University of Virginia Library

Whether the Gusts of Love, or no,
Most fierce on Female Spirits blow;
Let abler Pens dispute in Prose—
In Rhime, at present, I have chose,
By Instance of a common Tale,
To show, that Nature will prevail,
And make the Fair, who wou'd be civil,
As subtle, certes, as the Devil.
Upon a Time—for so my Nurse,
God wot, to me began Discourse—
A Widow, turn'd of Twenty Seven,
(In Rhime, as well as Reason, even!)
To a dark Room, by Custom chain'd,
At one Week's End her Cage disdain'd.
No wonder, Sirs; for Flesh and Blood,
Sometimes, are Victors o'er the Good.
Now, she, tho' modest and discreet,
Ne'er thought her self for Glory meet.
A Woman may have Store of Merit,
Yet want—as we may say—the Spirit:
The Spirit, said I? By the Sequel,
(Which, by the by, I wish may take well)
You'll find she had it—But, I warn all,
'Twas of the common Kind, nam'd carnal.

For, as we said, a Week scarce spent,
(And sure, the Time was like a Lent!)
In showy Mourning, and Grimace,
She wisely weigh'd her present Case.
And must I—to her self, she said—
Ne'er couple, cause my Spouse is dead?
Must I, ah me! for ever mourn,
And Leaves of godly Sermons turn?
At Church, must I be in Disguise,
With a black Veil before my Eyes?
To Balls and Plays, shall I no more
Repair, alas! as heretofore?
Ah! Days of Sorrow, ye are long!
Oh! Custom, Foe to Widows young!

Alone, thus sigh'd she for Relief;
In Publick, counterfeited Grief:
Or, if she griev'd indeed, 'tis clear,
It could be only for that Geer,
Which, Husband living, was wont most
To give her Comfort—at his Cost.

So (as the Story runs) a Beau,
(Just like another we all know)
Made up Acquaintance—but the Means,
Which Fate, as well as th' End, ordains,
Is not so clearly told—nor need we
Be over curious—so, proceed we.
A Tale—quoth Prior—short should be,
And who cou'd better tell, than He?

Our Widow, deeply skill'd in Letters,
Follow'd th' Example of her Betters.
“Since I—thought she—propose no more,
“Than Gods, themselves, have done before,
“Why mayn't I, to attain my End,
“In uncouth Habit, dress my Friend?
“For 'tis not meet he should appear,
“In his own Cloathing, often here.
“He must be chang'd”—'Twas quickly done;
For next Night, about setting Sun,
He, well instructed in his Part,
Pretended to the Tinker's Art.
Love has been us'd, you see, to plod,
And reach his End, by Methods odd:
For where there's Stomach and no Meat,
He'll steal, to make his Friends a Treat.

With Apron, Hammer, Nails, and Copper,
And other Utensils more proper,
He knock'd, and call'd, “Ho, who's within?”
Then rung the Tinker's formal Dinn.
The Porter view'd his Face so black,
And Leathern Budget on his Back.
Then told the Lady—she, good Woman!
Whose Grief wou'd let her look on no Man,
Said, fetch the Tinker in, with speed,
For of his Crast we have great need.
If he be Master of his Trade,
Our House may help to find him Bread.
This said, she sigh'd!—the Tinker came,
“God save—quoth he—my worthy Dame.”
Your'e welcome, Tinker, she reply'd—
If to your Look your Skill's ally'd;
You are a Tradesman—“That I be,
“As you may quickly find—” quoth He.
Bring him some Drink, the best we use:
Good Liquor Tradesmen ne'er refuse.
“I thank you, Madam”—Now you may
Our Pots and Pans, at will, survey.
The Cauldron broken is, I know;
'Twill cost at least an Hour, or two,
To mend it well—“But, by your Leave
“One Favour, Lady, I must crave:
“That, since there's Secret in my Art,
“Which I'd not willingly impart,
“No Company I can allow,
“To Witness how I work, but you.”
Then to the Brew-house, pleas'd, they went—
Let Virgins guess with what Intent:
My Muse is modest and discreet!
She never mentions what's not meet!
Of Baudry ever most afraid:
Fy, that ne'er enters in her Head!
However, as Tradition says,
Our Couple follow'd wicked Ways.
The Tinker by the Cauldron Side,
His masculine Talents occupy'd:
And all the Time he was about it,
(And here I blush—ye need not doubt it!)
She thump'd the Cauldron with the Hammer,
In Chorus joining with his Rammer.
A Politick, that none will blame,
Who practise Musick, like that same!

The Scene reacting, o'er and o'er,
The Porter chanc'd to pass the Door,
And heard the Noise the Hammer made—
The Trick ne'er enter'd in his Head!
But, now and then, in Heat of Play,
He overheard his Lady say;
Strike on, good Tinker, briskly strike,
Your Cunning and your Tools I like,
Nor is there ere a Smith, in Town,
Can boast an Anvil, like your own.