow,

In bed then view this happy pair;
And think how Hymen triumph'd there.
Hans fast asleep as soon as laid,
The duty of the night unpaid:
The waking dame, with thoughts opprest,
That made her hate both him and rest:
By such a husband, such a wife!
'Twas Acme's and Septimius' life:
The lady sigh'd: the lover snor'd:
The punctual Devil kept his word:

PURGANTI AND HIS WIFE. 155

Appear'd to honest Hans again;
But not at all by madam seen:
And, giving him a magic ring,
Fit for the finger of a king;

"Dear Hans," said he, "this jewel take,
And wear it long for Satan's sake:
"Twill do your business to a bair:

For, long as you this ring shall wear,

As sure as I look over Lincoln,

That ne'er shall happen, which you think on."
Hans took the ring, with joy extreme,

(All this was only in a dream)

And, thrusting it beyond his joint,

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""'is done," he cry'd: "I've gain'd my point.""What point," said she, you ugly beast? You neither give me joy nor rest.”—

""Tis done."-"What's done, you drunken bear? You've thrust your finger God knows where!"

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PAULO PURGANTI AND HIS WIFE;

AN HONEST, BUT A SIMPLE PAIR.

Est enim quiddam, idque intelligitur in omni vir-
tute, quod deccat: quod cogitatione magis à
virtute potest quàm re separari.
Cic. de Off. 1. i
BEYOND the fix'd and settled rules
Of vice and virtue in the schools,
Peyond the letter of the law,
Which keeps our men and maids in awe,
The better sort should set before 'em
A grace, a manner, a decorum ;
Something, that gives their acts a light
Makes them not only just, but bright;
And sets them in that open fame,
Which witty Malice cannot blame.

For 'tis in life, as 'tis in painting:
Much may be right, yet much be wanting;
From lines drawn true, our eve may trace
A foot, a knee, a hand, a face;
May justly own the picture wrought
Exact to rule, exempt from fault:
Yet, if the colouring be not there,
The Titian stroke, the Guido air;
To nicest judgment show the piece,
At best, 'twill only not displease:
It would not gain on Jersey's eye;
Bradford would frown, and set it by.

Thus, in the picture of our mind,
The action may be well design'd;
Guided by law, and bound by duty;
Yet want this je ne sçai quoi of beauty:

And though its errour may be such, As Knags and Burgess cannot hit; It yet may feel the nicer touch

Of Wicherley's or Congreve's wit.
"What is this talk?" replies a friend,
"And where will this dry moral end?
The truth of what you here lay down
By some example should be shown.”—
"With all my heart-for once; read on.
An honest, but a simple pair
(And twenty other I forbear)
May serve to make this thesis 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 should be had;
They should be hang'd, or starv'd, or flead,
Or serv'd like Romish priests in Swede.
In short, all lewdness she defied:
And stiff was her parochial pride.

Yet, in an honest way, the dame
Was a great lover of that same;
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 after noon

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 she 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 that 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.
Spa 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;
Again this cruel fever came,
High pulse, short breath, and blood in flame.
What measures shall poor Paulo keep

With madam in this piteons taking?

She, like Macbeth, has murder'd sleep,
And won't allow him rest, though waking.
Sad state of matters! when we dare
Not 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 ranged his tropes, and preach'd up pa

tience,

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 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 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 tost, and groan'd, and turn'd: At last, "I wish," said she, "my dear-" And whisper'd something in his eat. "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 tomorrow morning.”. ""Tis kind, my dear, what you advise," The lady, with a sigh, replies: "But life, you know, at best, is pam; 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."

THE LADLE,

THE sceptics think, 'twas long ago,
Since gods came down incognito,
To see who were their friends or foes,
And how our actions fell or rose:
That since they gave things their beginning,
And set this whirligig a-spinning,
Supine they in their Heaven remain,
Exempt from passion, and from pain:
And frankly leave us human elves,
To cut and shuille for ourselves;
To stand or walk, to rise or tumble,
As matter and as motion jumble.

The poets now and painters hold
This thesis both absurd and bold:
And your good-natur'd gods, they say,
Descend some twice or thrice a-day:
Else all these things we toil so hard in
Would not avail one single farthing:
For, when the hero we rehearse,
To grace his actions and our verse;
'Tis not by dint of human thought,
That to his Latium he is brought;
Iris descends by Fate's commands,
To guide his steps through foreign lands:
And Amphitrite clears the way
From rocks and quicksands in the sea.
And if you see him in a sketch,
(Though drawn by Paulo or Carache)
He shows not half his force and strength,
Strutting in armour, and at length:
That he may make his proper figure,
The piece must yet be four yards bigger:
The nymphis conduct him to the field;
One holds his sword, and one his shield;
Mars, standing by, asserts his quarrel;
And Fame flies after with a laurel,

These points, I say, of speculation,
(As 'twere to save or sink the nation)
Men idly learned will dispute,
Assert, object, confirm, refute:
Each mighty angry, mighty right,
With equal arms sustain'd the fight;
Till now no umpire can agree 'em :
So both draw off, and sing Te Deum.
Is it in equilibrio,

If deities descend or no?
Then let th' affirmative prevail,
As requisite to form my tale:
For by all parties 'tis confest,
That those opinions are the best,
Which in their nature most conduce
To present ends, and private use.
Two gods came therefore from above,
One Mercury, the other Jove:
The humour was, it seems, to know,
If all the favours they bestow

Could from our own perverseness ease us;
And if our wish enjoy'd, would please us,
Discoursing largely on this theme,
O'er hills and dales their godships came;

Till, well nigh tir'd, at almost night
They thought it proper to alight."

Note here, that it as true as odd is,
That in disguise a god or goddess
Exerts no supernatural powers;
But acts on maxims much like ours.
They spied at last a country farm,
Where all was snug, and clean, and warm;
For woods before, and hills behind,
Secur'd it both from rain and wind:
Large oxen in the field were lowing;
Good grain was sow'd; good fruit was growing
Of last year's corn in barns great store;
Fat turkeys gobbling at the door;

And Wealth, in short, with Peace consented, That people here should live contented; "But did they in effect do so?—"

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Sometimes, "My plague!" sometimes, “ My dar-
Kissing to-day, to-morrow snarling,
Jointly submitting to endure

That evil, which admits no cure.

Our gods the outward gate unbarr'd :
Our farmer met them in the yard;
Thought they were folks that lost their ways
And ask'd them civilly to stay:
Told them, for supper, or for bed,
They might go on, and be worse sped.

So said, so done; the gods consent:
All three into the parlour went:
They compliment; they sit; they chat
Fight o'er the wars; reform the state:
A thousand knotty points they clear,
Till supper and my wife appear.

Jove made his leg, and kiss'd the dames
Obsequious Hermes did the same.

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Jove kiss'd the farmer's wife!" you say.
"He did-but in an honest way:
Oh! not with half that warmth and life,
With which he kiss'd Amphitryon's wife."
Well, then, things handsomely were serv'd
My mistress for the strangers carv'd.
How strong the beer, how good the meat,
flow loud they laugh'd, how much they eat,
In epic sumptuous would appear;
Yet shall be pass'd in silence here:
For I should grieve to have it said,
That, by a fine description led,
I made my episode too long,
Or tir'd my friend, to grace my song.
The grace-cup serv'd, the cloth away.
Jove thought it time to show his play:
"Landlord and landlady," he cried,
Folly and jesting laid aside,
That ye thus hospitably live,

And strangers with good cheer receive,
Is mighty grateful to your betters,
And makes e'en gods themselves your debtors
To give this thesis plainer proof,
You have to-night beneath your roof
A pair of gods, (nay, never wonder)
This youth can fly, and I can thunder.
I'm Jupiter, and he Mercurius,
My page, my sou indeed, but spurious.
Form then three wishes, you and madam
And sure as you already had 'em,

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a Ladle!

Is what I want, is what I wish."
"A Ladle !" cries the man,
Odzooks, Corisca, you have pray'd ill;
What should be great, you turn to farce;
I wish the Ladle in your a-."

With equal grief and shame, my Muse
The sequel of the tale pursues;
The Ladle fell into the room,
And stuck in old Corisca's bum.
Our couple weep two wishes past,
And kindly join to form the last;.
To ease the woman's aukward pain,
And get the Ladle out again.

MORAL.

THIS commoner hath worth and parts,
Is prais'd for arms, or lov'd for arts;
His head aches for a coronet:
And who is bless'd that is not great?

Some sense, and more estate, kind Heaven
To this well-lotted peer has given:
What then? He must have rule and sway;
And all is wrong, till he's in play.

The miser must make up his plumb,
And dares not touch the hoarded sum;
The sickly dotard wants a wife,
To draw off his last dregs of life.

Against our peace we arm our will:
Amidst our plenty, something still
For horses, houses, pictures, planting,
To thee, to me, to him, is wanting.
The cruel something unpossess'd,
Corrodes, and leavens all the rest.
That something, if we could obtain,
Would soon create a future pain:
And to the coffin, from the cradle,
'Tis all a wish, and all a Ladle.

WRITTEN AT PARIS, 1700, IN

THE BEGINNING OF ROBE'S GEOGRAPHY.

Or all that William rules, or Robe
Describes, great Rhéa, of thy globe;
When or on post-horse, or in chaise,
With much expense, and little ease,
My destin'd miles I shall have gone,
By Thames or Maese, by Po or Rhone,
And found no foot of earth my own;
Great Mother, let me once be able
To have a garden, house, and stable;
That I may read, and ride, and plant,
Superior to desire or want;

And as health fails, and years increase,
Sit down and think, and die, in peace.
Oblige thy favourite undertakers
To throw me in but twenty acres :
This number sure they may allow ;
For pastures ten, and ten for plow:
'Tis all that I could wish or hope,
For me and John, and Nell and Crop.
Then, as thou wilt, dispose the rest
(And let not Fortune spoil the jest)

To those who, at the market-rate,
Can barter honour for estate.

Now, if thou giant'st me my request,
To make thy votary truly blest,
Let curst Revenge and saucy Pride
To some bleak rock far off be tied;
Nor e'er approach my rural seat,
To tempt me to be base and great.

And, goddess, this kind office done, Charge Venus to command her son (Where-ever else she lets him rove) To shun my house, and field, and grove = Peace cannot dwell with Hate or Love. Hear, gracious Rhea, what I say: And thy petitioner shall pray.

WRITTEN IN THE BEGINNINGOF

MEZEKAY'S HISTORY OF FRANCE

WHATE'ER thy countrymen have done,
By law and wit, by sword and gun,
In thee is faithfully recited:
And all the living world, that view
Thy work, give thee the praises dué,

At once instructed and delighted.
Yet, for the fame of all these deeds,
What beggar in the Invalids,

With lameness broke, with blindness smitten Wish'd ever decently to die,

To have been either Mezeray,

Or any monarch he has written.

It's strange, dear author, yet it true is,
That, down from Pharamond to Louis,

All covet life, yet call it pain;

All feel the ill, yet shun the cure:
Can sense this paradox endure?

Resolve me, Cambray or Fontaine.
The man, in graver tragic known,
(Though his best part long since was done)
Still on the stage desires to tarry :
And he, who play'd the Harlequin,
After the jest still loads the scene,
Unwilling to retire, though weary.

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BY MONSIEUR FONTENELLE.

MA petite ame, ma mignonne,

Tu t'en vas donc, ma fille, & Dieu sache où tu vas:
Tu pars seulette, nuë, & tremblotante, helas!
Que deviendra ton humeur folichonne !

Que deviendront tant de jolis ébats?

IMITATED.

Poor, little, pretty, fluttering thing,
Must we no longer live together?
And dost thou prune thy trembling wing,

To take thy flight thou know'st not whither?
Thy humourous vein, thy pleasing folly,.
Lies all neglected, all forgot:
And pensive, wavering, melancholy,

Thou dread'st and hop'st thou know's not what.

A PASSAGE IN THE

MORIAEA ENCOMIUM OF ERASMUS

IMITATED.

Is awful pomp, and melancholy state,
See settled Reason on the judgment seat:
Around her crowd Distrust, and Doubt, and Fear,
And thoughtful Foresight, and tormenting Care:
Far from the throne, the trembling Pleasures stand,
Chain'd up, or exil'd by her stern command.
Wretched her subjects, gloomy sits the queen ;
Till happy Chance reverts the cruel scene;
And apish Folly, with her wild resort
Of wit and jest, disturbs the solemn court.
See the fantastic minstrelsy advance,
To breathe the song, and animate the dance.
Blest the usurper! happy the surprise!
Her mimic postures catch our eager eyes;
Her jingling bells affect our captive ear;
And in the sights we see, and sounds we hear,
Against our judgment, she our sense employs ;
The laws of troubled Reason she destroys,
And in their place rejoices to indite

Finding the wretched all they here can have,
But present food, and but a future grave:
Each, great as Philip's victor son, shail view
This abject world, and, weeping, ask a new.
Decrepit Age shall read thee, and confess
Thy labours can assuage, where medicines cease;
Shall bless thy words, their wounded soul's relief,
The drops that sweeten their last dregs of life;
Shall look to Heaven, and laugh at all beneath;
Own riches, gather'd, trouble; fame, a breath;
And life an ill, whose only cure is death.

Thy even thoughts with so much plainness flow,
Their sense untutor'd infancy may know :
Yet to such height is all that plainness wronght,
Wit may admire, and letter'd Pride be taught.
Easy in words thy style, in sense sublime,

On its blest steps each age and sex may rise;
'Tis like the ladder in the Patriarch's dream,
Its foot on Earth, its height above the skies:
Diffus'd its virtue, boundless is its power;
'Tis public health, and universal cure;
Of heavenly manna 'tis a second feast;
A nation's food, and all to every taste.

To its last height mad Britain's guilt was rear'd;
And various death for various crimes she fear'd.
With your kind work her drooping hopes revive;
You bid her read, repent, adcre, and live:
You wrest the bolt from Heaven's avenging hand;
Stop ready Death, and save a sinking land.

O! save us still: still bless us with thy stay:
O! want thy Heaven, till we have learnt the way!
Refuse to leave thy destin'd charge too soon;
And, for the church's good, defer thy own.
O! live; and let thy works urge our belief;
Live to explain thy doctrine by thy life;
Till future infancy, baptiz'd by thee,
Grow ripe in years, and old in piety;
Till Christians, yet unborn, be taught to die.
Then, in full age and hoary holiness,
Retire, great teacher! to thy promis'd bliss:
Untouch'd thy tomb, uninjur'd be thy dust,
As thy own fame among the future just;
Till in last sounds the dreadful trumpet speaks;
Till Judgment calls, and quicken'd Nature wakes;
Till, through the utmost earth, and deepest sea,
Our scatter'd atoms find their destin'd way,

Wild schemes of mirth, and plans of loose delight. In haste, to clothe their kindred souls again,

TO DR. SHERLOCK,

ON HIS PRACTICAL DISCOURSE CONCERNING DEATH.

FORGIVE the Muse, who, in unhallow'd strains,
The saint one moment from his God detains:
For sure, whate'er you do, where-e'er you are,
'Tis all but one good work, one constant prayer:
Forgive her; and entreat that God, to whom
Thy favour'd vows with kind acceptance come,
To raise her notes to that sublime degree,
Which suits a song of piety and thee.

Wondrous good man! whose labours may repel
The force of Siu, may stop the rage of Hell;
Thou, like the Baptist, from thy God wast sent,
The crying voice, to bid the world repent.

The youth shall study, and no more engage
Their flattering wishes for uncertain age;
No more, with fruitless care and cheated strife,
Chase fleeting Pleasure through this maze of life;

Perfect our state, and build immortal man:
Then fearless thou, who well sustain'dst the fight,
To paths of joy, or tracts of endless light,
Lead up all those who heard thee, and believ'd;
'Midst thy own flock, great shepherd! be receiv'd;
And glad all Heaven with millions thou hast sav'd.

CARMEN SECULARE,

FOR THE YEAR 1700.

TO THE KING.

Aspice, venturo lætentur ut omnia seculo:
O mibi tam longæ maneat pars ultima vitæ,
Spiritus & quantum sat erit tua dicere facta!
Virg. Eclog. iv.

THY elder look, great Janus, cast
Into the long records of ages past :

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