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By method things are best discours'd,
Begin we then with wife the first:
A handsome, senseless, awkward fool,
Who would not yield, and could not rule:
Her actions did her charms disgrace,
And still her tongue talk'd of her face:
Count me the leaves on yonder tree,
So many different wills had she,
And, like the leaves, as chance inclin'd,
Those wills were chang'd with every wind:
She courted the beau-monde to night,
L'assemblee, her supreme delight;
The next she sat immur'd, unseen,
And in full health enjoy'd the spleen;
She censur'd that, she alter'd this,
And with great care set all amiss;

She now could chide, now laugh, now cry,
Now sing, now pout, all God knows why:
Short was her reign, she cough'd, and dy'd.
Proceed we to my second bride:
Well-born she was, genteelly bred,
And buxom both at board and bed;
Glad to oblige, and pleas'd to please,
And, as Tom Southern wisely says,
"C No other fault had she in life,
But only that she was my wife 1."
O widow Turtle! every she
(So Nature's pleasure does agree)
Appears a goddess till enjoy'd;

But birds, and men, and gods, are cloy'd.
Was Hercules one woman's man?

Or Jove for ever Leda's swan?
Ah! madam, cease to be mistaken,
Few marry'd fowl peck Dunmow-bacon.
Variety alone gives joy,

The sweetest meats the soonest cloy.
What Sparrow-dame, what Dove alive,
Though Venus should the chariot drive,
But would accuse the harness weight,
If always coupled to one mate;
And often wish the fetter broke?
'Tis freedom but to change the yoke.

T. Impious! to wish to wed again,
Ere Death dissolv'd the former chain !

9. Spare your remark, and hear the rest; She brought me sons; but (Jove be blest!)

She dy'd in child bed on the nest.

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Well, rest her bones!" quoth I, "she's gone;

But must I therefore lie alone?

What am I to her memory ty'd?
Must I not live, because she dy’d?”
And thus I logically said,

("Tis good to have a reasoning head!)
"Is this my wife? Probatur not;
For Death dissolv'd the marriage-knot:
She was, concedo, during life;
But, is a piece of clay a wife ?"
Again; if not a wife, d'ye see,
Why then no kin at all to me:

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And he, who general tears can shed
For folks that happen to be dead,
May e'en with equal justice mourn
For those who never yet were born."

T. Those points, indeed, you quaintly prove, But Logic is no friend to Love.

s. My children then were just pen-feather'd; Some little corn for them I gather'd,

See the Wife's Excuse, a comedy.

And sent them to my spouse's mother;
So left that brood, to get another :
And, as old Harry whilom said,
Reflecting on Anne Boleyn dead,
"Cocksbones! I now again do stand
The jolliest bachelor i' the land.”

T. Ah me! my joys, my hopes, are fled;
My first, my only love, is dead!
With endless grief let me bemoan
Columbo's loss!-

8. -

Let me go on.
As yet my fortune was but narrow,
I woo'd my cousin Philly Sparrow,
O' th' elder house of Chirping End,
From whence the younger branch descend.
Well scated in a field of pease

She liv'd, extremely at her ease;
But, when the honey-moon was past,
The following nights were soon o'ercast;
She kept her own, could plead the law,
And quarrel for a barley-straw:
Both, you may judge, became less kind,
As more we knew each other's mind:
She soon grew sullen, I hard-hearted;
We scolded, hated, fought, and parted.
To London, blessed town! I went;
She boarded at a farm in Kent.
A Magpye from the country fled,
And kindly told me she was dead:
I prun'd my feathers, cock'd my tail,
And set my heart again to sale.

My fourth, a mere coquette, or such
I thought her; nor avails it much,
If true or false; our troubles spring
More from the fancy than the thing.
"Two staring horns," I often said,

But ill become a Sparrow's head;"
But then, set that balance even,
Your cuckold Sparrow goes to Heaven.
The thing you fear, suppose it done,
If you inquire, you make it known.
Whilst at the root your horns are sore,
The more you scratch, they ache the more.
But turn the tables, and reflect,

All may not be that you suspect:

By the Mind's eye, the horns we mean
Are only in ideas seen;

'Tis from the inside of the head

Their branches shoot, their antlers spread; Fruitful suspicions often bear 'em,

You feel them from the time you fear 'em, "Cuckoo! Cuckoo !" that echoed word Offends the ear of vulgar bird;

But those of finer taste have found
There's nothing in't beside the sound.
Preferment always waits on horns,
And household peace the gift adorns;
This way, or that, let factions tend,
The spark is still the cuckold's friend:
This way, or that, let madam roam,
Well pleas'd and quiet she comes home,
Now weigh the pleasure with the pain,
The plus and minus, loss and gain,
And what La Fontaine laughing says,
Is serious truth, in such a case;
"Who slights the evil finds it least,
And who does nothing, does the best."
I never strove to rule the roast,
She ne'er refus'd to pledge my toast:

In visits if we chanc'd to meet,

I seem'd obliging, she discreet;
We neither much caress'd nor strove,
But good dissembling pass'd for love.

T. Whate'er of light our eye may know, 'Tis only light itself can show; Whate'er of love our heart can feel, 'Tis mutual love alone can tell.

s. My pretty, amorous, foolish bird,
A moment's patience! in one word,
The three kind sisters broke the chain;
She dy'd, I mourn'd, and woo'd again.
T. Let me with juster grief deplore
My dear Columbo, now no more;
Let me with constant tears bewail-

s. Your sorrow does but spoil my tale. My fifth, she prov'd a jealous wife, Lord shield us all from such a life! "Twas doubt, complaint, reply, chit-chat, 'Twas this, to day; to morrow, that. Sometimes, forsooth, upon the brook I kept a miss; an honest Rook Told it a Snipe, who told a Steer, Who told it those, who told it her.

One day a Linnet and a Lark
Had met me strolling in the dark;
The next a Woodcock and an Owl,
Quick-sighted, grave, and sober fowl,
Would on their corporal oath allege,
I kiss'd a Hen behind the hedge.
Well, madam Turtle, to be brief,
(Repeating but renews our grief)
As once she watch'd me from a rail,
(Poor soul!) her footing chane'd to fail,
And down she fell, and broke her hip;
The fever came, and then the pip:
Death did the only cure apply,
She was at quiet, so was I.

T. Could Love unmov'd these changes view? His sorrows, as his joys, are true.

s. My dearest Dove, one wise man says,

Alluding to our pr sent case,

"We're here to day, and gone to morrow!" Then what avails superfluous sorrow? Another, full as wise as he,

Adds, that a marry'd man may see
Two happy hours;" and which are they?
The first and last, perhaps you'll say.
'Tis true, when blithe she goes to bed,
And when she peaceably lies dead;
"Women 'twixt sheets are best," 'tis said,
Be they of holland, or of lead.

Now, cur'd of Hymen's hopes and fears,
And sliding down the vale of years,
I hop'd to fix my future rest,
And took a widow to my nest.
(Ah, Turtle! had she been like thee,
Sober, yet gentle; wise, yet free!)
But she was peevish, noisy, bold,
A witch ingrafted on a scold.
Jove in Pandora's box confin'd
A hundred ills, to vex mankind;
To vex one bird, in her bandore
He had at least a hundred more.
And, soon as Time that veil withdrew,
The plagues o'er all the parish flew;
Her stock of borrow'd tears grew dry,
And native tempests arm'd her eye;
Black clouds around her forehead hung,
And thunder rattled on her tongue.

We, young or old, or Cock or Hen,
All liv'd in Æolus's den;

The nearest her, the more accurst,
Ill far'd her friends, her husband worst.
But Jove, amidst his anger, spares,

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Remarks our faults, but hears our prayers.
In short, she dy'd. 'Why then she's dead,"
Quoth I," and once again I'll wed."
Would Heaven this mourning year were past!
One may have better luck at last.
Matters at worst are sure to mend,
The Devil's wife was but a fiend.

T. Thy tale has rais'd a Turtle's spleen,
Uxorious inmate! bird obscene!
Dar'st thou defile these sacred groves,
These silent seats of faithful loves?
Begone, with flagging wings sit down
On some old pent-house near the town;
In brewers' stables peck thy grain,
Then wash it down with puddled rain;
And hear thy dirty offspring squall
From bottles on a suburb wall.
Where thou hast been, return again,
Vile bird thou hast convers'd with men ;
Notions like these from men are given,
Those vilest creatures under Heaven.

To cities and to courts repair,
Flattery and Falsehood flourish there;
There all thy wretched arts employ,
Where Riches triumph over Joy;
Where Passion does with interest barter,
And Hym n holds by Mammon's charter;
Where Truth by point of Law is parry'd,
And knaves and prudes are six times marry'

APPLICATION,

WRITTEN LONG AFTER THE TALE.

O DEAREST daughter of two dearest friends?, To thee my Muse this little tale commends. Loving and lov'd, regard thy future mate, Long love his person, though deplore his fate; Seem young when old in thy dear husband's arms, For constant virtue has immortal charms. And when I lie low sepulchred in earth, And the glad year returns thy day of birth, Vouchsafe to say, "Ere I could write or spell, The bard, who from my cradle wish'd me well, Told me I should the prating Sparrow blame, And bade me imitate the Turtle's flame."

DOWN-HALL:

A BALLAD.

TO THE TUNE OF

KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY,

1715.

I SING Dot old Jason, who travell'd through Greece,
To kiss the fair maids, and possess the rich fleece;
Nor sing I Eneas, who, led by his mother,
Got rid of one wife, and went far for another.
Derry down, down, hey derry down.

2 Lady Margaret Cavendish Harley, daughter of Edward earl of Oxford, and afterwards dutchess of Portland.

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Nor him who through Asia and Europe did roam,
Ulysses by name, who ne'er cry'd to go home,
But rather desir'd to see cities and men,
Than return to his farms, and converse with old Pen.

Hang Homer and Virgil! their meaning to seek,
A man must have pok'd into Latin and Greek;
Those who love their own tongue, we have reason
to hope,

Have read them translated by Dryden and Pope.

But I sing of exploits that have lately been done By two British heroes, call'd Matthew and John 3: And how they rid friendly from fine London town, Fair Essex to see, and a place they call Down.

Now ere they went out you may rightly suppose How much they discours'd both in prudence and prose;

For, before this great journey was throughly concerted,

Full often they met, and as often they parted.

And thus Matthew said, 68 Look you here, my
friend John,

I fairly have travell'd years thirty and one;
And, though I still carry'd my sovereign's warrants,
I only have gone upon other folk's errands.

"And now in this journey of life I would have
A place where to bait, 'twixt the court and the
grave;

Where joyful to live, not unwilling to die-"
"Gadzooks! I have just such a place in my eye.

"There are gardens so stately, and arbours so
thick,

A portal of stone, and a fabric of brick :

The matter next week shall be all in your power; But the money, gadzooks! must be paid in an hour.

"For things in this world must by law be made We both must repair unto Oliver Martin; [certain: For he is a lawyer of worthy renown,

I'll bring you to see: he must fix you at Down."
"I know, that, from Berwick

Quoth Matthew,

to Dover,
You've sold all our premises over and over:
And now, if your buyers and sellers agree,
You may throw all our acres into the South Sea.

dear

"But a word to the purpose: to morrow, friend, We'll see what to night you so highly commend; And, if with a garden and house I am blest, Let the Devil and Coningsby go with the rest." Then answered 'squire Morley. "Pray get a calash, [splash; That in summer may burn, and in winter may I love dirt and dust; and 'tis always my pleasure, To take with me much of the soil that I measure."

But Matthew thought better; for Matthew
thought right,

And hired a chariot so trim and so tight,
That extremes both of winter and summer might
pass:

For one window was canvas, the other was glass.

'Mr. Prior, and Mr. John Morley of Halstead.

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Where is Cicily so cleanly, and Prudence, and Sue?
And where is the widow that dwelt here below?
And the hostler that sung about eight years ago?

"And where is your sister, so mild and so dear?
Whose voice to her maids like a trumpet was
clear?"-
[I think:

"By my troth!" she replies, " you grow younger, And pray, sir, what wine does the gentleman drink?

"Why now let me die, sir, or live upon trust, If I know to which question to answer you first: Why things, since I saw you, most strangely have vary'd,

The hostler is hang'd, and the widow is marry'd.

"And Prue left a child for the parish to nurse;
And Cicily went off with a gentleman's purse;
And as to my sister, so mild and so dear,
She has lain in the church-yard full many a year."

"Well, peace to her ashes! what signifies
grief?

She roasted red veal, and she powder'd lean beef:
Full nicely she knew to cook up a fine dish;
For tough were her pullets, and tender her fish."

"For that matter, sir, be you 'squire, knight,

or lord,

I'll give you whate'cr a good inn can afford:
I should look on myself as unhappily sped,
Did I yield to a sister, or living, or dead.

"Of mutton a delicate neck and a breast
Shall swim in the water in which they were drest:
And, because you great folks are with rarities
taken,
[bacon."
Addle-eggs shall be next course, tost up with rank

Then supper was serv'd, and the sheets they were
laid,

And Morley most lovingly whisper'd the maid.
The maid! was she handsome? why truly so-so:
But what Morley whisper'd we never shall know.

Then up rose these heroes as brisk as the Sun,
And their horses, like his, were prepared to run.
Now when in the morning Matt ask'd for the score,
John kindly had paid it the evening before.

Their breakfast so warm to be sure they did eat,
A custom in travellers mighty discreet;
And thus with great friendship and glee they went
To find out the place you shall hear of anon, [on,
Call'd Down, down, hey derry down.

But what did they talk of from morning to noon?
Why of spots in the Sun, and the man in the Moon;
Of the Czar's gentle temper, the stocks in the city,
The wise men of Greece, and the secret committee.

So to Harlow they came; and, "Hey! where

are you all!

Show us into the parlour, and mind when I call: Why your maids have no motion, your men have no life;

Well master, I hear you have bury'd your wife,

"Come this very instant, take care to provide Tea, sugar, and toast, and a horse and a guide. Are the Harrisons here, both the old and the young? [song?" And where stands fair Down, the delight of my "O'squire, to the grief of my heart I may say, I have bury'd two wives since you travell'd this way;

And the Harrisons both may be presently here; And Down stands, I think, where it stood the last year."

Then Joan brought the tea-pot, and Caleb the toast, [host:

And the wine was froth'd out by the hand of mine But we clear'd our extempore banquet so fast, That the Harrisons both were forgot in the haste.

Now hey for Down-hal!! for the guide he was got;

The chariot was mounted; the horses did trot; The guide he did bring us a dozen miles round, But, oh! all in vain, for no Down could be found.

"O thou popish guide, thou hast led us
astray."

Bays he, "How the Devil should I know the way?
I never yet travell'd this road in my life:
But Down lies on the left, I was told by my wife,"

"Thy wife," answer'd Matthew, "when she

went abroad,

Ne'er told thee of half the by-ways she had trod : Perhaps she met friends, and brought pence to thy house,

But thou shalt go home without ever a sous.

"What is this thing, Morley, and how can you mean it?

[it."We have lost our estate here, before we have seen "Have patience," soft Morley, in anger reply'd: "To find out our way, let us send off our guide. "O here I spy Down: cast your eye to the west, [fest."Where a windmill so stately stands plainly con"On the west," reply'd Matthew, no windmill I find:

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As well thou may'st tell me, I see the west-wind.

"Now, pardon me, Morley, the wind-mill I spy,

But, faithful Achates, no house is there nigh.”"Look again," says mild Morley; "gadzooks! you are blind:

The mill stands before, and the house lies behind."

"O, now a low ruin'd white shed I discern, Until'd and unglaz'd; I believe 'tis a barn."— "A barn! why you rave: 'tis a house for a squire, A justice of peace, or a knight of our shire."

"A house shonld be built, or with brick, or with stone."[one; "Why 'tis plaster and lath; and I think that's all And such as it is, it has stood with great fame, Been called a Hall, and has given its name

To Down, down, hey derry down."

"O Morley! O Morley! if that be a hall, The fame with the building will suddenly fallWith your friend Jemmy Gibbs about buildings agree;

My business is land, and it matters not me." "I wish you could tell what a duce your head ails: [sailles? I show'd you Down-Hall; did you look for VerThen take house and farm as John Ballet will let you,

For better for worse, as I took my Dame Betty.

"And now, sir, a word to the wise is enough; You'll make very little of all your old stuff: And to build at your age, by my troth, you grow simple!

Are you young and rich, like the master of Wimple?

"If you have these whims of apartments and gardens,

From twice fifty acres you'll ne'er see five farthings:

And in yours I shall find the true gentleman's fate; Ere you finish your house, you'll have spent your

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SINCE Anna visited the Muses' seat
(Around her tomb let weeping angels wait!)
Hail thou, the brightest of thy sex, and best,
Most gracious neighbour', and most welcome guest.
Not Harley's self, to Cam and Isis dear,
In virtues and in arts great Oxford's heir;
Not he such present honour shall receive,
As to his consort we aspire to give.

To pay due homage to the softer sex:
Writings of men our thoughts to day neglects,
Plato and Tully we forbear to read,
And their great followers whom this house has bred,
To study lessons from thy morals given,
And shining characters, impress'd by Heaven,
Science in books no longer we pursue,
Minerva's self in Harriet's face we view;
For, when with beauty we can virtue join,
We paint the semblance of a form divine.

Their pious incense let our neighbours bring,
To the kind memory of some bounteous king;

4 Edward Earl of Oxford. The family seat was then at Wimple.

With grateful hand due altars let them raise,
To some good knight's' or holy prelate's' praise:
We tune our voices to a nobler theme,
Your eyes we bless, your praises we proclaim;
Saint John's was founded in a woman's name.
Enjoin'd by statute, to the fair we bow;
In spite of Time, we keep our ancient vow;
What Margaret Tudor was, is Harriet Harley now.

PROLOGUE TO THE ORPHAN®.

REPRESENTED BY SOME OF THE WESTMINSTER SCHO-
LARS, AT HICK FORD'S DANCING-ROOM,
FEBRUARY 2, 1720.

SPOKEN BY LORD DUPLIN, WHO ACTED CORDELIO
THE PAGE.

WHAT! Would my humble comrades have me say,
"Gentle spectators, pray excuse the play?"
Such work by hireling actors should be done,
Whom you may clap or hiss for half a crown.
Our generous scenes for friendship we repeat;
And, if we don't delight, at least we treat.
Ours is the damage, if we chance to blunder;
We may be ask'd, "Whose patent we act under?"
How shall we gain you, à la mode de France?
We hir'd this room; but none of us can dance.
In cutting capers we shall never please:
Our learning does not lie below our knees.

Shall we procure you symphony and sound?
Then you must each subscribe two hundred pound.
There we should fail too, as to point of voice:
Mistake us not; we're no Italian boys,
True Britons born; from Westminster we come,
And only speak the style of ancient Rome.
We would deserve, not poorly beg, applause;
And stand or fall by Freind's and Busby's laws.
For the distress'd, your pity we implore:
If once refus'd, we'll trouble you no more,
But leave our Orphan squalling at your door.

HUSBAND AND WIFE.

. OH! with what woes am I opprest! w. Be still, you senseless calf! What if the gods should make you blest? H. Why then I'd sing and laugh: But, if they won't, I'll wail and cry. w. You'll hardly laugh, before you die.

Through many a blooming mead they pasty
And at a brook arriv'd at last.

The purling stream, the niargin green,
With flowers bedeck'd, a vernal scene,
Invited each itinerant maid

To rest awhile beneath the shade.
Under a spreading beech they sat,
And pass'd the time with female chat;
Whilst each her character maintain'd;
One spoke her thoughts, the other feign'd.
At length, quoth Falsehood, "Sister Truth,"
(For so she call'd her from her youth)
"What if, to shun yon sultry beam,
We bathe in this delightful stream;
The bottom smooth, the water clear,
And there's no prying shepherd near !"—
"With all my heart," the nymph reply'd,
And threw her snowy robes aside,
Stript herself naked to the skin,
And with a spring leapt headlong in.
Falsehood more leisurely undrest,
And, laying by her taudry vest,
Trick'd herself out in Truth's array,
And cross the meadows tript away.

From this curst hour, the fraudful dame
Of sacred Truth usurps the name,
And, with a vile, perfidious mind,
Roams far and near, to cheat mankind;
False sighs suborns, and artful tears,
And starts with vain pretended fears;
In visits still appears most wise,
And rolls at church her saint-like eyes;
Talks very much, plays idle tricks,
While rising stock her conscience pricks;
When being, poor thing, extremely gravell'd
She secrets op'd, and all unravell'd.
But on she will, and secrets tell,
Of John and Joan, and Ned and Nell,
Reviling every one she knows,

As fancy leads, beneath the rose.
Her tongue so voluble and kind,
It always runs before her mind;
As times do serve, she slily pleads,
And copious tears still show her needs,
With promises as thick as weeds—
Speaks pro and con, is wondrous civil,
To day a saint, to morrow devil.

Poor Truth she stript, as has been said,
And naked left the lovely maid,
Who, scorning from her cause to wince,
Has gone stark-naked ever since;
And ever naked will appear,
Belov'd by all who Truth revere.

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