The Works of John Hall-Stevenson :: :: University of Virginia Library

Free from all pernicious vice,
Yet not so scrupulously good,
To want a comfortable spice
To warm a sober Christian's blood.
The sin of Harlotry and Keeping,
Is that which I can least excuse,
That of cohabiting and sleeping,
With an abandon'd common Muse.
More like a Muse's poor toad-eater;
A trollop with a flippant air,
Without one amiable feature,
Or any graces to her share.
You tell me, if I needs must print,
You'll not oppose my foolish will,
And bid me take a sober hint
From sober folks at Strawberry-hill.
Stand forth like them, produce yourself,
Be elegantly bound and letter'd,
Be wise, like them, nor quit your shelf,
But there remain, for ever fetter'd.

viii

I do not print to get a name;
As Trublet says, I am none of those;
I only print, because my aim
Is happiness, whilst I compose:
Composing gives us no delight,
Unless we mean to publish what we write.
Scribbling, like Praying, 's an employment,
In which you think yourself a bubble,
Without some prospect of enjoyment,
And satisfaction for your trouble;
And though your hopes at last prove vain,
If you have been amus'd, 'twas so much gain.
If you still teaze me, and persist
That publishing shews a vain heart,
The Songsters upon Dodsley's list
Shall be call'd in to take my part.
And as they strip a lad quite bare,
After they've coax'd him from his play,
Then lay him down, and cut and pare
All his impediments away:
And as the lad without his leave
Is made an excellent Musician,

By a manœuvre I conceive
As nice as Tristram's Circumcision:
So, though you only just can scrape
Among the Fiddlers of the Nine,
They'll make you drunker than an ape,
And make you think you fiddle fine.

PROLOGUE TO THE CRAZY TALES.

Quod petis hic est,
Est Ulubris, animus si te non deficit æquus.

There is a Castle in the North,
Seated upon a swampy clay,
At present but of little worth;
In former times it had its day.
This ancient Castle is call'd Crazy,
Whose mould'ring walls a moat environs,
Which moat goes heavily and lazy,
Like a poor prisoner in irons.

Many a time I've stood and thought,
Seeing the boat upon this ditch,
It look'd as if it had been brought
For the amusement of a Witch,
To sail amongst applauding frogs,
With water-rats, dead cats and dogs.
The boat so leaky is and old,
That if you're fanciful and merry,
You may conceive without being told,
That it resembles Charon's wherry.
A turret also you may note,
Its glory vanish'd like a dream,
Transform'd into a pigeon-cote,
Nodding beside the sleepy stream.
From whence, by steps with moss o'ergrown,
You mount upon a terrace high,
Where stands that heavy pile of stone,
Irregular and all awry.
If many a buttress did not reach
A kind, and salutary hand,
Did not encourage, and beseech,
The terrace and the house to stand,

Left to themselves and at a loss,
They'd tumble down into the foss.
Over the Castle hangs a tower,
Threat'ning destruction every hour,
Where Owls, and Bats, and the Jackdaw,
Their Vespers and their Sabbath keep,
All night scream horribly, and caw,
And snore all day, in horrid sleep.
Oft at the quarrels and the noise
Of scolding maids or idle boys;
Myriads of rooks rise up and fly,
Like legions of damn'd souls,
As black as coals,
That foul and darken all the sky.
With wood the Castle is surrounded,
Except an opening to a Peak,
Where the beholder stands confounded,
At such a scene of mountains bleak;
Where nothing goes,
Except some solitary pewit,
And carrion crows,
That seem sincerely to rue it,

That look as if they had been banish'd,
And had been sentenc'd to be famish'd.
Where nothing grows,
So keen it blows,
Save here and there a graceless fir,
From Scotland, with its kindred fled,
That moves its arms, and makes a stir,
And tosses its fantastick head,
That seems to make a noise and cry,
Only for want of company.
So a Scotch Minister in pulpit
Is wrought by his gesticulation,
'Till he is taken with a dull fit,
Peculiar to that vocation.
He cries, and throws about his snivel,
Their hearts are harder than the flint,
They let him weep alone, and drivel,
For not a soul will take the hint.
In this retreat, whilom so sweet,
Once Tristram and his Cousin dwelt,
They talk of Crazy when they meet,
As if their tender hearts would melt.

Confounded in Time's common urn,
With Harlots, Ministers, and Kings,
O could such scenes again return!
Like those insipid common things!
Many a grievous, heavy heart,
To Crazy Castle would repair,
That grew, from dragging like a cart,
Elastic and as light as air,
Some fell to fiddling, some to fluting,
Some to shooting, some to fishing,
Others to pishing and disputing,
Or to computing by vain wishing.
And in the evening when they met,
To think on't always does me good,
There never met a jollier set,
Either before, or since the Flood.
As long as Crazy Castle lasts,
Their Tales will never be forgot,
And Crazy may stand many blasts,
And better castles go to pot.

Antony, Lord of Crazy Castle,
Neither a fisher, nor a shooter,
No man's, but any woman's vassal,
If he could find a way to suit her,
Collected all their Tales into a book,
Which you may see if you go there to look.

ANTONY'S TALE:

OR THE BOARDING-SCHOOL TALE.

TALE I.

Lucy was not like other lasses,
From twelve her breasts swell'd in a trice,
First they were like two cupping-glasses,
Then like two peaches made of ice;
With swimming eyes and golden locks,
Golden embroidery and fringe,
Like an ivory or Dresden box,
Mounted with golden lips and hinge:

Or like the glory round the head,
Of virgin Saints weeping and pale,
When they are sacrific'd, and led
To martyrdom, or to a male:
Or as a comet's golden tail is;
Or like the undulating light
Of the aurora borealis,
In a serene autumnal night.
It is a shame, says her Mamma,
To see a child with bib and apron,
At bare thirteen, an age so raw,
Grown and furnish'd like a matron.
But if it was a Burning Shame,
Lucy was not at all to blame,
But they, who in her composition,
Infus'd that warmth which was the cause
Of such exuberant nutrition,
The work of vegetative laws.
It was just at the age I mention'd,
Upon a very slight offence,
Miss Lucy was condemn'd and pension'd,
Both against equity and sense,

Within a Boarding-school's detested walls,
Doom'd to feel all its rigours, all its thralls!
To endure the hunger and the chidings!
To feel the longings and the watchings!
To dread the stealings and the hidings!
To bear the quarrels and the scratchings!
And then such billings, and such cooings!
Such Miss-demeanours and excuses!
Such Miss-takes, and such Miss-doings!
And such Miss-fortunes and abuses!
There was a Captain of the Guards,
A famous Knight of Arthur's table,
Expert in women, vers'd in cards,
A brother of the Turf and Stable.
He had such a command of features,
And was so droll and full of sport,
He could take off all the queer creatures,
And oddities of Arthur's Court;
Set Arthur's Worthies in a row,
So very comical a Knight,
You could not single out and shew,
Nor one that gave so much delight.

One day whilst our Knight was busy,
Extremely busy with her mother,
Lucy had run till she was dizzy,
About the garden with her brother.
The captain's bus'ness being done,
He saunter'd up and down the garden,
As if he had neither lost nor won,
As if he did not care a farthing.
Yet his attention was profound,
Observing Lucy grown so tall;
Contemplating her breasts as round,
And springy as a tennis-ball.
The sight, indeed, was quite bewitching,
I think I see him whilst I'm scribbling,
Mouth watering, and fingers itching,
To be both fingering and nibbling.
To gratify the two young chicks,
He roll'd his eyes, and acted Punch;
Playing a thousand monkey-tricks,
Making his back a perfect bunch

With many a filthy slobbering kiss,
Courting in Punch's squeaking tone,
And wriggling and embracing Miss,
As Punch embraces his wife Joan.
And how to imitate a breast,
The Captain said that Miss had plac'd,
Swelling on each side of her chest,
Two little dumplins made of paste;
At which Punch gap'd, and swore an oath,
That he would take and eat them both.
On Lucy's neck the hungry spark
Hung fix'd, like an envenom'd snake,
Leaving a deep-indented mark,
Which her Mamma could not mistake;
For which irregular proceeding,
Lucy was sent to study breeding.
Lucy was angry with good cause,
For she had seen, in Summer days,
Necks very like her own Mamma's,
Without a handkerchief or stays;

It might be fuller and more nourish'd,
And yet a neck not more inviting,
Lucy had seen it scrawl'd and flourish'd
Both with marks, and with hand-writing.
Lucy was under no mistake,
For it was not so long ago;
Lucy was curious and awake,
And old enough, she thought, to know.
Would it not make one almost wild,
If it was not so very common,
To see one punish'd like a child,
Only for acting like a woman?
To see the moment after, may be,
Her mother acting like a baby?
Sent to a Governess of spirit,
Lucy was watch'd from head to foot,
Just like a rabbit with a ferret,
For ever at the rabbit's scut.
All the whole day in durance kept,
At night the Governess with Lucy slept.

But Lucy neither slept nor slumber'd,
She toss'd and tumbled all the night;
Her spirits were so much encumber'd,
And flurry'd by the Captain's bite.
Whether their poison they impart,
By teeth, or nails, or by a sting,
There is a virtue in some part,
Of every poisonous thing.
Though the experiment should fright her,
Enough to throw her in a fit,
Lucy must apply the biter
Unto the poison'd part that's bit.
Granted; but how could she contrive
To bring so hard a point to bear?
'Twould puzzle any wit alive,
That had not a great deal to spare.
There's a remark, 'twas made long since,
Machiavel made it for his Prince;
“A Prince, says he, completely cruel,
“Throughout inexorably bad,
“Is an inestimable jewel,
“Seldom or never to be had.”

Though cruel often, and hard-hearted,
Lucy's Mamma could not withstand,
She gave her blessing when they parted,
And slipp'd a guinea into Lucy's hand.
With one poor guinea Lucy bought
All that the Wise, the Rich, and Great,
So frequently in vain have sought,
Both in the world and their retreat.
No potentate could ever buy it,
Nor any child of Power and Wealth,
Tranquillity or mental Quiet,
With Liberty, Content, and Health.
Lucy conducted her affairs
So circumspectly, and so snug,
By bribes she gain'd a friend down stairs,
And made a purchase of a drug,
Which drug is, in the vulgar tongue,
Commonly call'd, The Devil's Dung.
Within the lining of her gown,
In two small bags under each arm,
She beat and sow'd it nicely down,
As if she had sown down a charm.

The exhalation was so strong
From every part of Lucy's cloaths,
The Misses, as she pass'd along,
Brush'd away, and held their nose.
By far the greatest part presum'd,
That it was owing to her hair;
Others presum'd she was perfum'd,
From being rotten as a pear.
The scent so violent was grown,
Her governess was forc'd to yield,
The room, the maid, were all her own,
Arms, tents, and baggage, and the field.

ODE TO VENUS.

O VENUS, awful Sovereign of the Spring
Could I like thy Lucretius sing,
Here would I pause, thy wonders to relate!
Here would I pause to hymn thy praise,
In adamantine words, stronger than Fate,
And everlasting as his lays!

O'er seas and deserts, undismay'd,
Strengthen'd by thy inspiring breath,
The timorous and bashful maid,
Faces both infamy and death.
Driven by thy divinity,
Confounding equity and truth,
Order and consanguinity,
And loathsome age and blooming youth.
Behold the frantick passion how it burns,
Like a wild beast breaks every tie,
Laughs at the Priest; the Legislator spurns,
And gives both heaven and earth the lye!
Let youth and insolence alone,
Provoke thy vengeance every hour,
But O! spare those that know, that own,
Adore, and tremble at thy pow'r.
With thy propitious Doves descend,
And hear the tender Virgin's sighs,
The humble and the meek defend,
And bid the prostrate suppliant rise.

By Venus Lucy was protected,
Nothing was hurry'd, or neglected,
The Misses, though she was quite well,
Toss'd up their noses, full of airs,
Though Lucy now had no one smell,
That was not pleasanter than theirs.
For a whole Winter, every night
(Which made the wench grow monstrous thin)
'Till the war call'd him out to fight,
Had Susan let the Captain in.
Scarce had he left his native coast,
'Till Lucy, summon'd home, became
A celebrated London toast,
And the first favourite of Fame.
Lucy was follow'd by a Peer,
But all his arts could not trepan her;
After a siege of a whole year,
My Lord was forc'd to change his manner;
So, like a wise and virtuous girl,
Lucy, at last, was marry'd to an Earl.

MY COUSIN'S TALE

OF A COCK AND A BULL.

TALE II.

At Cambridge, many years ago,
In Jesus, was a Walnut-tree;
The only thing it had to shew,
The only thing folks went to see.
Being of such a size and mass,
And growing in so wise a College,
I wonder how it came to pass,
It was not call'd the Tree of Knowledge.
Indeed, if you attempt to run
(The air so heavy is, and muddy)
Any great length beyond a pun,
You'll be obliged to sweat and study.

This is the reason 'tis so good for tisics,
And will account, why no one soph,
No Fellow, ever could hit off,
To call this Tree the Tree of Metaphysics:
Though in the midst of the quadrangle,
They every one were taught their trade;
They every one were taught to wrangle,
Beneath its scientific shade.
It overshadow'd every room,
And consequently, more or less,
Forc'd every brain, in such a gloom,
To grope its way, and go by guess.
For ever going round about,
For that which lies before your nose;
And when you come to find it out,
It is not like what you suppose.
So have I often seen in fogs,
A may-pole taken for a steeple;
Christians oft mistook for hogs,
Horses ta'en for Christian people.

This stroke upon my tender brain
Remains, I doubt, impress'd for ever;
For to this day, when with much pain,
I try to think strait on, and clever,
I fidle out again, and strike
Into the beautiful oblique.
Therefore, I have no one notion,
That is not form'd, like the designing
Of the peristaltic motion;
Vermicular; twisting and twining;
Going to work
Just like a bottle-skrew upon a cork.
This obliquity of thinking
I cur'd, formerly, by Logic,
And a habitude of drinking
Infusions pædagogic.
The cure is worse than the disease,
'Tis just like drinking so much gall;
So I keep thinking at my ease;
That is, I never think at all.

Thus a presuming Miss designs,
Quite overwhelm'd with foolish pride,
She drops her paper with black lines,
And trusts herself without a guide.
No longer kept within due bounds,
For any thing that you can say,
Her letters, like unruly hounds,
Running all a different way;
No longer writes as heretofore,
But writes awry both now and evermore.
But, a-propos, of bottle-skrews,
You've seen a Parson at a table,
Whose business was to read the news,
And draw a cork, if he was able.
And do remember, I dare say,
The foolish figure that he makes,
When the cork will not come away,
For all the pains the Parson takes.
By bit and bit he makes it come,
Till he is forc'd against his will,
To push it forward with his thumb;
He has conducted it so ill:

The reason is, his skrew is blunt,
And will not do as it was wont.
Thus with my head have I been here,
Screwing to get at what I wanted:
That you might have a Tale as clear
And bright as if it was decanted.
But as your time and patience are so short,
I'll try to get at it in any sort

IN Italy there is a town,
Anciently of great renown;
Call'd, by the Volscians, Privernum;
A fortress against the Romans,
Maintain'd, because it did concern 'em,
Spite of Rome, and all her omens;
But to their cost,
At the long run their town was lost.
Whether 'twas forc'd or did surrender,
You never need, my dear Sir, know,
Provided you will but remember,
Privernum signifies Piperno.

Close by the Franciscan Friars,
There liv'd a Saint, as all declare,
All the world cannot be lyars,
Which Saint wrought miracles by prayer.
Her life so holy was, and pure,
Her prayers at all times, they believe,
Could heirs or heiresses secure,
And make the barren womb conceive.
Which was a very safe expedient,
And also wonderful convenient:
For there was not a barren womb,
That might not try,
Going between Naples and Rome,
As she pass'd by.
My story will not be the worse,
If you will but reflect with patience
Upon the constant intercourse
Between these famous neighbour nations.
It is so great, that I dare say,
The Saint could have but little ease;
She must have been both night and day,
Continually on her knees.

For I can prove it very clear,
That many of those wombs are barren;
Which wombs, were they transplanted here,
Would breed like rabbits in a warren.
Near Terracina, once called Anxur,
There is a place call'd Bosco Folto,
A castle standing on a bank, Sir,
The seat of the Marchese Stolto.
In history you all have read,
Most of you have, I'm pretty sure,
How on that road there is no bed,
Nor any inn, you can endure.
For Stolto I had got a letter,
From my good friend, Prince Mala-Fede,
And from the Princess a much better,
Wrote to his Excellency's Lady.
The Marquis is advanc'd in years,
And dries you so, there's no escaping;
The merriest, when he appears,
Yawn, and set the rest a gaping

Seccare is a word of fun;
It means to dry, as you may find,
Not like the fire, or like the sun,
But like a cold unpleasant wind.
But she is perfectly well bred;
Neither too forward, nor too shy:
I never did, in any head,
In all my life, see such an eye;
Nor such a head on any shoulders;
Nor such a neck, with such a swell
That could present itself so well,
To all the critical beholders.
Four years the Marquis was hum-drumming,
In that same place, with his bed-fellow,
Waiting for the happy coming
Of a young Marquis, a Stoltello.
As soon as ever he arrives,
The family is to be sent to
The Cardinal at Benevento,
For the remainder of their lives.

The Cardinal is Stolto's nephew,
His age is only twenty-seven;
And of that age, alas how few!
Who think, like him, of nought but Heaven.
His aunt will manage and take care
Of all the Cardinal's affairs,
Stoltello is to be his heir,
When he has finish'd all his prayers.
Stolto may live as he thinks good,
His life delightfully will run,
Between his castle in the wood,
His wife, his nephew, and his son.
And yet, according to Fame's trumpet
(Who very seldom trumpets right)
His wife was reckon'd a great strumpet,
His nephew a great hypocrite.
I don't believe a word of that,
The world will talk, and let it chat:
You cannot think her in the wrong,
To grow quite weary of the place;
She thought Stoltello staid so long,
He was asham'd to shew his face.

Stolto had heard the Holy Maid
Always cry'd up both far and near;
And he believ'd she could persuade
His son Stoltello to appear.
Considering what time was past,
How they had try'd, and better try'd,
Stolto advis'd his wife at last,
To go and be fecundify'd.
The Marquis told me the whole story,
Which he had from the Marchefina;
And it is so much to her glory,
'Tis all the talk of Terracina.
The very night that she came back,
He was in such a sifting cue;
He almost put her to the rack,
Till she discover'd all she knew.
First his acknowledgment being paid,
A pepper-cornish kind of due;
As they were laid, compos'd and staid,
She told him just as I tell you:

Before the Marchioness sets out,
It will be proper, on reflection,
To obviate a certain doubt,
A doubt that looks like an objection.
Here, because they know no better,
The snarlers think they've found a bone;
They think the Marquis would not let her
Go such an errand all alone.
A Lady, you must understand,
That visits, to fulfil her vows,
A holy house, or holy land,
Commonly goes without her spouse,
And so, by keeping herself still,
Quiet and sober in her bed,
She never thinks of any ill,
Nothing unclean enters her head.
You're satisfy'd your doubt was weak,
And now the Marchioness may speak.
As you foretold, before I went,
The Saint was so engag'd, and watch'd,
That a whole week and more was spent,
Before my bus'ness was dispatch'd.

Indeed, you would have greatly pity'd,
If you had seen me but, my Dear;
Howe'er, at last, I was admitted,
And what I met with you shall hear.
The Saint and I sat on a bench;
Before us, on a couch, there lay
A pretty little naked wench,
That minded nothing but her play.
Her play was playing with a mouse,
That popp'd his head in, went and came,
And nestled in its little house,
It was so docible and tame.
Guess where the mouse had found a bower.
You are so dull, it is a shame;
You cannot guess in half an hour,
I'll lay your hand upon the same.
These, cry'd the Saint, are all ideal,
Visions all, and nothing real,
Yet they will animate your blood,
And rouze and warm the pregnant powers,
Just like the ling'ring sickly bud,
Open'd by fructifying showers.

If you are violently heated,
Remember in your greatest needs,
Your Ave Mary be repeated,
Till you have gone through all your beads:
Take heed, they're going to begin,
I see the visions coming in.
First came a Cock, and then a Bull,
And then a Heifer and a Hen:
Till they had got their bellies full,
On and off, and on again.
And then I spy'd a foolish Filly,
That was reduc'd to a strange pass,
Languishing, and looking silly,
At the proposals of an Ass.
I turn'd about and saw a sight,
Which was a sight I could not bear,
A filthy Horse, with all his might,
Gallanting with a filthy Mare.
And lo! there came a dozen Priests!
And all the Priests shaven and shorn!
And they were like a dozen beasts,
Naked as ever they were born:

And they pass'd on,
One by one,
Every one with an exalted horn.
Then they drew up and stood a while,
In rank and file,
And after, march'd off the parade,
One by one,
Falling upon
The miserable, naked Maid.
Nothing could equal my surprize,
To see her go through great and small!
And after that, to see her rise,
And turn the joke upon them all!
And I kept praying still and counting,
In a prodigious fret and heat,
And she successively kept mounting,
And always kept a steady seat.
Till having finish'd her career,
The Priests were terribly perplex'd,
They could not tell which way to steer,
Nor whereabout to settle next.

Brother was running after brother,
Turning their horns against each other;
The Holy Maid cry'd out aloud,
Heaven deliver us from sin:
And I turn'd up my eyes and bow'd,
And said Amen within:
The instant that I spoke,
The visions vanish'd into smoke.
Now, said the Marchioness, and smil'd,
Now I'll toss up with you for a child.
Already at your post indeed!
Bravo—Bravissimo—proceed.—
I find, my dear, you are so stout,
So firmly fix'd to make a boy,
I feel—I feel—you'll make it out!
'Tis done, said she—I wish you joy.

Accordingly the Marquis swore,
That very night he did a feat,
Which he had seldom done before,
That night he ran a second heat.

And from that night computing fair,
She had conceiv'd,
About five months when I was there,
As both the Marchioness and he believ'd.
For four months after I repass'd,
Calling again, to avoid those inns,
And found her, brought to bed at last,
Of twins,
So stout, the brothers might have pass'd for
Pollux and Castor.
And so, at last, his cost and toil,
The Marquis was oblig'd to own,
Were laid out on a grateful soil,
At last, he reap'd as he had sown.

MISS IN HER TEENS:

CAPTAIN SHADOW'S TALE.

TALE III.

Miss Molly was almost fourteen,
Her Cousin Dick a year older,
The diff'rence of a year between
Was very easy to be seen,
For Dick was grown a year bolder.
Though he was grown bolder and braver,
Molly grew bashfuller and shier,
So serious and so much graver,
She hardly would let Dick come nigh her.
The year before, upon no score,
Would Dick be caught in such a trick,
As either peeping through a nick,
Or through the key-hole of a door.

The year before Miss had no fears,
And there was no such thing as squealing;
And Dick had neither eyes nor ears,
Neither taste, nor smell, nor feeling.
Until this year, as I have heard,
Dick was unlucky, but not rude;
And Molly so far from a prude,
Till now her door was never barr'd.
One afternoon Mamma rode out,
Papa was laid up in the gout:
Well, and what became of Molly?
If she had taken her to ride,
She should have been confin'd and try'd,
For flagrant and wilful folly.
When they are let out of the cage,
Let out without consideration,
All children of a certain age,
Are given much to observation.
Their judgement's so exceeding weak,
Their fancy so exceeding strong,
That you can neither act nor speak,
They are so apt to take things wrong.

So neither Miss, nor Dick the sapling,
With Madam rides;
She is attended by the Chaplain,
And none besides.
Which of the two were better pleas'd,
Is difficult to say, I own.
Miss and Papa had been so teaz'd,
They both were pleas'd to be alone.
Up to her chamber Molly's flown,
Fast bolted is her chamber-door,
So cautious the damsel's grown,
From what Miss Molly was before.
Ever since Dick began to pry,
Ever since Molly cast her frock,
She never ventures to rely
On the protection of a lock.
Molly suspects her cousin Dick,
Her cousin Dick's so plaguy sly,
That lock, or any lock, can pick,
That Dick has any mind to try.
Dick pick the lock! it could not be,
If Molly only had the sense,

As soon as she had turn'd the key,
Not to have taken it from thence.
Molly would gladly have compounded,
If Dick would let her 'scape so cheap,
Whenever Molly was impounded,
She left that hole for Dick to peep.
She was aware there was no keeping,
No hindering cousin Dick from peeping:
For sure as ever you're alive,
Either with gimlet or skewer,
Her cousin Richard would contrive
To bore a hole, somewhere to view her.
For some particular affair,
That Molly had in agitation,
She did not at that juncture care,
To be expos'd to speculation.
She clapp'd a fire-skreen to the hole,
To hinder cousin Dick from spying;
Little imagining, poor soul!
That Dick was in her closet lying.
The room, as you have heard me tell,
At all times had been Molly's own;

The closet was a citadel
Of a late date, to awe the town.
Mamma had thought upon the case,
And thinking made her more afraid,
A closet was a dangerous place
For stratagem and ambuscade;
So the room still to Miss remains,
The fort to Mamma appertains.
The key that opens this same fort,
Mamma had lost, in a strange sort,
In riding out, the key she lost;
And it was found by Dick at play,
Upon the spot where it was toss'd,
Upon a heap of new-made hay.
Her pad, I fancy, for my part,
Is badly broke, and apt to start:
And by a sudden jerk or spring,
Or swing, or some such thing,
Out flew the key, as if a stone
Had flown
Out of a sling.

Pray, where was Miss's great neglect?
Where was Molly's indiscretion?
This treach'rous key could she suspect
To be in cousin Dick's possession?
She was so circumspect and cool,
Each nook and cranny she survey'd;
She even examin'd the close-stool,
But Dick was in the closet laid.
Whate'er he saw, Dick never told,
And that is much for one so young,
When people that are twice as old,
Have twice as indiscreet a tongue.
It must be something very curious,
Some strange extraordinary matter;
Dick star'd and look'd quite wild and furious
Just when he bounc'd out and flew at her.
Though she was cruelly betray'd,
Dick made up matters very soon,
Molly was reconcil'd, Dick stay'd
And spent a pleasant afternoon.
The point was long, and well debated;
But Dick so solemnly protested,

By Molly he was reinstated,
And with the key fairly invested.
Mamma perceiv'd the key was stray'd,
And sent the Chaplain out to look;
'Twas not for that she was dismay'd,
But she had lost her pocket-book.
He found the book, which was the best;
As to the key, the careful mother,
Before she laid her head to rest,
Sent and bespoke just such another.
'Twas well she let the lock remain:
Had it been chang'd on his report,
It would have caus'd infinite pain,
And spoil'd a deal of harmless sport.
In a short time Molly grew sick,
Every day sicker and sicker;
Molly's complaints came very thick,
Every day thicker and thicker.
She was advis'd to change the air;
She did, but no-body knows where.
Molly came home a different thing,
Both in her shape and every feature,

From what she went away in spring,
You never saw a virgin sweeter.
'Squire Noddy coming from his travels,
By Molly is a captive led;
He to her Sire his mind unravels,
Her Sire consents, and Molly's wed.
It is six years that 'Squire Noddy
Has had the care of Molly's body;
And they have children half a dozen;
But what is very odd is this,
That none of all the six should miss,
But every one be like her cousin.

ZACHARY'S TALE;

OR THE SUSPICIOUS HUSBAND CURED;

ODE TO ZACHARY

Z. M . Esquire,

A living Monument
Of the Friendship and Generosity of the Great;
After an Intimacy of thirty Years,
With most of the great Personages of these Kingdoms,
Who did him the Honour to assist him
In the laborious Work
Of getting to the far End of a great Fortune,
These his Noble Friends,
From Gratitude for the many happy Days and Nights
Enjoy'd by his Means,
Exalted him, through their Influence,
In the forty-seventh Year of his Age,
To an Ensigncy;
Which he actually enjoys at present
In Gibraltar.

Omnis Aristippum decuit, color, et modus, et res—
Nunc in Aristippi furtim præcepta relabor,
Et mihi res, non me rebus submittere conor—

The Actors in this Dramatic Tale, are

The Suspicious Husband, Angravalle.
His Wife, Bindocchia.
Her Friend, Paulina.
Her Husband's Friend, Niceno.

Scene NAPLES.
What sober heads hast thou made ake?
How many hast thou kept from nodding?
How many wise-ones, for thy sake,
Have flown to thee, and left off plodding?
Thou wouldst, although the grave-ones shake
Their solemn locks, and strike one mute,
As soon be in the infernal lake,
As in the place of Pitt or Bute;
Whose heads incessantly send forth
Projects with glittering trains, like squibs,
And scatter, through the South and North,
Vollies of Ministerial Fibs.
Asleep, down precipices hurry'd,
Or, like Prometheus, chain'd to rocks—

By vultures gnaw'd, or monsters worry'd,
Hell-hounds, whose cry is, Dei Vox—
Or, victims to a heavier curse,
They dream they're dup'd, and fall unpity'd;
To fall a dupe is ten times worse
Than to be worried and Dewitted.
Philosophy and Grace is thine,
Not spiritual Grace, but sprightly;
Inspir'd by the God of Wine,
Inspir'd like old Anacreon nightly.
That Light divine, that heavenly Grace,
I fear, alas! thou wouldst not chuse;
That shines and blackens Whitefield's face,
Like the japan upon his shoes.
Whether thy Grace from Heaven descends,
Or rises from the earth below,
Oft hast thou rais'd thy helpless friends,
Oft given thy purse unto thy foe.—
Who gives his foe his purse outright
Shews plain, if I have any skill,
Not only that he bears no spite,
But that he bears him a good-will.

And also is perhaps as meek,
And is as little of a bite,
As he who only gives his cheek
(For Lesly gives nought else) to smite;
Or Whitefield, emptying the pockets
Of whores, and bawds, and gaping throngs;
Turning his eyes out of their sockets,
Singing and selling David's songs.
Now thou art gone, where can I find
Spirit and ease above controul,
Serenity and health of mind,
And gaiety and strength of soul?
Precepts I find, examples none,
And guides as blind as a guide stone.
The sportive Muse is my Physician,
To cure the folly, and the madness,
Of pride of Envy, and Ambition,
Of Spleen, and melancholy Sadness.
Soon as I touch the jocund lyre,
That instant, driven from their seat,
The dæmons of the mind retire,
And go and persecute the Great.

O! may their torments never cease,
May they be scourg'd both night and day,
Till they have brought thee back in peace,
And then, like thee, may they be ever gay!

Zachary Moore.

ZACHARY'S TALE.

TALE IV.

I. PART the FIRST.

[_]

This is so long a Tale, that Zachary thought it would be better divided into Two Parts.

Bandello lived in the sixteenth century, in high reputation for his wit, and corresponded with all the great men of that age. He retired into France upon the taken of Milan by the Spaniards, at which time all his papers wer burnt. In 1551 he was made Bishop of Agen in France, where his Novels were first published.

Outcried against writings, composed with no worse intention than to promote good-humour and chearfulness, by fighting against the Tædium Vitæ, were reserved for an age of refined hypocrisy. There ought to be a great distinction between obscenity, evidently designed to inflame the passions, and a ludicruous liberty, which is frequently necessary to shew th etrue ridicule of hypocritical characters, which can give offence to none, but such as are afriad of every thing that has a tendency to unmasking.

The second part of this Tale is upon a different plan from Bandello's. Zachary has told the Bishop's Tale with more modestly than the Bishop, and I think the catastrophe is more natural. The best edition of Bandello is printed at Lucca in 1554; and reprinted in London, in three volumes, quarto, 1740.

How oft has Boccace been translated
And blunder'd,
And Jean Fontaine assassinated
And plunder'd!
Where is the land where Boccace and Fontaine
Have not in effigy been slain?
Fontaine they imitate and turn,
Boccace they represent and render,
Just as the figures, made to burn,
Are like the Pope and the Pretender.
Why mayn't Bandello have a rap?
Why mayn't I imitate Bandello?
There never was a Prelate's cap
Bestow'd upon a droller fellow.
Like Tristram, in mirth delighting;
Like Tristram, a pleasant Writer;

Like his, I hope that Tristram's writing
Will be rewarded with a mitre.
There was a Knight, says our Bishop,
A Knight from Aragon in Spain,
So jealous, that you cannot fish up
His like and paragon again:
He serv'd Alphonsus many years,
Both in the wars and in affairs of state,
And fell in love up to the ears,
And would not give it up at any rate.
By bribes and flattery he won
Father, mother, daughter, and son.
And yet he serenaded, sigh'd,
And was long doubtful of his doom,
Before he gain'd his lovely Bride,
With all the rights of a Bridegroom.
And after that, they also tell us,
That in less time than you would think,
He grew so timorous and jealous,
He could not sleep o'nights a wink.
He was not jealous, says the Tale,
All the time he was in training;

'Twas not till he began to fail,
And to fall off, by over-straining.
As soon as ever he train'd off,
The nights she pass'd can scarce be told;
All night he could do nought but cough,
Torment, and tantalize, and scold,
Bindocchia was lively and alert,
And had no notion of a bridle;
She requir'd one, not only more expert,
But one as active as her spouse was idle.
Now Angravalle knew all this,
As well as either you or I,
When he thought proper to dismiss
Those, on whose help she might rely.
He dismiss'd both the men and maids
All together;
Birds of a feather;
Rogues, and intriguing jades;
All but a fellow with a surly look,
Gard'ner, butler, groom, and cook:
And, to cut off all hopes to come,
From an intriguing maid at least,

He pick'd up one both deaf and dumb,
And neither fit for man nor beast—
Besides, he had such crotches in his pate,
And such strange notions,
She could not cross the room without her mate
To watch her motions.
Bindocchia was to be pity'd,
So watch'd, so scolded, so ill fitted.
Considering cuckoldom's a sentence,
That cannot be revers'd and null,
By commutation nor repentance,
Nor by his Holiness's Bull:
I cannot think he was to blame,
So much as many folks pretend,
To shut his doors, and to disclaim
All intercourse with every friend.
Those cuckolds, it can't be disputed,
That either heaven or earth can boast,
Have been, and always are, cornuted
By those in whom they trust the most.
However, all were not deny'd;
He had a friend he valu'd next his life;

A friend that he had often try'd;
One, by good luck, related to his wife.
He was admitted, night or day,
To dine or sup,
Or to step up,
If he was not inclin'd to stay.
Niceno had an equal share
In the affections of this pair.
After much thought and perturbation,
Bindocchia grew to have less care,
For the continual defalcation
In Angravalle's bills of fare.—
Though you may think her patience strange,
She thought, but not without some doubt,
The posture of affairs would change,
That things would turn, and come about.
Two months were gone, which was a shame,
Without receiving any news,
Though she had oft put in her claim,
And often stickled for her dues;
The longer he was in arrear,
Her case and his grew still more queer.

In short, there was no end of waiting;
Her husband grew so great a debtor,
There was no way of calculating
The chances of his growing better.—
Now, Ladies, I desire to know,
In such a situation,
Was it unnatural, or no,
To cast her eyes on her Relation?
Observe, I said, to cast her eyes;
With those 'twas natural to speak;
To mingle also a few sighs
With a few roses in each cheek:
Except a blush, a sigh, a soft regard,
All other forms of speech are barr'd.
Accordingly, within her lips
She had a tongue in due subjection;
Not apt to wander, and make slips,
Without her order and direction.
One day she went, upon leave granted,
To see her Cousin—pray, take notice, Sirs!
A female that she often haunted,
Niceno's Cousin too, as well as her's;

As usual, attended by the Mute,
And by the Gardener, her fellow-brute.—
Paulina was her Cousin's name,
A perfect Saint in her demeanour;
Though she was spotless in her fame,
Never was any thing uncleaner:
She could impose upon the Wise and Grave,
And could, with Titus, safely swear;
She never lost a day that she could save,
Nor sav'd a night that she could spare.
Bindocchia told her husband's case,
His former feats were not deny'd;
But then his subsequent disgrace
By rhetoric was amplify'd.
By what means, or by what discovery,
Her Friend reply'd, can you be sure,
That Angravalle's past recovery,
That he is even past your cure?
There's a disorder we call Fumbling,
Amongst the men call'd Fighting shy,
Teazing, tumbling, squeezing, mumbling,
Still worse and worse, the more they try.

Upon our skill in this disease
All our whole happiness depends;
All our importance, all our ease,
All our pow'r of obliging friends.
We must, when call'd to their assistance,
Chearfully undergo the Law:
'Tis death to them to shew resistance,
And worse than death to laugh, or pshaw.
With all their humours, all their fancies,
In every form, in every shape,
We must comply; nay, make advances,
To help them out of such a scrape.
'Tis by this single piece of skill
That I command and rule,
And make my headstrong mule
Submit entirely to my will.
Bindocchia, indeed, I fear,
That you, like many a haughty Beauty,
Think that your goods ought to come clear
Of every charge, and every duty:
And so they will, my dear, by smuggling;
But the foundation must be laid

By honest industry and struggling;
By credit in a lawful trade.
Have you, with both your mind and might,
Endeavour'd to set matters right?
Casting her eyes upon a crucifix,
That hung within her cousin's bed;
Bindocchia said, I have try'd all the tricks
That ever enter'd in a head.
I could as soon persuade those thieves
To steal away, and leave their crosses;
Or the fall'n tree with wither'd leaves
To rise and to repair its losses.
There never will be life within that lump,
Till the dead rise at the last trump.
Paulina, this is my decree,
My spouse must have a Coadjutor;
His Friend, all precedents agree,
Should be preferred to every suitor.
I need not tell you whom I mean,
Nor ask my Friend to go between:
He has had innuendos many:
But make Niceno understand,

That any scruples, if he has any,
Are just like letters wrote on sand;
Or like the fears of truant boys,
Which interrupt their brisk career,
And for a moment damp their joys,
But the next moment disappear;
Or like a boy in brief dispute,
Whether it is a sin to pull
A pocket full of tempting fruit,
And rob an orchard that's quite full:
Nature decides, and doubt no longer hampers;
He fills his pockets, and he scampers.
In fine,
Paulina relish'd her design;
Her friend, by the same guard escorted,
Return'd to her old station.
That night Paulina, 'tis reported,
Finish'd her negotiation:
Her arguments had so much weight,
Niceno gave up the debate.
Bindocchia, put upon her mettle,
Assembles and convenes

Her powers, and all her wits, to settle
And find out ways and means:
She had not been an hour acquainted
With her Friend's motion and success,
Till she was taken ill and fainted,
And carry'd off, and forc'd t'undress.
Her mouth was drawn aside and purs'd,
Her head turn'd like the flying chair
That children ride in at a fair;
Her stomach swell'd, and like to burst.
All night in bed she made a riot,
Her husband thought she was possess'd,
She never had a moment's quiet,
Nor he a single minute's rest.
Just at the time that the cock crew,
Out of the bed Bindocchia flew;
In the next chamber was a water-closet,
Where she began to grunt and moan,
As if she was making a deposit,
And was delivering a stone.
Her husband rose and follow'd near;
And, if she had been off her guard,

She could have heard with half an ear,
He puff'd, and fetch'd his breath so hard;
By smothering his cough he kept a wheezing,
Which for a list'ner is as bad as sneezing.
Hearing him wheeze, she blew a gale,
That seem'd to issue from behind,
And made her husband turn his sail,
And brush away before the wind.
So well did she perform her part,
Trumpeting with her mouth and hand;
He had no mistrust of any art,
Or any dealings contraband.
At every foul report and crack,
That she in agony let fly,
He mov'd, and slunk a little back,
Like a judicious able spy.
Scarce were they laid till he began to snore:
Bindocchia started out of bed once more,
And soon spoil'd Angravalle's snoring;
He thought it was a kettle-drum,
For never any mortal bum
Made such a rattling and roaring.

Again he was upon his feet,
Again she was all wind and griping;
Again he made a safe retreat,
The instant that he heard her wiping.
His jealous freaks were never so kept under,
But they would quickly shoot and flower,
To every one's astonishment and wonder,
Like mushrooms in a thunder-shower.
The moment he began to doze,
It was in vain to think of sleeping;
She started up, whipt on her cloaths,
Ran off, and he came after creeping.
Till broad day-light,
There was no sign at all of ending,
For she kept going all the night,
And he kept list'ning and attending.
The female cousins, with much laughter,
Concerted all the scenes hereafter.
Next day, the better to impose,
She kept her bed, fatigu'd with purging;
And yet Bindocchia often rose,
Her provocations were so urging.

The night was like the night before,
Hurrying, trumpeting, dispatching;
The same attendant at the door
For ever listening and catching,
Till he was weary'd out and spent,
And quite convinc'd no harm was meant.
At three o'clock that very morning
(An hour convenient for horning)
Niceno, punctual to his call,
In the next chamber was in waiting,
Convey'd thro' a window of the hall,
Without much doubting and debating.
There was no servant there to fear,
Except the Mute, and none slept sounder,
And she so deaf, she could not hear
Ev'n an eight-and-forty pounder.
The Gardener, by way of Groom,
The only one watchful and able,
Laid at a distance in a room
Over the stable.
And now Bindocchia went to reap
The fruits of all her labour;

Whilst Angravalle was asleep,
She entertain'd his neighbour,
He was so pleasant and engaging,
She stay'd with him three hours at least;
And, though he wak'd coughing and raging,
Her Husband could not spoil their feast.
They went on joyously, for nothing caring,
(So keen is hunger)
Regarding him no more than a cheese-paring,
Or a Cheesemonger.
She groan'd, she trumpeted, and crack'd,
And made a noise so diabolic,
You would have sworn she had been rack'd,
And torn to pieces with the cholic.
I may thank you for all I feel,
Cry'd she, to Angravalle, coughing;
If one was made of brass or steel,
You soon would wear one out to nothing.
Three months with cold have I been dying,
By your ingenious way of lying;
Such usage is not to be borne,
Tossing and kicking cloaths and sheets!

And never cover'd night nor morn!
I could lie better in the streets I
Thus things being come to a conclusion,
Niceno stole away, she shut up shop,
Jump'd into bed without the least confusion,
Scolded a while, and slept sound as a top.

END OF THE FIRST PART.

PART II.

At noon she rose, recover'd quite;
Her colour and her eyes confess'd,
They were so radiant and bright,
That natural physic is the best:
As Angravalle had foretold,
Natural physic carry'd off her cold.
What could not be foretold so well,
What he could only hope, at most,
That night she rais'd him, like a spell
Raising the devil or a ghost.
Her charms and efforts were so great,
His cure was completed;
Nay, 'twas so thoroughly complete,
That all the proofs were twice repeated.
But this, she knew, she could not long rely on,
Nor would it do by half;
Unless a lamb will satisfy a lion,
That can digest a calf.

That half is far more than the whole,
In former times, was Hesiod's thought;
She was persuaded from her soul,
That half is only more than nought;
And consequently less than half must stand,
Just like a cypher, plac'd on the left hand.
This very sudden revolution
Caus'd in her Husband a revulsion,
Which caus'd a sudden resolution
To yield, and follow its impulsion.
His country-house wanting repairing,
He thought to take a three-days airing.
Though he had vow'd a trust unshaken
For his Bindocchia's late merits;
For all the trouble she had taken,
To comfort him, and raise his spirits;
Yet when he bade his wife adieu,
His jealousy broke out anew,
He left the Gardener instructed;
He was to watch and lie perdu,
To see how matters were conducted,
And to report upon a view:

And after this the Knight departed,
Sadly foreboding and faint-hearted.
His Lady knew, that time, like riches,
Should be enjoy'd;
Which are but lumber in one's breeches,
When unemploy'd:
Her greatest happiness she ow'd
To time judiciously bestow'd.
Paulina was directed strait
The Coadjutor to secure;
He was that night to officiate
In Angravalle's vacant cure:
Three morns he serv'd the morning service,
Three afternoons, afternoon function,
Three nights, like any monk or dervise,
He labour'd with great zeal and unction.
After such business and hurry,
It ever was my confident belief,
That he was rather glad than sorry,
When Angravalle came to his relief;
Though the last night an accident fell out,
That might alarm a man less stout.

Returning through the garden late,
He spy'd, within the avery,
The Gardener lying in wait
To perpetrate some knavery.
Although betray'd,
He knew his Cousin's parts too well
To be afraid
Of aught the Gardener could tell;
Nor ventur'd, in affairs so nice,
To interpose his own advice.
As to all salutary measures,
He trusted to that native wit,
Abounding in inventive treasures,
And inexhaustible as Pitt.—
In State Affairs, if not in Letters,
Niceno may be an example,
When we give credit to our betters,
To make it generous and ample.
Bindocchia thus, upon the brink of ruin,
Smil'd at the mischief that was brewing.
She was peeping through her window-lattice
Just when she heard her Husband's rap;

Not as a rat is,
A rat that's peeping through a trap;
But as a cat is,
A cat with a considering cap.
Whilst he was knocking at the gate,
Bindocchia slily descended;
She knew the temper of her Mate,
Enough to guess what he intended;
Having, incog, upon occassions,
Assisted at his consultations.
The council-room was under-ground,
Where he repair'd when he alighted:
The bill against his Spouse was found—
And the poor soul to be indicted;
A trial was decreed,
Proceedings settled and agreed.
The Court broke up, all parties to their task
Till things should be reveal'd,
Bindocchia issu'd from an empty cask,
Where she had lain conceal'd.
Her Husband took a turn or two
To smooth the wrinkles on his brow—

Then smiling, like a mind at ease,
He march'd up to his Lady's chamber,
And found Bindocchia on her knees
Before a crucifix of amber:
A situation,
That he beheld with indignation.
But he kept down his swelling bile,
Inform'd by sober reason,
That his revenge, delay'd awhile,
Would not be less in season;
She neither mov'd her eye, nor her eye-brow,
Till she had sung the Litany quite through.
Then rising with a chearful air,
So modest, and so unaffected,
That Angravalle well might stare,
When he consider'd and reflected.
However, with some perturbation,
He stammer'd this Oration.
I must return—this afternoon,
On bus'ness, that I can't neglect;
To-morrow I will be here—soon;
Sooner, perhaps—than you expect.

I thought, if I did not appear,
Knowing how great your love and care is,
That you would certainly, my Dear,
Be full of fears and quandaries—
So I must instantly go back,
As soon as I have got a snack.
Whilst this same snack was getting ready,
Paulina call'd upon her scholar,
A circumstance that kept him steady—
And help'd him to digest his choler.
His meal dispatch'd, he set out in an amble,
Full of his great and wise intentions.
Bindocchia, in a short preamble,
Explain'd her doubts and apprehensions,
Laid open all her plans and schemes,
Her arguments and speculations,
Which were so far from being dreams,
Paulina thought them revelations;
Her schemes, like Harlequinery,
Were all dumb shew and scenery;
The whole so artfully invented,
So free from all affected airs;

It must succeed, if represented
By any tolerable players.
Paulina had a part assign'd,
In which her cousin knew she shin'd.
They were resolv'd to try the event,
And set about it with good-will,
Knowing, before the night was spent,
They might be forc'd to shew their skill—
Which made Paulina hasten home,
To be prepar'd against the time to come.
Paulina told the Gard'ner in the entry,
To mind her message, and take heed,
To leave his post where he was sentry,
And let his Lady know with speed,
That she had quite forgot to say,
The message he was to convey:—
That she had bus'ness in the town,
But she would send the fringe and lace,
Drawings and patterns for the gown,
By her own maid the Bolognoise.
Bindocchia might keep her slattern,
Keep her all night, if she requir'd,

Till she had drawn and done the pattern,
And the designs that she desir'd.
Though these were terms to him like Greek,
Yet he deliver'd his commission,
And did, as well as he could speak,
Deliver it with great precision.
And now as soon as it was night
He lock'd the gates of the great court,
And introduc'd the jealous Knight
By a back way, or sally-port.
Within the av'ry, in ambuscade,
His Lord and Master watch'd and pray'd.
Being inform'd how matters went,
That none had enter'd since his going,
Except a wench Paulina sent,
A wench to draw designs for sewing,
A Bolognoise with scarf and veil,
Twanging through the nose and snuffing,
As if she had been from head to tail
Loaded with a Naples stuffing.
The night was still, the moon was bright,
When he, in an ill-fated hour,

Discover'd plainly, by her light—
Niceno passing by his bow'r
On which, with might and resolution,
He put his wrath in execution.
Our jealous Knight, in the first place,
Summoned all his wife's relations,
As witnesses of her disgrace,
And of his sufferings and patience;
Dragging along, with many others,
His Lady's father, and her brothers.
How did her brothers storm, her father weep!
When, op'ning her room-door, upon the bed,
They all beheld the Lovers fast asleep,
Upon her bosom lay Niceno's head.
But when they saw the Lovers rise,
How great their wonder! what must they suppose!
They hardly could believe their eyes,
Seeing Paulina in Niceno's cloaths—
And here the injur'd wife began to hector,
Reading aloud the following lecture:—
His jealous fits were every hour,
Nay, every minute, growing stronger,
Till he had put it past my power

To bear his folly any longer.
Having observ'd the jealous fool
Following me when I was sick,
Every time I went to stool,
I own it touch'd me to the quick.
Paulina's goodness and devotion
Were shock'd at my determination,
Insisting it was a rash notion,
Although she own'd the provocation;
Advising me to club our wits,
To try to cure my husband's fits.
Whilst Angravalle was away,
Indeed, I blush whilst I am speaking,
I spy'd the Gard'ner, where he lay,
Watching like a thief, and sneaking.
So, having found the thing I sought,
A key that turn'd the garden-lock,
I was transported with the thought
Of punishing my stupid block.
Paulina, as she had often done,
Borrow'd her cousin's cloaths, and in the garden,
In order to complete our fun,
Appear'd before the Gardener, my warden.

My spouse, we did not doubt the least,
Would be inform'd, as we desir'd;
We knew that the suspicious beast
With rage and vengeance would be fir'd.
His second trip, we judged, was to deceive;
It happen'd just as we suppos'd:
And now I humbly do conceive,
He is sufficiently expos'd.—
This is the true and perfect history,
Of all this mystery:
And now I do insist, his temper such is,
To be deliver'd from his clutches.
Her husband, conscious of her merit,
Acknowledg'd his transgressions;
She spoke with so much force and spirit,
He promis'd before all the sessions,
If she would pardon what was past,
That this offence should be the last.
And, as a proof that his designs were good,
The Gard'ner should be discarded;
She should chuse servants, and go where she would Unguarded.

Bindocchia consented,
And never afterwards repented.
Paulina to her maid retir'd,
Which maid was not according to the letter,
But in this fashion was attir'd,
On purpose to conceal Niceno better.
So well he acted, I'll engage,
That this Niceno might have play'd,
On any theatre or stage,
The snuffling Bolognia maid.
Paulina dress'd herself before she went,
Her maid had brought her cloaths for that intent.
People that I suspect for scoffers
Pretend that, whilst Paulina was undressing,
Niceno made her handsome offers,
Which she could not refuse, he was so pressing.
They were together, 'tis confess'd,
Two hours before she could get dress'd.
However 'twas is undecided,
But as to him he was complete,

In every circumstance provided,
And fit to serve a pious cheat;
But, to be able to serve two,
Is more than I, perhaps, or you, can do.

THE PRIVY-COUNSELLOR'S AND THE STUDENT OF LAW'S TALE.

A MANUSCRIPT. FOUND AT CRAZY-CASTLE. Supposed to be written about the time of Henry VIII

PROLOGUE TO THE PRIVY-COUNSELLOR'S AND THE STUDENT OF LAW'S TALE.

Once on a time, how many years ago,
As I could nivir learn, you cannot know,
A Member of the Parliament,
And a Law-student his relation,
Rode out of town with no intent,
Unless it was for recreation.
Full sixty is the Member, and hath seen
Many a famous King and comely Queen.—
In yvery reign, in yvery age,
He florish'd in prosperitie;
In the beginning was a Page,
Now Privy-Counsellor is he.

His personage is grave and full of state,
Yielding him weight and vantage in debate;
But with a boon-companion gay and free;
No ceremony, no mysterious airs;
Just as a Privy-Counsellor should be,
If he had been a Page of the Back-stairs.
The Student's Father is in perfect health,
Thank God, and waxes daily strong in wealth;
Wants not his son to get a heap,
But just enough of Law
To guard his own estate, and keep
The neighbourhood in awe;
And I dare venture to maintain,
Herein his Father's hopes shall not be vain.
Allbeit, he doth not attend the Courts,
And redith none but Geoffery's Reports;
Yet Plowden lying ever on the table,
Opin and spread,
He is counted full as able,
As if he had him in his head.
So, as I signify'd before, these two
Ride out of town, having nought else to do.

Six miles from town this member hath a box,
For contemplation good;
Where he retires, as thoughtful as an ox
Chewing his cud.
He creeps into his box of stone,
Sometimes for pleasure, oftener for whim:
Or when he is tir'd of every one,
Or every one is tir'd of him.
It is call'd a Box, and there's a reason why,
Because therein a man lays himself by.—
Within a box, if you your cloaths conceal,
The fashion and the worms conspire,
To make a suit, that was genteel,
Fit only for the Sheriff of a shire;
But good enough for you,
If in your box you lie too long perdu.
When you come out again 'twill be too late;
You and your coat will both be out of date.—
Here then they 'light, and now suppose them dining;
Suppose them also grumbling and repining;
The bacon's fusty, and the fowls are tough;
The mutton over-done, the fish not done enough;

The cloth is drawn, the wine before them set;
Wine, like themselves, entirely on the fret:
Muttering their prayers, exchanging looks askew,
Just like two rival beauties in a pew.
What might have happen'd no one can decide,
Had not, by fortune or design,
The Butler in the cellar spy'd
A hoard of admirable wine.
Bounce goes the cork; sparkles the glass;
Cousin, here's to your favourite lass:
And here their purgatory ends;
For after this
They enter into perfect bliss,
Drinking like perfect friends:
Drinking, because drinking promoteth joaking;
Joaking, without insulting or provoking.
The evening finishes with equal glory,
The worthy Counsellor proposing
To make a closing,
By telling each a merry story.
I have one fram'd, says he, in Geoffry's phrase;
Geoffry's, the Courtiers' language of those days.

The Student likes the motion well;
Says he, I'll answer you with one quite new—
My tale in courtly speech I cannot tell;
But I can tell a merry tale, and true.

THE PRIVY-COUNSELLOR'S TALE.

TALE V.

Reignid in Yorkshire one of mity fame,
Clepid king Grig, as Kronikels proclaim;
Thilk Prince delighted ay in mirth and sport,
Japis and jollitries of yvery sort;
And now when pepil lough, and rage , and play,
Folk name them merry Grigs until this day.—
This King, I undirstond, hath venimid his blud ,
Whereby he hath lost his corage and his rud ;
Sore shent is he by Cupid and his mother,
And woe-begone far more than any other.—

100

The Kingis mother dere, Queen Whity hight ,
Because her heer , allso her skin is white,
Is Queen of Cortesy, and Beautis Pride,
Gentil and modest as a maidin bride.
She sends to Potikers and Leeches grave,
Prays them to spare his life, and membris save;
Ne drogue ne instroment mote him avail;
His joints are losen'd, and his cheekis pale;
And he that erst would sing, and laugh, and jeer,
Hath not he smilid once in haf a year.

There is a Conjorer, a sottil Wight ;
This Conjorer the Queen consults by night.
The Neekromanzir, according to his guise,
Casteth his figures, poreth on the skies,
And redith how to cure the Kingis woe;
His Grace until an heling-well shall go,
And bath his lims for sivin nights therein;
And sivin maidins, strippid to the skin,
Shall frote his body, till one, by her devise
And cunning touching, hele him in a trice.

101

Both King and Queen, you may be very sure,
Are in great haste to set about the cure.
Now is she setten forth in brave array,
And with the sely King upon her way;
Yccompany'd with Minstrels and japers ,
Jugglirs and Morrice-dancers, cutting capers;
One time that thing which Ministers delite
Shall, in another season, breed dispite;
For when the King is sad, it is ungracious thing
If everich-one is merrier than the King.
In this sort journeying, they come at last
Unto the well, wherein the King him cast;
His body chafid is, with special care,
By sivin naked damsills passing fair.

The King hath view'd them well in every piece ,
Withouten splint, or malanders, or grease;
Hard are their breastis, skin as smothe as glass;
Plomp be their bottoks, and as tight as brass;
Smale are their feet; each feature, every limb,
Lies in the fairest form, and sweetest trim.—

102

The Queen examinid hath craftily
For Maidins of the best virginity;
None of these sivin hath spilt her maidins-hede,
As in these days moch reson was to drede.
Handlid and chafid with sick daintyness ,
Wexid the King to gather lustyness ;
And notabul it is to everich eye,
How he is rais'd and cherished thereby.
The sivinth day they all are out of pain;
Symptome of helth appearid very plain;
Whereat the Queen rejoices as is need,
Honoring the Maidin who hath done the deid;
And yet when he returnid hath to Court,
The King mote not be pleas'd in any sort;
And all that Lords and Ladys can invent,
Shall but encrease the Kingis discontent;
Wherfor the dutyfull Queen hieth her,
And counselleth again the Conjorer.

He spieth, in his secret Boke of Magie ,
How the same Maidins mote him rectifie ;

103

And yvery buxom Maid shall speke a tale,
And yvery Maid to make him lough assail;
And she that makes him lough shall thence be led,
And have the Kingis company in bed;
In bed, or any other pleasant place,
Wherever it shall please the Kingis Grace.
And lo the Queen these joyful tidings bears
To Chappil, where the Maidins are at prayers.—
Away the Maidins hurry them from Matins,
Apparrelling themselves in silks and sattins;
And all the sivin Damzils, out of hand,
Are set before the King at his command.—
He doth ordain each Maid to speke by lot;
Allso, because ne word shall be forgot,
A Scribe is there to notice all they say.—
And now six Maids have talk'd for haf a day;
And yet, for all the talking they can make,
They scarce can keep the Kingis Grace awake.
Then came the sivinth Maidin in degree,
But cannot speke her tale for modesty.

My tale, saies she, I wold begin, but fear
A word unseemly to a modest ear;

104

My tale without this word cannot be told,
And to deliver it I am not bold.—
What means the Maidin? quoth the King in ire ,
You may gloze any word, if you enquire .
I am no Clerk , saies she, her Grace well knows,
Pleasith you, Sir, may teach me how to gloze ;
Bot I will trie to do the best I may,
That you may better frame what I would say.—
Of all God's creatures its the choicest fare,
Yet he that has the least, has the best share.
I shall not graunt your prayer, the King reply'd,
Riddils are derk; and Paraphrase is wide:
Bot well I know the Latin and the Dutch,
Of Fraunce and Toscany I have a touch:
Now, any of these tongues, if you're inclin'd,
Fair Maid, may seem to shape what you would find.
Dutch, quoth the Queen, my son, the maid demands,
It is a tongue no Christian undirstands.
Well, quoth the King, fair Maid, this dredefull name,
That werkith in you so much strife and shame,

105

Pronounce they Fotz throughout all Germany;
Now you may speke your story hardily .—

Sir, quoth the buxom Maid, upon a time,
A jolly Knight there was in all his prime,
Soot were his eyes, and manly was his face,
Lusty his limbs, his body in good case;
A piercing and a pleasant wit withall,
Ne vice had he, but that his means were small:
Here the king turning, doth the Scribe beseech,
To lose no word, nor sentence of her speech.

Upon a joyful tide , the King of Kent
Proclamid hath a noble turnament,
There yvery Knight enforced is to be;
Unless he will be held of villanie ;
Our Knight, Sir Amador the debonaire,
Mote thither with his Squire and steed repair:
And having traveled five days anend ,
The Knight and Squire unto a meadow wend ,
Ynamilid with pinks and cowslips gay,
Thro' which a rivir glides as bright as summir-day.

106

Upon the banks grows many a beachin tree,
And many a spreding oak most fair to see;
There they espied in the cristal lake,
Three nakid damzills of an hevenly make;
Their wimples and their gowns of broudid silk,
Ywrought with gold, their smokkis white as milk,
And all their costly garments were display'd
Undir an aged oak's ynticing shade.

Behold the Knightis color changeth hue,
At sight so unexpected and so new;
Not that Acteon's hap ydraddid he,
Worried belike for sik audacity.
The Knight he blosh'd, because he thote within,
Such nakidness shall make a saint to sin.—
Gazeth Sir Amador with all his mite,
Tasteth thereof the 'Squire but brief delite,
For being more ynclined unto prey,
Stealid their smokkis and their robes away.
The Maidins noted the unworthy Swain,
And calling to the Knight, declare their pain;

107

Soon the ynragid Knight arrests the Squire,
And turnith to the Maids with their attire,
Making excuses, he could do no less,
For his intrusion on their nakidness,
And with profound respect and reverence,
Saluting each by turns he bears him hence.

He is hardly gone, before they all agree,
They should have done the Knight some cortesy;
And call him back; the eldest Suster spoke,
Sir, we be Fairys living by this broke ,
And sikirly unfit it is for us,
That have such power, to be discourteous;
Wherfore some tokins at our hands receive,
And for myself, this tokin will I leave:
Wymen to pleasure you shall ever strive
In any land, so long as you're alive;
And you shall nivir fail in wymen's pleasure,
And when you please, shall please them without measure.

The second Fairy saith, Sir Knight, my tokin
Is of a nature wondros to be spokin.—

108

And now the Damzill's tale cannot proceed;
Her face, as any burning coal, is rede.
Quoth then the King, divining sottely,
The word you seek is Fotz, assuredly:
True, saies the Maid; and so the Fairy saith,
That whosoever Fotz he questioneth,
Shall make an answer, or if none she gives,
The Fotz shall fare the worse for't whilst she lives.

My Suster, quoth the third, under correction,
Your tokin's good, but lacketh of perfection,
The Fotz may be, by accidental cause,
So busy that she cannot move her jaws;
Whenever this doth happen, I intend
Her next door neighbour answer for her friend.—
The King no longer can refrain from laughter,
Also the Queen herself him follows after.
I will reward you well for this anon;
Mean time, quoth he, my pritty Maid, go on.
The Knight ne yvir having seen a fay ,
Thinketh they japen him in that they say—

109

He overtakes the Squire, and on they ride,
Discoursing on the Fairys, side by side;
Happened a Freer of a neighboring abbey,
Rideth abroad in gallant pomp that day,
Mounted he is upon a dapple mare,
And looketh altogether void of care;
Rosy his cheeks, a twinkling hazle eye,
He seemid Patriarke of Venerie;
Or Pontif of renowned Baal-Peor ;
Certes you shall not oft meet such a Freer.

110

The Knight accosteth him, noteth the beast,
The dapple mare that bears the stately priest;
Fotz, saies the Knight, I question thee to say,
Whither thy master hieth him this way?
Finding she needs must answer him par force,
Distinctly answers Fotz, tho' somewhat hoarse,
What you require I will deliver brief:
My master is avowterer and thief;
He hath robb'd the sacresty of churches plate,
And to his lemman beareth it in state.—

111

The Priest, astony'd such a voice to find,
Believeth Sathanas is there behind;
Descendeth from the mare, voweth repentaunce,
Leaving the Knight talking with new acquaintance;
The Priest is lame, and no great haste can make;
He waddles like a duck eftir a drake.

Fotz, quoth the Knight, pray tell me as we go,
What is it makes the Freer waddil so?

Sir, quoth the Fotz, about a year agon,
Our Abbot and my Master, Freer John,
Discoursing, riding round the Abbot's Perk,
Of leachery and prankis in the derk;
The Abbot softly rounith brother John,
All fauncies have I proven everich one,
Whereby a man may find the greatest joy,
The pleasantest his talent to employ—
Yet thereto, though I oft have been inclin'd,
Have not I yvir practic'd out of kind .
Nor I, says Freer John, I do declare;
Trie we then, says the Abbot, with the mare:

112

But reason giveth property the place,
Wherfor thyself shalt have the first embrace.
Freer consents, and, for his evil deeds,
Ungirds the cords whereon he strings the beads;
Bindeth therewith mine hinder leggis twain,
Holdeth me fast the Abbot by the rein;
And letting go his steed, he praunceth by,
And with a kick lamid the Freer's thigh;
Else had I been, upon my corp'ral oath,
Ravyshed by a Freer and Abbot both.

Now forward Knight and strange companion trots,
Laughing the Knight, and communing with Fotz:
Upon a hill not far they do descry
A cassil fair, with towris broad and high;
Shaped their course unto the cassil strait;
Opin'd the Porter hath the cassil-gate.
The Seneschal had led the Squire and Knight
Through goodly chambris curiosly bedight,
Unto an hall hung round with tapestry,
Of Pharoh's host, drenchid in the Rede Sea;

113

There at their supper sit the Gouvernante,
Or Lady of the Cassil, and her Ant;
This Lady is a Wedo fresh and young
And froliksome, and hath a merry tong —
And looks so kind, and sings such lovesome strains,
No marvel that her Lord hath brast his reins.
Welcome, Sir Knight, saies she, unto my board,
I have not seen a Nobler since my Lord.
The Knight and Squire sit them down to eat,
The board is cover'd with all kind of meat;
Rich wines the pages pour in chrystal glass,
And many a choice conceit and laugh doth pass.
The hour is late; tarrieth the Aunt for spite,
Riseth the Lady—wisheth a good night.
The Knight in bed ay thinketh on his host,
Sleep hath he none, for wantonness of ghost.
This bounteous Wedo gives her maids a call,
Chusing the best and fairest of them all;
Biddeth her go unto the Knight, and say,
She comes to solace him till it is day;

114

And that her Lady bids her say in bed,
How much she wishes she was in her stead:
Bot may not have the opportunity,
Because, for spite, the Aunt with her doth lie.
The maidin flies; her heart with gladness beats,
Strippith, and creepith in between the sheets.
Turnith the Knight unto the maidin gent,
And both do pass the time with moch content—
And aftir they have ragid to the full,
Strokid the Knight, and givith Fotz a pull,
And saieth, little Fotz, tellith me true,
Be you aggriev'd with that I have done at you.—
As I am a Christian Fotz, replied she,
I nivir pass'd a night with so much glee.—
Up sterts the Maidin, runnith in dismay
Into the room next that her Lady lay,
And finds her Lady up, and sitting there,
Musing and pond'ring in an elbow-chair.
Yon Knight, quoth she, 's a witch or something badder,
He conjur'd hath the Devil in my bladder;

115

After he did me twenty times and more,
Oftner than ever I was done before,
He pulleth Fotz, and of its own accord
Spekid the mouth that nivir utters word.—
Child, quoth the Lady, set your mind at ease,
Most of us all have had the like disease,
Working anights at soch a grievous rate
Lozens the Fotz's tongue, and makes it prate.
The Lady thinks to humour her is best,
She deems her head is light for want of rest.—
Yes, saies the Maid, they have tongis without doubt,
I have seen Fotzes tongis hanging out.
Go get to rest, replies the Lady bright,
A little sleep will set your matters right.
The Maidin goes, the Lady at the dore
Harkneth, and stealeth to Sir Amadore;
Sir Knight, quoth she, it is not very civil,
To give my Maidin's Fotz unto the Devil:
Fotz is no chamber for so mean a groom,
He might have been content with a worse room.
I use no fiend, quoth he, but have a skill
To make what Fotz I please talk, when I will.—

116

Talk! saies the Lady, I engage this ring,
You neither make it talk, whyssel, nor sing.—
Out flew the Knight, most terribly array'd;
At sight whereof the Dame was nought afraid.—
Upon the bed the Lady hath he pitch'd,
And there she lay, as if she was bewitch'd:
And after many pleasaunt fauncies there,
Breethed the Knight awhile, to take the air;
And whispering the Fotz, holding his nose,
Biddith my Lady Fotz tell all she knows.
Gapid the Fotz, and gabbill'd far and wide,
Telling soch things, the Wedo swore she lied.
I yield, saies she—you are a skilful youth;
I yield, if you will stop that lyar's mouth.—
'Tis mighty well, saies he, we soon shall trie
Whether my Lady Fotz has learnt to lie—
And thrusting into Fotz's mouth a gag,
Her next door neighbour's tong began to wag.
Saies she, in a crack'd voice, like one you feign,
All that Fotz sayth I am ready to maintain.
Enough, the Lady saith, Sir Knight, have done,
Here, take the ring, I own 'tis fairly won;

117

And since you are a Knight of so great power,
Freely I offer both myself and dower;
And certes one was made for t'other's sake—
For you can give no more than I can take.

The fabul's finished, the King is hele ,
The Damzill is contented yvery deal;
And Grig had sons, and they had many heirs,
And they were all like Grig, all free from cares;
Their hearts would nivir sink no more than cork,
And tho' no Kings, they still are Dukes of York.

Clepid, called.

Thilk, this same.

Japis, jests.

Rage, frolic.

Venimid his blud, tainted.

Corage and his rud, his strength, his spirits, and complexion.

Shent, hurt.

Hight, called.

Heer, hair.

Leeches, physicians.

Erst, formerly.

Haf, half.

Sottil wight, a cunning fellow.

Frote, rub.

Sely, sick.

Yccompany'd, accompany'd.

Japers, Jesters.

Everich, every.

Piece, part.

Sick, such.

Daintyness, elegance.

Lustyness, strength, health, &c.

Notabul, plain.

Everich, every.

Mote, might.

Boke of Magie, Conjuring-book.

Mote, might.

Rectifie, set him to rights.

In ire, in a passion.

Gloze, to wrap up ænigmatically.

Enquire, study.

Clerk, scholar.

Gloze, to wrap up ænigmatically.

Hardily, boldly.

Soot, sweet.

Means, Fortune, Estate.

Joyful Tide, Time of Festivity.

Held of Villanie, degraded and reduced to the condition of a Vassal.

Anend, strait forwards.

Wend, arriv'd.

Wimples, Neck-kerchiefs.

Broudid, embroider'd.

Ydraddid, fear'd.

Sik, the like.

Thote, thought.

Broke, brook.

Sikirly, certainly.

Ne yvir, never.

Fay, Fairy.

Japen, banter.

Freer, Friar.

Baal-Peor, or Baal-Phegor, from whence, perhaps, Pego, and the adjunct Βαλλοκ, whose priests are opprobricusly called Βαλλοκς, or Followers of Baal Beor; who, according to Dr. Middleton, was a god of the Moabites, the same with Priapus. (See Germana quædam monumenta, by Dr. Conyers Middleton, S. T. P. in quarto, page 65, with two monuments elegantly engraved of Βαλλοκ-πεγω.) The Doctor says, from the authority of the Fathers, that he was the hobby-horse of the women of Israel, page 69.—That the new-married women had an Idolum Tentiginis, which our language is incapable of rendering; and, that they not only took great delight in getting astride of this idol, but they were enjoined to do so as a religious ceremony. The Doctor has given a description of one of these idols, which he has had the good fortune to see at Rome. As our Ladies are not under any obligation to practise all the ceremonies of the Ladies of Israel, I am less concerned at my want of erudition to explain to them sufficiently the meaning of several of the Doctor's terms.

The idol's head is like the head of a cock, but instead of a beak, is a stupendous Fascinum: upon the base is inscribed, ΣΩΤΗΡ ΚΟΣΜΟΥ, the Saviour of the World.

I cannot believe (however respectable the authority) that the children of the Roman nobility wore the Fascinum about their necks: I do not mean that it is an unbecoming ornament; one may be easily convinced of the contrary, by casting an eye upon the two belonging to the Doctor and his friend Dr. Warren, with which, as I said before, he has obliged the Public, in his Genuine Antiquities; but, considering the ingenuity of the Romans, why might not their Fascinum be the same, and for the same purpose, as that of the Chinese!—If the Doctor had seen those of Mrs. Chenivix, he certainly would have been of another opinion. But what is the most remarkable of all is, that in the Chinese language Διλδω signifies a charm. A convincing argument of the weakness of an hypothesis, supported only by the etymology of words.

Avowterer, adulterer.

Lemman, mistress.

Rounith, whispers.

Proven, tried.

Out of kind, unnaturally.

Towris, towers.

Drenchid, drowned.

Tong, tongue.

Brast, broke.

Ay, always.

Hele, whole recovered.

119

THE STUDENT OF LAW'S TALE;

OR THE CURE FOR SYMPATHY.

TALE VI.

Sign of the Lamb, near Ludgate, you may find,
The sign is emblem of the owner's mind.
Emanuel Cooper dwelleth in that place,
A Mercer, with an yvir smiling-face,
Speking so soft, and pityfull, and meek,
It seems he rather bleateth than doth speke;
All pepil that do pass he humbly greets,
Nay, when the wanton stops him in the streets,
Though he doth most abhor the harlot's waies,
That she will let him go, he softly praies;
Although she holds him fast he will not swear,
But, yvir-smiling, doth intreat her fair.—

120

He hath heard his Onkil say there is ne vice
He mote eschew like Harlotry and Dice;
Harlots make men unfit to get an heir,
And Dice consume all that the Harlots spare.
This Onkil is a Scriv'nir in the Strond,
Is rich, and lendeth money upon lond,
A batchellor, and old, and dredeful sly,
And trustith not to possibility:
For he will see Emanuel have a son,
Before he builds the house at Edmonton,
With golden letters wrote upon the wall,
Advising folk to name it Cooper-hall.

The way Emanuel toke to get a wife
Is subject of this Tale, and best of all his life.
Emanuel hath near served out his years,
Having ne vice at all the Onkil fears;
Ne cause the Onkil hath to be afraid,
Vice hath he none, but craftyness of trade.
And now above a month his mastir's gone
To drink the rede cow's milk at Yslington,
And yvery day they loke for him to die
Of a Consomption and the Lipprosie;

121

And for that he doth trust Emanuel,
He leaveth him alone to buy and sell.
His Dame was brought up high, and knows not trade,
To an Earl's Countess was she waiting-maid;
Posys for rings contrives, and rhimes indites,
And can discourse either with Squires or Knights,
Having quaint terms and phrases to propound,
Which those that dwell by Poul's cannot expound.
But she hath long been very sick, and vows
How she hath got the sickness of her spouse;
Her Husband's kindred also do proclaim,
How he hath got the sickness of the Dame;
That she hath secret drogues, and but pretends
To use the drogues her Husband's doctor sends:
And so by following another course,
She is grown better, and the Husband worse.
His Doctor says, that she is whole and pure,
And doubteth not that he hath done the cure:
Her Spouse will not be cur'd, the Doctor sees,
Because of complication of disease.

122

Doctor and Isabell maintain it still,
That Isabell was smit by Richard's ill;
Richard rejoices she hath gained helth,
Maketh his will, and leaveth her his welth.

Isabell's eye hath notic'd many a time,
Emanuel Cooper entering in his prime,
And hath delighted, many a time, to see
Soch perfect maiden-like simplicitie.
One evening in her chamber she will sup,
And bids the Maid to call Emanuel up;
Bloshing, and hanging down his heade, he comes,
Sitting him down, and loking at his thumbs.—
Upon the bed by her she makes him sit,
And helpeth him to yvery dainty bit;
Come, saies the Dame, filling a cup quite up,
Take off this wine, I will not bate a sup;
Unto my Mastir's helth, quoth he, and drinks it dry;
Lord, take his soul, saies she, and falls to cry,
Name him no more, for it will break my heart,
The Doctor saies, that he shall soon depart,

123

And also saies, that when my Spouse is slain
I shall not after him long time remain:
By sympathy his malady I have,
And sympathy shall join us in the grave:
The remedy for sympathy is sure,
But it is one I nivir will endure.
Quoth then Emanuel, weeping as he spoke,
Your case would pierce a heart, if it was oak;
Bot if you slay the life that you may spare,
It is a sin as dedely as despair.
You speke devout, quoth she, but Heaven's a friend
To all that mean no ill, when they offend.
Quoth he, that is but sotelty , I fear,
For where the law is plain, the fault is clear;
It is not written, that you shall not kill?
Therefor the crime is both in deed and will.
I do confess, quoth she, stroaking her ring,
Deep is the judgement of your reasoning.—
Besides, saies he, my Mastir may mend yet;
With that at once she falls into a fit,

124

Catches Emanuel by the hand, and saies,
For mercy's sake, Emanuel, cut my staies.
Emanuel takes a knife and cuts the string,
And Isabell about his waist doth cling:
Feel but my heart, saies she, how it doth beat,
Put in your hand, Emanuel, farther, sweet.
In sooth, quoth he, you are in piteous hap,
The maid had best come up:—I'll give a rap.
No, no, quoth she, I thank you for your love,
Sit down upon the bed, you shall not move;
Pity for me hath wrought in your distress,
Another cup will cure your hevyness.
The wine, to make it richer cordial,
Mingled the Dame Cantharides withall;
Emanuel drinks it up, the wine is choice,
Wipeth his mouth, and cleareth up his voice:
Madam, quoth he, if Heaven doth intend
To take away my Mastir, and my friend,
The bysness of the shop I'le undertake,
Both for your own, and for my Mastir's sake.
In that I am contented well, quoth she,
Could I but take the Cure for Sympathy:

125

It is a filthy cure—Emanuel, mark;
You may suppose yourself to be the spark:
Take a young spark, it says, and let him be
A maid and modest, not past twenty-three:—
From twenty-three shall he begin to count,
And do the deed till he to thirty mount;
And he must secret swear; and also both
Shall bind their member with a fearfull oath,
That neither he nor she shall find delite,
But do the act as if it was for spite.
Quoth then Emanuel, stiff as any stake,
For now the wine hath made him quite awake,
As to the maiden-term am not afraid;
As Blessed Mary, am I very maid;
I am but three and twenty yesterday;
But for the oath I know not what to say;
I am content myself it so should be,
If that the members also will agree.
That's in your power, saies she, there is no doubt,
If you'll not think of what you are about;
You must continue, when you are occupy'd,
To think of any other thing beside,

126

For instance; when you are arrived there,
Keep thinking of a rabbit or a hare—
And we need never feel, nor know no more
Than doth the shuttle-cock and battle-dore;
Without more words, this treaty shall have force,
And all the rest are only forms of course.
Leave we the parties interchangeably,
To take the solemn oath, and ratify.
They both went on, thinking and nothing saying,
Till the last payment of the sum was paying;
And then Emanuel cried out, I find
I cannot keep the hare within my mind;
When once you fall a spinning like a top,
Rabbit and hare out of my mind do hop.—
Go on, you fool, saies she, What makes you stop.
The sum is paid, yet still in bed they lay;
Her sympathy is not quite sweat away:
Up stairs the maiden comes, raps at the dore,
Shouting, my Mastir's dede for yvirmore;
His man from Yslington doth say, below,
That he went off as any child shall go.

127

Shout not, the Dame replies, I understand,
Holding Emanuel's handle in her hand:
Run to the Undertaker of our street;
I fear me Richard will not long keep sweet:
I go, quoth she, Emanuel, this day,
Too far for health to lose it in the way;
And as it needs must be provoking pain
To run this race of penitence again,
And as—your three and twentieth year is out,
It is but safe to take another bout:
If this had been but a pretence or trick,
She mote have pleaded false Arithmetick;
But, as she fairly own'd the whole receipt,
It's evident she had no design to cheat;
And so Emanuel, after some pause,
Mended the bill, and put in a new clause.—

I will not paint the dismal funeral,
The Wedo's lamentations tragical;
Whoso delighteth to depicture woe
Richly deserveth wretchedness allso:
Yet can I not describe, without a sigh,
The penalties that wait on perjury.

128

Emanuel is foresworn; it is his doom
To languish with one foot within the tomb:
For three whole moons in raging pain he lay—
The fourth the perjur'd limb is snatch'd away—
Heaven is appeas'd at last, Emanuel sound,
And for so small a loss glad to compound.
What great Philosophers observe is true,
Allthough a Member will not grow anew;
Yet, notwithstanding this, the member brother
Fares better for the absence of the other;
For, when they go together in a pair,
The next surviving brother is the heir;
But if they're single, and the right not plain,
The benefit devolves upon the brain;
And thus Emanuel, having need of it,
Receives a pritty legacy in wit:
He gives the Potiker and Surgeon fee
To keep the loss of Member secrecy.

No longer to the Chainge Emanuel resorts,
He is allwaies at the Stews and Inns of Courts;
He drinks and beats the Watch, lies out anights,
Living with Lawyers Clerks and wicked Wights.—

129

In greatest grief is interval of ease;
One day the Wedoe seizeth one of these,
Calleth Emanuel, sheweth plain the case,
How, from the lewdness of his last embrace,
It happens that she is not healid quite—
Trie to be more compos'd, saies she to-night.
Compos'd! Emanuel saith, it cannot be;
With you I needs must feel felicitie.
To do an act like this from generous sense,
Without desire, is true benevolence:
Benevolence belongs to marry'd life;
'Tis what the Law bestows upon a Wife.
Benevolence, for Lawyers various speak,
Some say is once a month, some once a week;
However, from the whole, it doth appear,
One should not put it off beyond the year.
I own there is another sentiment,
That once in a whole life-time is sufficient.
Benevolence, say these puzzlers and confounders,
Is just the same as riding of the bounders.
Emanuel, quoth she, I cannot guess,
Whether your Modesty or Wit is less;

130

Wit, in a Mercer, is both sin and shame;
Return it to the stews, from whence it came.—
I value, not, quoth he, your wipes a straw—
I find great use in studying of the Law:
And now observe—To all and singular,
Emanuel Cooper hereby doth declare,
By virtue of Recovery and Surrender,
It is agreed between him and his Member,
That he, the said Emanuel, shall direct,
And, for the future, shew him no respect;
And he, the said Emanuel, doth disclaim
All further sinfull knowledge of his Dame,
In any fashion, or in any place,
At any time, or upon any case:
Provided, and it is hereby agreed,
If he and she to marrying accede,
This shall by no means hinder the good man,
Then and at all times, to perform the best he can.—

This crafty Covenant between these twain,
Hath made the Wedo think till thinking's vain;
And finding now no hope on other score,
Resolves at once, and doubteth nivir more—

131

Calleth her friends, maketh for life the lease,
And sleepeth with Emanuel in peace;
And, to complete his and the Onkil's joy,
Bringeth him once a year a curios boy;
And now the Onkil's dead, and they have all
And keep their Christenmas at Cowper-hall.

Sotelty, Subtilty.

133

PANTY'S TALE;

OR THE CAVALIER NUN.

TALE VII.

Novimus et qui te, transversa tuentibus hircis,
Et quo sed faciles nymphæ risere sacello.

Both high and low! simple and wise!
Agree in making a great bustle,
About a certain pair of eyes,
Belonging to the House of Russell.
Though not so awful and discreet,
There was a pair of eyes at Brussels,
Far more compassionately sweet,
Than Lady Carolina Russell's .
Her eyes are like those swords of fire,
The flaming swords to Angels given,
By which impure and rash desire
From the forbidden fruit are driven.

134

Far other eyes are those I mean,
I speak of an inviting pair,
The property of frail eighteen,
A Nun as amorous as fair.
Impassion'd eyes, fit for a Nun;
Eyes that Love lights and Venus shapes;
Eyes like the gilding of the sun,
Gilding ripe nectarines and grapes.
The Lady Abbess was her Aunt;
And, as they lay in the same cell,
The Abbess was so complaisant,
She pass'd her time exceeding well.
She had the privilege alone
Of running in the convent-ground,
Surrounded by high walls of stone,
Just like a filly in a pound.
Within this close were shady trees,
And there an Oratory stood;
A Chapel of delight and ease,
When folks delight in doing good.
After her matines and her complines,
Here she spent many pleasant hours;

135

Instead of making cakes and dumplings,
Purses and artificial flowers.
'Twas a delightful life she led,
Here every day she met her monk,
Unless he was confin'd in bed,
Which was the case when he was drunk.
One day within this Oratory,
As she was with her Monk in chat,
Instead of being solitary,
And melancholy as a cat;
Chatt'ring with many a lewd device,
In which they neither were to seek,
Tricks that Love teaches in a trice,
Better than studying a week;
In gibberish, and playful cant,
Father, says she, pulling him down,
I've a great mind to turn gallant,
And give your Reverence a green gown:
And, like my Aunt, I'll make you mad,
As mad as King Nebuchadnazor,
When she transforms you to a pad,
As he was turn'd into a grazer.

136

For all your stiffness and your pride,
With whip and spur, I'll make you run;
To which the humbled Monk reply'd,
Spouse of the Lord, thy will be done.
Her pad, as sturdy as a Miller's,
She taught to rear, curvet, and prance,
Make graceful caprioles, and dance,
As if he was between the pillars.
The Monk cry'd out, My Lady Abbess!
My Lady Abbess! without cease,
Your ways are ways of pleasantness,
And all your paths are joy and peace.

The Rev. Mr. R. L.

Now Duchess of Marlborough.

137

ARSINOE:

OR, PASSION OVERSTRAINED. OLD HEWET'S TALE;

TALE VIII.

[_]

A celebrated humorist, well known in the great and little world, and all the world over. He was a great friend of the owner, and had a great love for Crazy Castle: the place, and the company he was

138

sure to meet there, were perfectly sutied to his humour and turn of thinking. He died at Florence; and the following epitaph, which was made in his life-time, he ordered to be put upon his gravestone. It was wrote by one of his Italian companions, an abbaté, in Monkish Latin.

139

EPITAPH
[_]

TRANSLATED.

COVER'D with turf, in a vile chest,
Old Hewet lies amongst the dead,
Just as well off as those that rest
With piles of marble o'er their head,
On Arno, Tiber, and the Rhone,
To every Vettorino known.
At Rome, in Roman manners vers'd,
He walk'd with publicans and sinners,
And churchmen keen, that hunger and thirst,
For want of news and want of dinners.—
In Turkey Hewet was a Turk:
Like Aristippus or Saint Paul,

140

He went the shortest way to work,
And made himself all things to all.
He could the traveller's hours beguile
In Trac-Schuts creeping in the dark,
Or dragg'd through sloughs of many a mile
In tumbrils huge, like Noah's ark.
On foot, as good with strollers strolling,
As a machine to laugh and roll in.
A guest delightful to the great,
The great in virtue as in sin,
And as well pleas'd, nor less a treat,
At a gargotte or carrier's inn.
Let not his friends therefore be griev'd;
He's happy, that's enough to know,
Sure to be always well receiv'd,
Either above stairs or below.
A welcome inmate, with his merits,
Either to good or wicked spirits.

141

It is not only love you'll find,
You must not mind what poets say,
All our strong passions are as blind,
Our weakest scarce can see their way.
A tale will tell you what I mean:
Enter Arsinoe, the queen.
Her favourite son, a puny chick,
Once on a time was taken sick.
Doctors were sent for into Greece,
A humour seiz'd upon his bum,
He might at least have died in peace,
If these Greek Doctors had not come.
After they had given him the question,
With every kind of racking pain,
After they had burnt and cut Hephestion,
And burnt and cut him o'er again,

142

At last the Doctors let him go,
And left the Queen in frantic woe.
Her eyes were fix'd, her talk was wild,
Like Niobe, she stood amazed;
She wonder'd death durst strike her child,
And all her people thought her crazed.
For she had seven sons beside;
The worst of all was he that died.
Ten thousand workmen were employ'd,
For twenty years, I do suppose,
To give his corpse a royal dwelling;
Ten thousand oxen were destroy'd,
Each day to feast her darling's nose,
As all his pleasure lay in smelling.
Her courtiers, to preserve their places,
Forgot to shew their teeth and smile;
They came with undertakers faces,
And adulation new and vile.
Just such a court, for cant and snivel,
As when priest-ridden Lewis doated,
Frighten'd with stories of the devil,
Maintenon'd, be-petticoated,

143

Married his nurse; and, what was worse,
The devil always in his head,
He durst not lie without his nurse,
And always piss'd his nurse's bed.—
Physic had done the worst it could;
At length philosophy was brought;
A Brachman cry'd, I have a thought
May do your Majesty much good.
The Queen afforded him her ear,
And he proceeded as you'll hear.—
The Gods, dispers'd through various nations,
Were summon'd, by Jove's bounteous call;
Beyond their hopes and expectations,
The Gods were portion'd, great and small,
With riches, power, the gift of healing,
The art of war, and art of stealing;
The scientific art of drinking,
The art of music and of metre,
The art of living without thinking,
An art in my opinion sweeter;
The art of pleasing, the completest,
The art of love, by far the sweetest.

144

Amongst the Gods assembled then,
Dame Sorrow was not to be found;
Sorrow was fretting in some den,
Or lying sulky under ground.
Whether or no he did not care,
Or out of sight she slipp'd his mind,
Sorrow got nothing for her share,
In any shape, of any kind.
At last, however, with her cries,
She mov'd the ruler of the skies.
Sorrow, said Jove, is always waking;
You heard my summons, like the rest,
Scarce any thing remains worth taking:
I have dispos'd of all the best:
And yet I think there are a few
Choice rarities, will do for you.
Now, as your ladyship loves whimpering,
And has a mortal hate to Hebe,
Euphrosyne, and wanton Phebe—
Girls that love tittering and simpering—
I give to you and your assigns
All lamentations, sobs, and whines;

145

Urns full of bones burnt to a coal;
And, to refresh your grievous soul,
As I am in a cue for giving,
Pitchers of tears, both mild and stale,
Bestow'd by people that are living
On folks as dead as a door nail;
And with each pitcher a full pot
Of rich lachrymatory snot.
And to these gifts so rare, so many,
I give you tenderness in plenty,
To be bestow'd like many a dainty,
On those that have no need of any.
Just as the pious Romans treat
Their dead with plenty of nice food,
Although they grudge them all they eat,
As long as eating does them good;
And after you have blown your nose,
Said Jove, and are prepar'd for this,
I give you dead men's eyes to close,
And give you dead men's lips to kiss,
And finally, all funeral rites,
Wherever practis'd and profess'd,

146

Whether perform'd by Blacks or Whites,
With all the fooleries annex'd,
Of which, continued the grave Don,
I think the pyramid is one.
Any great edifice of stone,
Any great prison for the dead,
But more especially the cone,
And the rotund with a round head,
Are fooleries; but the most clever
Are pyramids, I'll tell you why;
They are contriv'd to last for ever,
Great fooleries that never die:
And therefore none but Kings and Queens,
The Powers above and Powers infernal,
Can find materials, ways, and means,
To make a foolery eternal.
This pyramid's majestic gloom
To sorrow properly belongs,
With its funereal music-room,
For dirges and sepulchral songs.
Here Sorrow, and her handmaid Spleen,
Shall be lock'd up, by my consent,

147

And, in harmonious discontent,
Dwell here, and never more be seen.
Had not you plague enough in making it?
Relinquish it, if you are wise,
And thank her too for taking it;
This is the best I can advise;
For from that instant, be assur'd,
Your sacred Majesty is cur'd.
Pyramids, pitchers, pots, and urn,
Plac'd in so comical a light,
Gave the Queen's fancy a new turn,
Brought her about, and set her right.
The Queen began to taste repose,
Then call'd for cards, and won at play:
And then came joy, couleur de rose,
And all the court again was gay.

This Gentleman was William Hewet, Esq. a sensible old Gentleman, but much of a humourist. He died in 1767, at the house of Vanini, in Florence. Being taken with a suppression of urine, he resolved, in imitation of Pomponius Atticus to take himself off by abstinence; and this resolution he executed like an ancient Roman. He saw company to the last—cracked his jokes—conversed freely—and entertained his guests with musick. On the third day of his fast he found himself entirely freed of his complaint; but refused taking sustenance. He said the most disagreeable part of the voyage was past, and he should be a cursed fool indeed to put about ship when he was just entering the harbour. In these sentiments he persisted without any marks of affectation; and thus finished his course with such ease and serenity as would have done honour to the firmest stoick of antiquity. Several anecdotes of this Gentleman are in Smollett's Expedition of Humphry Clinker, vol. II. p. 141. See also Hollis's Memoirs, vol. I. p. 324.

149

DON PRINGELLO'S TALE: THE FELLOWSHIP OF THE HOLY NUNS;

OR, THE MONK'S WISE JUDGEMENT.

TALE IX.

------Detur potiori.

[_]

Don Pringello was a celebrated Spanish Architect, of unbounded generosity; at his own expence, on the other side of the Pyrenean mountains, he built many noble castles, both for private people, and for the public. Out of his own funds, he repaired several palaces, situated upon the pleasant banks of that delightful river, the Garonne, in France; and came over on purpose to rebuild Crazy Castle; but, struck with its venerable remains, he could only be prevailed upon to add a few ornaments, suitable to the style and taste of the age it was built in.

150

There is a noble town, call'd Ghent,
A city famous for its wares,
For Priests and Nuns, and Flanders mares,
And for the best of fish in Lent.
There you may see, threat'ning destruction,
A hundred forts and strong redoubts,
Just like Vauban's, with ins and outs,
And cover'd-ways of love's construction.
In one, constructed as above,
There dwelt two Nuns of the same age,
Join'd like two birds in the same cage,
Both by necessity and love.
In towns of idleness and sloth,
Where the chief trade is tittle-tattle,
Though Priests are commoner than cattle,
They had but one between them both.
Our Nuns should have had two at least,
In Ghent they're common as great guns:
Which made it hard upon our Nuns,
And harder still upon the Priest.

151

But he was worthy of all praise,
With spreading shoulders and a chest,
A leg, a chine, and all the rest,
Like Hercules of the Farnese.
Amongst the Nuns there was a notion,
That these two Sisters were assign'd
To him, for a severer kind
Of penitential devotion.
His penance lasted a whole year;
And he had such a piece of work,
If it had been for turning Turk,
It could not have been more severe.
Our Nuns, which is no common case,
Living together without jangling,
All on a sudden fell a wrangling
About precedency and place.
They both with spleen were like to burst,
Like two proud Misses when they fight,
At an Assembly, for the right
Of being taken out the first.
Before the Priest they made this clatter;
Between them both he was perplex'd,

152

And study'd to find out a Text,
To end the controverted matter.
Children, said he, scratching his sconce,
I should be better pleas'd than you,
Could I divide myself in two,
And satisfy you both at once.
Angels, perhaps, may have such powers;
But it is fit and seasonable,
That you should be more reasonable,
Whilst you're with Beings such as ours.
Be friends, and listen to the Teacher;
Cease your vain clamour and dispute;
Be ye like little fishes mute,
Before Saint Anthony the Preacher.
To end at once all disputation,
I'll set my back against that gate,
And there produce, erect and straight,
The cause of all your altercation.
But first you both shall hooded be,
Both so effectually blinded,
'Twill be impossible to find it,
Except by Chance or Sympathy.

153

Which of you first, be it agreed,
The rudder of the Church can seize,
Like Peter's Vicar with his keys,
Shall keep the helm, and have the lead;
She shall go first, I mean to say,
And have precedence every day.
The Nuns were tickled with the jest,
They were content; and he contriv'd
To give the helm, for which they striv'd,
To her that manag'd it the best.

154

THE POET'S TALE; OR THE CAUTIOUS BRIDE.

TALE X.

Brides, in all countries, have been reckon'd,
For the first night, timid and coolish;
If they continue so the second
They always have been reckon'd foolish:
The reason's obvious and plain—
In many nice and ticklish cases,
There's much to lose, and nought to gain,
By affectation and grimaces.
A Bridegroom, on the second night,
Whipt off the bedcloaths in surprize:
Behold, my dear, said he, a sight,
Enough to make your choler rise.
She turn'd away as red as scarlet,
Whilst he continu'd, Pray behold;

155

Lay hands on that outrageous varlet,
That looks so impudent and bold.
This is the fifteenth time, in vain,
He has been sent to jail and fetter'd;
But there's no prison can contain
A prison-breaker like Jack Shepherd.
The Bride turn'd round, and took her place,
After some studying and thinking—
Said she, recovering her face,
Though modesty still kept her winking:
In vain the vagabond's committed,
And to hard work and labour sent,
If you, his keeper, are outwitted
By his pretending to repent.
You treat him ruggedly and hard,
Whilst any insolence appears,
But you're disarm'd, and off your guard,
The moment that he falls in tears.
Now you must know, that I suspect
A fellow-feeling, in some shape,
Or else you would not, through neglect,
Let him continually escape.

156

I'll lend no hand, unless you'll swear,
That you'll deliver him to me,
And suffer me to keep him there,
Till I consent to set him free.

157

THE GOVERNOR OF T**LBURY'S TALE; OR THE UNREASONABLE COMPLAINT.

TALE XI.

A brute, a Peasant, dwelt near Nantz,
For they're synonymous in France,
Who every day of his vile life,
When he had nothing else to do,
Thrash'd or apply'd his wooden shoe
To the posteriors of his wife.
But, as all good and evil's equal,
All was balanc'd in the sequel;
Every night he had that pride,
His debit, on the whole amount
Of the posterior account,
Was balanc'd by the other side.

158

Like debts of honour lost at play,
Before he slept, he was sure to pay.
And every morn before he rose,
He left her, over and above,
A token of his constant love,
Steady and constant as his blows.
One morning, at his Spouse's levee,
The blows and curses fell so heavy,
Before the Lady of the place,
Poor Jaquette ran with her complaint,
With all the red and purple paint
Bestow'd upon her nose and face.
The Lady pity'd her just grief,
And took a course for her relief;
Pierre was summon'd to appear,
And must have rotted in a jail,
Had he not found sufficient bail,
For his behaviour for a year.
The dread of fines, a jail, and whipping,
Like other folks, kept him from tripping.
About a month after this pass'd,
For Jaquette the good Lady sent,

159

And ask'd her if she was content,
And Pierre peaceable at last.
Truly, says she, I must confess,
That mine's a singular distress;
For though he beat me black and blue,
At night he always made it up,
In bed, over a chearful cup,
Where I was as content as you.
But now, he says, he's off his mettle,
Because we've no accounts to settle.
Let him indulge his appetite,
This very day let him begin
A fresh account, upon my skin,
And settle it this very night.
After such plenty of good fare,
To be reduc'd is hard to bear.
What then, my Lady, must I feel,
Depriv'd entirely of my meat,
Without a morsel left to eat,
Except what I can beg or steal?
The Lady cry'd, You'd make one think,
That you did nought but eat and drink.

160

Did you live always at this pass,
Or now and then, and then it ceas'd,
Like Shrovetide, or a village feast,
Or like a Bishop's saying Mass?
A tear stood trembling in her eye,
Whilst Jaquette made her this reply:
He was as sure as the Church Chimes!
And I can say, what few can say,
He allow'd me three warm meals a day,
And afternoonings too sometimes.
'Twas not from indigestion,
That never was the question;
If now and then my fare was worse,
It was because, the day before,
He happen'd to allow me more
Than was convenient for his purse.
The Lady cry'd, Submit in quiet;
My Spouse all day shall thrash his fill,
I'll never say that I'm us'd ill,
If he'll allow me such a diet.

161

THE NOBLE REVENGE:

OR, THE L**B'S TALE.

TALE XII.

All people, languages, and nations,
In summer-time, have country stations,
And have contrivances and ways,
Some very old and others new,
To get the better of long days,
Which are the hardest to subdue.
In Italy the morning passes
In visiting and hearing masses;
And every creature, after dinner,
Retire, in couples or alone;
Both male and female, saint and sinner,
Strip themselves naked as a stone.

162

All the world's out when night approaches,
A-foot, in curricles, and coaches;
Then they give concerts and act plays,
And sup at one another's houses:
The Wives go with their Chechisbays,
Their Mates with other people's Spouses.
In France, and probably in Spain,
Summer gets on with toil and pain;
The Ladies sally, with long canes,
To gather flowers, or pick a sallet,
Attended by fantastic swains,
Like Figure-dancers in a ballet.
Some stay within and do much better;
Some only stay to write a letter;
Others into the garden run,
To bowl, or shoot with bows and arrows;
Strephon, with Chloe and a gun,
Makes love, and fires among the sparrows;
Kills all the tenants of the grove,
But let those live that only live to love.
Pray, how do English Summers go?
They pass their Summers but so so;

163

More like the Germans than the French,
Drinking as long as they are able,
And never thinking of a wench,
Till all the liquor's off the table:
But when they give their mind that way,
No people more alert than they.
Venus is cruelly afraid,
Bacchus encroaches there so much,
Lest he should spoil the Cyprian trade,
As Plutus spoils it with the Dutch.
One summer, in the month of June,
My Lady was quite out of tune;
To set things right, she and my Lord
Repair to the old country-seat,
Which to enjoy, with one accord,
They lie apart, and seldom meet.
They neither need to mope alone,
Each have companions of their own;
His are the worst, without all question,
Led-Captains, Squires, and Parsons, without end;
Hers, females of a strong digestion,
Mingotti and her Fiddling Friend.—

164

But then my Lord had a resource,
Which made things equaller of course:
There is a place his Lordship chuses,
I know not upon what pretence,
To call the Temple of the Muses,
Built with less judgement than expence.
To push on time a little faster,
My Lord appointing a toast-master,
Oft to the Temple's sacred shade
Retires, like Numa to his charmer,
To meet some favourite Chamber-maid,
Or the fair Daughter of some farmer.
One afternoon a spy reveal'd
The secrets that those walls conceal'd.—
When my Lord was inclin'd to take it,
There was a room for making tea,
My Lady's woman us'd to make it,
And always us'd to keep the key.
He had left off tea some time; but why,
Abigail was resolv'd to spy.
Within the room she made, or found,
A hole to peep into the next;

165

Her labour with success was crown'd,
Though the discovery made her vex'd.
He left off tea, you may infer,
Because he was tir'd to death of her.
She saw, as plain as eyes could see,
And never saw him half so keen,
My Lord as busy as a bee,
Sipping the sweets of sweet Eighteen.
To be discarded and turn'd off,
Of every servant-wench the scoff!
For whom? The Wife of a mean Taylor:
Such was the Nymph in the Muses house;
She look'd as if she could impale her,
Even as a Taylor would a louse.
My Lord return'd, sated with glory,
And Betty ran to tell her story—
Says she, Your Ladyship's so kind,
My zeal for you made me suspicious;
I watch'd; but never thought to find
Any thing downright flagitious.
Against mankind she declaim'd next,
And then stuck closely to her text;

166

Minutely painted the whole scene,
The Nymph, her age, her lovely figure;
And, to increase her Lady's spleen,
She magnify'd his Lordship's vigour.
Great was her Ladyship's distress,
How she would act, is hard to guess.
All folks allow revenge is sweet,
And many think that nothing's sweeter;
But 'tis a maxim with the Great,
The meaner the Revenge the greater
Caprice, according to Fontaine,
Guides almost every female brain;
If mere caprice can raise a flame,
To make a Dwarf enjoy a Queen,
Revenge may make the noblest Dame
Employ an instrument as mean.
Nature, left to herself, most prone is,
To follow the Lex talionis,
In every nice and doubtful case.
My Lady drove as nature led;
And so she took, in my Lord's place,
Her rival's Husband to her bed.

167

A Taylor's nothing on his board,
In bed he's better than a Lord,
Her Ladyship found him so there;
And by his help, after ten years,
At last produc'd a Son and Heir,
That made my Lord the happiest of Peers.

TO THE LADIES.

Ladies, you have heard of Tit for Tat—
Lex Talionis was like that:
It was an equitable law, whereby
You weigh'd the person and the failure;
It gave you tooth for tooth, and eye for eye,
And for a Lord, sometimes a Taylor.

169

THOMAS OF COLEBY'S TALE. PORCIA,

OR PASSION OVERACTED.

We come too late, car tout est dit,
Says La Bruyere; and more fool he:
Not only every age, each year
Brings scenes unknown before to view,
New realms of fancy still appear,
And beyond them regions still new.
Voltaire, and others I can mention,
Will give a colour and fresh look,
A lively varnish, like invention,
To any tale in any book;
And sell you one, ten times repeated,
Like an old watch in a new case,
Or an old drab, with whom you're cheated,
Taking her home for a new face.

170

Dress'd by the Graces and Fontaine,
In a coquetish deshabille,
Without her weeds and Roman train
The Ephesian matron pleases still.
And Porcia too, whose tale I tell,
Adorn'd by them, had pleas'd as well.
Porcia could never be consol'd
For the departure of her spouse;
A fever, caught by catching cold,
Had cancell'd their connubial vows.
Of every comfort now bereft,
The wretch's comfort, and the curse,
Was all the comfort she had left—
That is, Fate could not use her worse:
Her grief was settled, like her dower,
For life, and out of fortune's power.
To lay her grief up safe and sound,
Where sorrow might have elbow-room,
No place above, or under ground,
Was fitter than her husband's tomb,

171

Than that deep cave, I should have said,
That held the tomb wherein he laid;
With vaulted roof lofty and wide,
Where every sigh and plaintive moan
Were play'd about from side to side,
Or whisper'd in the sweetest tone.
There with his tomb she found, in brief,
All the whole equipage of woe,
And every utensil of grief,
Both for convenience and show.
A lamp on each side of his urn,
Of vases lachrymal a dish,
A stone to sit upon and mourn,
As cold as broken-heart could wish:
And on his urn engrav'd there were
A torch revers'd, to shew her loss,
Death's head, and with Death's head a pair
Of marrow-bones were laid across:
As good, though only made of stone,
For grief to pick, as real bone.
Whether the day was fair or foul,
Most of it pass'd within this cell:

172

A solemn solo from the owl,
At night was Porcia's warning-bell;
Warn'd from the mansions of the dead,
To water with fresh tears her bed,
Nature, alarm'd for Porcia's sake,
Took her into her special keeping;
The harm she did herself awake,
Nature repair'd when she was sleeping.
Porcia, refresh'd by balmy sleep,
Rose every morning like the sun,
Emerging vigorous from the deep,
Prepar'd his daily course to run.
One afternoon, the month was May,
Porcia had din'd in her poor way.
A cavalier rode gently by,
As she was going upon duty,
And with a critic's curious eye
Survey'd this melancholy beauty.
Her hair in careless ringlets spread,
Two large black eyes to suit her hair,
The graceful posture of her head,
Smooth, white, round breasts a strutting pair,

173

With rosy buttons budding sweet,
That correspond but never meet.
A shape, a hand, delicious arms,
An outline elegantly drawn,
Were ample sureties for the charms
Hid by reluctant crape and lawn.
Such an assortment of rich wares,
With so much art and taste dasplay'd,
Such tempting baits and cunning snares,
Concupiscence had seldom laid.
Our horseman first survey'd his ground;
That done, he was dismounted soon,
Not like a trooper by a wound,
But like an active brave dragoon.
So have I seen, in the same guise,
A 'squire drawn in by two arch eyes:
For lo, the 'squire, dismounting strait,
First argues with himself awhile,
Then hangs his horse upon a gate,
Then follows Phebe o'er a stile.
Porcia meanwhile, on her stone seat,
Lamenting sat, warm as a toast:

174

Nothing but Porcia's natural heat
Could have maintain'd so cold a post;
For Nature, as I said before,
Had ammunition always near,
And fresh recruits for evermore,
To pour into her front and rear.
And now appear'd, in sad array,
Clodio, the hero of the play.
Entering the vault with downcast eyes,
He threw himself upon the ground,
Whilst Porcia's cadenc'd moans and sighs
Gently reverberated round.
Porcia's melodious complaints
Were like the music of the spheres,
Delightful music for the saints,
But none at all for Clodio's ears.
He seem'd quite lost in deep despair,
Or so absorb'd in mental visions,
He heard them not, or did not care
For all her quavers and divisions.
On the cold stones reclining laid,
At length with woe-struck voice he said,

175

See, Anna, where thy Clodio lies,
For ever faithful to his vows,
Pouring his annual sacrifice
Upon the grave of his lov'd spouse.
Disdain not, in the realms above,
The tears of consecrated love!—
Sitting unnotic'd and neglected,
Eve's curiosity or pique,
A pique one scarce could have suspected,
Prompted the dowager to speak.
The case was delicate and nice;
She took her chance, and broke the ice.
Welcome, poor wretch, to this abode,
This house of death, continued she;
This passage is the only road
To peace and rest for thee and me.
Then ty'd her speech up with a sigh,
Waiting for Clodio's reply.
Oh let me hear that voice again!
Is it a real voice, he cry'd,
Or an illusion of the brain?
Real, alas! the voice reply'd.

176

Rous'd by the voice's awful sound,
At once he started from the ground,
Like Garrick, riveting his eyes
On Porcia, with a frantic glare!
Porcia play'd Juliet's surprise,
With Bellamy's surprising stare.
No painter's art could have devis'd
Two figures that seem'd more surpris'd.
But what was more surprising, clearly,
She on her stone, he on his feet,
Mistook each other very queerly,
Struck by a similar conceit:
Each saw their spouse, in either figure,
Restor'd to life, in perfect vigour.
Some time was spent in contemplation,
Previous to any declaration.
When their confusion was abated,
And things seem'd ripe for a debate,
Preliminary forms were stated,
Relative to their present state;
And at the last from their confusion
They drew a very fair conclusion:

177

It follow'd, from the first impression
Made upon both at the first glance,
That such a lively just expression
Could never be the work of chance:
Two forms, so truly represented,
Could not by chance have been presented.
If 'twas not chance, what then remain'd?
Why this conclusion must remain,
If 'twas not chance, 'twas pre-ordain'd;
Nothing in nature was so plain;
Both pre-ordain'd, by special grace,
Their mutual losses to replace.
This point, discuss'd on Porcia's stone,
Was fairly stated, as you'll see,
And as this stone could hold but one,
The Widow sat on Clodio's knee;
This was a necessary case,
For otherwise, my worthy Sirs,
If Porcia had not chang'd her place.
Clodio must have sat on her's.
None but a prude, I do suppose,
Can blame th' alternative she chose.

178

If the resemblances could reach
To every article throughout,
The representative of each
Could entertain no further doubt;
But doubts must needs be entertain'd,
Till every doubtful point's explain'd:
For likenesses are oft deceiving,
Appearances are often cheating;
Seeing is not a firm believing;
The pudding's proof is in the eating:
In that case, all you have to do
Is to say grace, and then fall to.
Having no subject for debate,
Wanting no proof but that alone,
They sign'd the treaty drawn by fate,
And seal'd it upon Porcia's stone.
And thus the doubtful points compar'd,
Handled and view'd in every light,
All correspondently declar'd
The previous conclusion right.
And so the long-predestin'd pair,
Clodio and his deputed wife,

179

Leaving the monumental chair,
Rose from the dead to a new life;
For having now, as it grew late,
No further business with the dead,
They finish'd the decrees of fate,
At Porcia's house, in Porcia's bed;
But Porcia first prepar'd the way
With a good supper and Tokay.
Clodio next morning, not before,
Talking of Anne, and his affliction,
Own'd his wife Anne, and, what was more,
Own'd the whole process was a fiction;
He had no wife alive or dead,
The representative of Anne
Had put that thought out of his head,
And help'd him to a better plan.
But grant, said he, we both were cheats,
And that your grief, like mine, was feign'd,
Our meeting here between two sheets
Might for all that be pre-ordain'd:
A field where you may range and feast,
Unty'd, not tether'd like a beast.

Told by Petronius Arbiter.

University of Virginia Library

CRAZY TALES

THE AUTHOR'S APOLOGY TO HIMSELF