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 died, 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 chanc'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 present case,

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

Adds, that 'a married 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 hid 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 Eolus's den;

The nearer her the more accurst,

Ill far'd her friends, her husband worst;
But Jove amidst his anger spares,

Remarks our faults, but hears our pray❜rs.
In short she died. Why, then she's dead,'
Quoth I, 'and once again I'll wed.'

Would Heaven this mourning year were pass'd,
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 penthouse 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 passions do with interest barter,
And Hymen holds by Mammon's charter;
Where truth by point of law is parry'd,
And knaves and prudes are six times marry'd.

APPLICATION.

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 bad me imitate the Turtle's flame.'

* Lady Margaret Cavendish Harley, afterwards Duchess of Portland.

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 shuffle 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 2-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 Amphitritè clears his way

From rocks and quicksands in the sea.

*See Gayton's festivous notes on Don Quixotte, whence thir story is supposed to be taken.