The Poetical Entertainer :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Poetical Entertainer

Or, Tales, Satyrs, Dialogues, And Intrigues, &c. Serious and Comical. All digested into such Verse as most agreeable to the several Subjects. To be publish'd as often as occasion shall offer [by Edward Ward]

Ward, Edward (1667-1731)

Numb. I.

The Norwich Lady:

The Conforming Parson.

A Dialogue between two Friends, Tom and Jack.

A gentle Reproof to a deceitful Friend.

The Good Man's Supplication.

II.

III.

IV.

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Numb. I.

The Norwich Lady:

OR, The Deceiv'd Fryers. A Tragi-Comedy.

In pious Days when brawny Monks
Turn'd Maids to Nuns, and Nuns to Punks,
And when Religion more than Law
Kept all the slavish Croud in awe,
At Norwich then there liv'd a Knight
Who did in Feats of Arms delight,
And in the Wars had born Command
When the Fifth Henry rul'd the Land:

This Valiant Knight, whose Fame and Glory
Will ever live and shine in Story,
Had chosen such a beauteous Wife
To grace his House and bless his Life,
That none could gaze upon her Charms,
And not desire her in his Arms;
For e'ery Feature in her Face
Invited to another Place,
And tempted all who look'd upon her,
To wish themselves more nigh her Honour.
But Madam being truly Chast,
Or thought so by the World at least,
Was much too Vertuous to be naught,
Or else too cunning to be caught;
For none were ever heard to say,
She step'd aside or run astray.
The Knight being tir'd with Wounds and Scars,
And having quite forsook the Wars,

Was now resolv'd at home to tarry,
And live as Men should do that marry;
That is, to mind no other Blisses,
But Pious Prayers and Nuptial Kisses,
And to divide his happy Life
Betwixt Religion and his Wife;
And that his Worship might attone
For the past Evils he had done,
A Church he built, that all might see
His pious Zeal and Charity:
Near to the same he rear'd a small
Religious House, which held in all
Twelve Fryers and a ruling Pastor,
Call'd Abbot, to preside as Master.
Among this lazy Crew that fed
Full twice as often as they pray'd,
Were two who never could agree,
But liv'd in open Enmity,
Making themselves the snarling Jest,
And daily Maygame of the rest;

The Name and Title of the one
B'ing Frier Richard, t'other John,
Both pamper'd Gluttons, fitter far
T'attend a Dray, or load a Car,
Than to exhaust their Days in Cloisters,
O'er Holy Beads and Pater-nosters.
The charming Lady of the Founder,
Whose Beauty merited such Wonder,
Being not only Fair without,
But, like her pious Sex, devout,
Kept close to Vespers, Mass, and Mattins,
To pray, and shew her Silks and Sattins.
Now, you must know, my Lady's way
To Church thro' the same Convent lay,
Where Am'rous John stood always ready
To view and bow unto my Lady,
Who, in return, would give a smile,
Not dreaming he could be so vile,

Who thus profess'd a Holy Life,
To Lust for's Benefactor's Wife;
And therefore was at all times civil,
Not thinking either Flesh or Devil
Could tempt a Frier to so much Evil.

But John, who fancy'd that he spy'd
Some Hopes when he my Lady ey'd,
And that her Curtesies and Smiles
Were Female Shoing-Horns and Wiles,
Made use of with a kind intent,
To give his Love encouragement,
Thought himself now cocksure of what
He greatly wanted to be at,
In case he could but frame or find
An opportunity to's Mind:
He therefore thought there was no better
A Method, than to write a Letter;
Accordingly he sat him down,
First scratch'd his Ears and then his Crown,

And next in ample Form set forth
His Passion and my Lady's Worth,
Declaring that he soon must dye,
Unless her Honour would comply,
T'extinguish, by her kind embrace,
The Flames sh'ad kindled with her Face.
This Letter, by her trusty Maid,
Was to my Lady's Hand convey'd,
Who reading o'er the lushious Lines,
And finding Frier John's Designs,
Paus'd like a Woman of Discretion,
'Twixt Fear and Female Inclination,
As if she wish'd it no Offence,
To pleasure his Concupiscence;
But dread of Damning and of Shame,
At last prevailing o'er the Dame,
So fortify'd her vertuous Breast,
Against her Lovers bold Request,
That she determin'd to disclose
The Frier's Letter to her Spouse,

Not knowing but the same might be
A Trick to try her Chastity;
Accordingly toth' Knight she flies,
Feigning a very deep surprize,
And laid before him, in a Passion,
The Frier's bold Solicitation,
Backing the same with all the shews
Of detestation she could use,
And such Resentments that might fire
The Knight, and raise his Fury higher.
No sooner had her Spouse perus'd
The Letter but it so confus'd
His Thoughts, that he the Priory curs'd,
Where such Ingratitude was nurs'd,
And vow'd to be reveng'd upon
That lustful Polecat Frier John,
Repenting what he'd built and given
To Rogues, more fit for Hell than Heaven.

The Knight, whose jealous Indignation
Was now past all pacification,

Enjoin'd his Wife to send the Frier
An Answer to his Heart's desire,
Appointing him a certain Night
To Feast and Revel in Delight,
Pretending that her Spouse must be
Then absent of necessity,
And that about the Hour of Eight,
Herself at the Back-door would wait,
To lead him up a private Way
Into the Chamber where she lay,
That he might cool his am'rous Fire,
And gratify his fond Desire.
This joyful News so work'd upon
The Fancy of young Frier John,
That he could think of nothing less
Than her soft Lips and kind Embrace,
And all those Pleasures and Delights
With which young Lovers bless their Nights;
Therefore, that he might be more ready
To entertain so fair a Lady,

He fed till he could eat no longer,
That's brawny Back might be the stronger;
And drank like any thirsty Farmer,
To make his odious Lust the warmer;
New shav'd his Noddle, wash'd his Feet
And other Parts with Herbs most sweet;
Perfum'd his Night-Cap and his Shirt,
Bought fine on purpose for the Sport,
Lest courser should offensive be
Toth' tender Skin of Quality.
So common Punks, tho' foul within,
And poor withal, delight to sin
In costly Linen soft and clean.

When John had thus refresh'd his Back
With Holland, fit for the attack,
And the appointed happy Hour
Was come, he santer'd tow'rds the Door,
Where the fair Lady in the dark
Stood waiting to receive her Spark.

No sooner did the Fri'r approach
So near that she his Hand could touch,
But Madam, with a Heart most hollow,
In a soft whisper bid him follow,
Leading the Monk, who only thought
Of Kisses, Hugs, and God knows what,
Into a close and private Room,
Where Servants seldom us'd to come.
But soon as he was thus decoy'd
By her he hop'd to have enjoy'd,
In rush'd the furious Jealous Knight,
And his Man Roger, with a Light,
Both falling rashly, in their Ire,
Upon the poor defenceless Frier,
Soon brought him headlong to the Floor,
And strangl'd him outright, before
He could have time to call or howl
For Mercy on his sinful Soul.
Thus he that will pursue the sweets
Of Sin, the bitter often meets.

No sooner had the angry Knight
Appeas'd his Rage by this Exploit,
But he began to think upon
The heinous Evil he had done;
For rash Revenge, we always find,
Brings Terror and Remorse behind;
Strange Apprehensions fill'd his Head,
When once he saw the Frier dead;
And all his jealous Heat and Madness,
Were now turn'd into Fear and Sadness;
The odious Crime of shedding Blood,
The Shame and Danger that pursu'd,
The forfeiture of Goods and Life,
The Scandal brought upon his Wife,
And other frightful Thoughts possest
His Brain and terrify'd his Breast;
For nought but Ruin now could be
Th'effect of a discovery;
Therefore the conscious Knight began
To think of Measures with his Man,

Such that if laid and manag'd right,
Might keep the Murder from the Light.
At length the Knight a Motion made,
That when the Convent were in Bed,
The Frier's strangl'd Corps should be
Remov'd into the Monastry,
Which only by a Garden Wall
Was parted from his Worship's Hall.
The Man b'ing pleas'd, and well affected
To what his Master had projected,
Soon thought of where a Ladder stood
To perfect a Design so good,
Which if attended with Success,
Might save their Necks in this distress;
So that their greatest Hopes and Trust
Were now in what they fear'd the most.

By this time all was hush and still,
And dark according to their Will;
No starry Spark above their Heads,
The Friers snoring in their Beds,

His Worship's Servants gone to rest,
And all things happ'ning for the best,
That both concluded this to be
The only opportunity;
So that the Knight laid Frier John
Athwart the Shoulders of his Man,
Who, Porter-like, convey'd his Load
Toth' place 'gainst which the Ladder stood,
And, climbing up the same, let fall
The Monk on t'other side the Wall;
Then striding on the Cope he drew
The Ladder up, with much ado,
And turn'd that gently over too,
So downwards went the self-same way,
To move the Frier from whence he lay,
Lest being found in that Condition,
So near the Wall, might give Suspicion,
That the poor Monk had been destroy'd
Abroad, and drop'd from t'other sides

The Bearer therefore made a shift
To give his Burthen t'other lift,
And very prudently thought fit
To fix him on the Bog-house Seat,
Making the Frier's Arm a prop,
Against a Gice, to keep him up,
There leaving him, that they might see,
I'th' Morn, what the Event would be.

The Man, tho' pleas'd he'd plac'd the Monk
Where he alive had often stunk,
Felt, notwithstanding, much disorder,
About so barbarous a Murder,
Which, as he climb'd from out the Yard,
Caus'd him to fancy that he heard
The strangl'd Monk, or something worse,
Mounting behind him at his Arse,
Which made him, 'twixt a Leap and Fall,
At once descend from off the Wall,
Leaving the Ladder bolt upright
Behind him, in a stinking Fright,

Running to's Master to declare
With what Success, and how, and where
He'd plac'd the Fri'r in such rare order,
That none could think he dy'd by murder,
But rather perish'd as he sat
At Stool, performing you know what,
By Chollick Pains, or by too large
A griping Outlet or Discharge,
Or grunting, parted with his Soul,
In labour of a costive Stool.
The Master, who was well content
With trusty Roger's Management,
Long'd, with Impatience, now to see
How fortunate th'event would be:
Nor could he rest for fear he shou'd
Be brought to answer Blood with Blood;
But tattl'd with his Man about
The Murder, dreading 'twould come out,
And that a Rope and Gallow Tree
Their fatal Punishment would be.

During the time the conscious Knight
Was thus reflecting, in a fright,
Upon the black and heinous Crime
Committed by his Man and him,
Fri'r Richard, who had long profess'd
Much hatred unto John deceas'd,
Was in a griping loose surprise,
At Midnight, forc'd from Bed to rise,
To give the stinking Thunder vent,
That in his rumbling Guts was pent,
And running down into the Yard,
As the Clouds broke and Moon appear'd,
He saw some Brother on the Seat,
As the Dutch call it, Plumping neat,
Which made him labour to restrain
The Dregs that forward press'd with Pain,
Till t'other, who had got possession,
Was pleas'd to make a Resignation:
But Richard seeing that he staid
Beyond all reason, beg'd and pray'd

The sitting Monk, that he'd be pleas'd
To rise, and let his Gripes be eas'd,
For that he car'd not to defile
The cleanly Yard with nasty Soil;
But finding that he neither stir'd,
Nor answer'd him one civil Word,
And guessing by the Light o'th' Moon,
The sullen Lout was Frier John,
He then began to rave outright,
Because he thought 'twas done in spight,
And snatching up a Brick or Stone,
No matter which, I'm sure 'twas one,
He lent the Fri'r, who sat at rest,
A Blow so violent on the Breast,
That down he tumbl'd on the Floor
Head foremost, tow'rds the Boghouse-Door,
And gave his Noddle such a stroak
Against the Groundcel made of Oak,
Enough to've kill'd him o'er and o'er,
In case he'd not been slain before:

As soon as Frier Richard found
His Brother Monk upon the Ground,
Conscious o'th' Mischief he had done,
He did to his assistance run,
And strove with all his Strength and Might,
To set him on his Legs upright,
But found him, to his great surprise,
So dead he could not move or rise,
Concluding that the Blow he'd given,
Had sent his Brother's Soul to Heaven;
Thus scar'd, he took a turn or two
I'th' Yard, consid'ring what to do,
And by what Measures he might hope
To save his Gullet from the Rope:
At length, the pond'ring Frier spy'd
The Ladder on the Priory side,
Which stood in a convenient place,
Against the Wall in readiness,
And having heard it whisper'd round
The Broth'rhood, that John had found

Much Grace and Favour in the sight
Of the fair Lady of the Knight;
From whence he thought his safest way
Would be to o'er the Wall convey
The Corps, and seat him at the Door
Where he had often loll'd before,
That Folks might think he lost his Life
In waiting for his Worship's Wife,
Because 't'ad whisper'd been already,
That Frier John had kiss'd my Lady.
No sooner had he thought of this
But he resolv'd on't, hit or miss,
And lugging him along the Ground,
Toth' place where he the Ladder found,
He did the twice kill'd Brother haul
Aloft, and laid him cross the Wall,
Thence drop'd him down, without regard
What part came first into the Yard,
Then striding, turn'd the Ladder o'er,
As the Knight's Man had done before,

That with more ease he might descend
T'accomplish what he did intend;
Accordingly he lug'd the Frier
Unto the place of his desire,
Leaving him seated on a Bench,
Like Lover waiting for his Wench,
Leaning his Head against a Stanchion
Belonging to his Worship's Mansion,
Returning to the Vault with speed,
To do th'remainder of his Need,
Poor Richard having spilt some Dregs
Before upon his Thighs and Legs,
And in his fright manur'd his Britches,
With no small Sum of Gard'ners Riches.

As now he sat o'er Boghouse-Hole,
With aching Heart and troubl'd Soul,
Reflecting soberly upon
The heinous Evil he had done,
Which seldom undiscover'd past
Away, but came to Light at last,

He could not think the Means he'd taken,
Sufficient were to save his Bacon,
'Cause the whole Priory knew that he
And Frier John could ne'er agree,
Would therefore, without searching further,
Conclude him guilty of the Murther:
So that he thought the safest way
Would be to fly by break of Day;
But being corpulent and fatter
Than usual, wisely thought it better
To trust to four Legs, than alone
Depend intirely on his own,
And knowing that there was a Mare
Beneath the Priory Baker's Care,
A sturdy Beast both sound and strong,
Which to the Convent did belong,
Whose bus'ness early in the Morn
Was to fetch Grist or carry Corn
From Mill, or to the Mill, which stood
Some distance from the Brotherhood.

This Mare the Frier did depend
Upon to stand his trusty Friend,
Resolving, by the break of Day,
To borrow'r and to ride away;
So up he 'rose from off his Seat,
Went in to make himself more sweet,
And to prepare, before 'twas Light,
All matters needful for his flight.

The Knight who all this time had lain
Reflecting on the Monk he'd slain,
Was very restless and intent
To know how the Adventure went,
And whether any Monk as yet
Had found poor John on Boghouse-Seat,
He therefore bid his Servant go
And listen up and down below,
Beneath the Priory Wall, to find
If the Monk's Death had taken Wind.

Accordingly the Man, in fear,
Crept down most softly Stair by Stair,

And op'ning of the Door unheard,
To gently steal into the Yard,
At once he fix'd his Eyes upon
The ghastly Corps of Frier John,
Leaning his Head against a Post,
Looking as frightful as a Ghost,
His falling Jaws and glaring Eyes,
Striking the Man with such surprise,
That back he stagger'd, as if drunk,
So sadly scar'd to see the Monk,
That he'd no Power left to shut
The Door and bar the Goblin out,
But groap'd and fumbl'd back his way
Toth' Chamber where his Master lay,
Declaring, in a frightful Tone,
That of a certain Frier John
Was sitting in the Porch alone,
And grin'd and star'd as if he meant
To see them brought to Punishment.

Nouns, quoth the Master, 'tis your fear,
If dead, how should the Rogue come there?
'Tis nothing but your guilty Breast
That makes you think so; 'tis a Jest.
Come, thee and I'll go down together,
We then shall soon discover, whether
He's really in the Porch below,
Or that thou only fancy'st so.

With that the Valiant Knight, attended
By Roger, to the Door descended,
Where both beheld the Frier staring,
Altho' as dead as any Herring.

Now, quoth the Knight, I find thy Mouth
Has told my Ears no more than truth,
I see the Villain looks, tho' dead,
As if he'd Mischief in his Head:
His ghastly Grins, I own, are frightful;
But since the Rogue's so very spightful,
I'll find a way for this offence,
To send him far enough from hence.

I've an old Stallion in my Stable,
Batter'd i'th' Wars and quite unable
For Service, and a rusty Sute
Of Armour, down from Head to Foot,
All these will I bestow upon
This restless Scoundrel Frier John,
And bind him upright in the Saddle,
That he shall neither fall nor waddle,
With an old Target and a Lance,
And the broad Sword I us'd in France,
Then turn him out by break of Day,
And let the Stallion chuse his way;
He'll run like Forest Colt, I'm sure,
As soon as out of Stable-Door,
And the Monks dangling Legs, the while,
Must spur him on, Mile after Mile.
Thus shall they take their Chance together,
And wander on we know not whither.

No sooner had the Knight propos'd
This Stratagem, but Roger clos'd,

And gladly, to conceal the Murder,
Put all the Furniture in order;
So that the Monk was quickly drest,
And well equip'd to mount his Beast,
Who next was saddl'd like a Horse
Appointed for the bloody Wars,
And fed with Oats to make him stronger,
That he might hold his speed the longer.
By this time it was peep of Day,
And time the Monk should make his way,
Accordingly they ty'd him fast
Into the Saddle by his Waste,
And bound him with such Art, that he
Sat almost upright, Cap-a-Pe;
Then couching his tremendous Lance,
They whip'd the Horse to make him Prance,
And turn'd him loose without the Gate,
Who flounc'd and gallop'd at no rate,
And loudly farting as he ran,
Took leave of Master and of Man.

Monk Richard, who had taken care,
E're this time to secure the Mare,
Was fled a little space, before
They'd turn'd his Brother out of Door;
So that the Stallion having scent
O'th' Mare, with all his fury went,
Endeav'ring, by a swift pursuit,
To overtake the Lady Brute,
Threat'ning to give her, by his Neigh,
A pleasing Horse-buss by the way;
Tho' old and stiff, his brutal Lust
Made him in Clouds throw up the Dust,
And rend and run so like a Tyger,
As if the Dev'l had been his Rider,
Till in a little time the Horse
Was got so near the Frier's Arse,
That, turning, he was scar'd to see
A Man in Armour Cap-a-Pe,
With a Lance couch'd, come thund'ring a'ter,
As if design'd for Blood and Slaughter,

Therefore, with all the Heels he had,
He kick'd and spur'd like any mad,
Fancy'ng that in this armed order,
Some Foe pursu'd him for the Murder;
And now was almost past the hope
Of 'scaping present Death or Rope:
However, still he whip'd and tew'd
Like any Highway-man pursu'd,
Till scowring thro' a Town, at length,
When's Mare had almost spent her strength,
By chance he rid into a Lane,
Where he was forc'd to turn again,
And there the fiery Steed began
To rise and mount both Mare and Man,
And with a merc'less pawing Hoof,
Soon knock'd the living Frier off,
Who, as he fell, fix'd Eyes upon
The frightful Face of Frier John;
For lo the Beaver of the Helmet
Was cock'd, and did not overwhelm it.

The rustick Townsmen, who had seen 'em
Ride thro' as if Old-Nick was in 'em,
Flock'd tow'rds 'em now in frighted Throngs,
Some arm'd with Clubs, and some with Prongs,
Finding the Monk dismounted, lying
On a green Bank, for Mercy crying,
Whilst the dead Fri'r, from Head to Heel,
Lock'd up in Coffin made of Steel,
And his old Stallion, were attacking
The Mare he wanted to be backing.
The Rabble thought it now but just,
To side with those that suffer'd most;
Therefore resolv'd, with all their Force,
T'assault the armed Man and Horse,
Accordingly, with Staves and Clubs,
They lent the Stallion many Drubs,
Who, tho' in Wars he'd often run
The risque of Foreign Sword and Gun,
Had ne'er experienc'd, in his Life,
The sad effects of civil Strife;

So that, unable to oppose
Or guard himself against their Blows,
At length his Head receiv'd a thump
That fairly set him on his Rump,
Then steping up they seiz'd the Rein,
And hung in swarms about his Mane,
Subduing thus, by dint of Force,
The Lifeless Rider and his Horse;
But when the Combatant was found
Dead as a Door-nail, on the Ground,
The poor dishearten'd Clowns began
To think their Blows had been his Bane,
And that they now should, e'ery one,
Be punish'd for the Ill they'd done,
Till Frier Richard, sore opprest
With Fear and Guilt, the Fact confess'd,
Believing that this strange pursuit,
And all things appertaining to't,
Were done byth' providential Order
Of Heaven to detect the Murder,

That Penitence and shameful dying
Might expiate a Sin so crying,
And his own worthless Life attone
For his Revenge on Frier John;
So that upon the free Confession
Of his unnatural Transgression,
The murder'd Monk was strip'd and bury'd,
And Frier Dick to Prison carry'd.
The strange discov'ry, with each Fool,
Now passing for a Miracle,
Till the poor Frier at the 'Sizes,
Was try'd by Twelve judicious Nisies,
And by the same condemn'd to be
A mournful sight at Gallow-Tree;
And then the Knight, who was unwilling
T'incur the Curse of double killing,
Rode to His Majesty post hast,
And told the truth of what had past,
Obtaining a Reprieve that stop'd
The guiltless Monk from being top'd,

And in a short convenient time,
A thorough Pardon for his Crime.
In which old Story we may see
What Shifts the Wicked make to free
Their guilty selves from Jeopardy.

Moral.

The guiltless, by Mistake, sometimes
Incur the blame of others Crimes,
And guilty Persons oft prevent
Their open Shame and Punishment.

The Conforming Parson.

A Satyr.

When Judas, with ungrateful hands, had slain
The Son of her who nurs'd him to a Man,
Rob'd his own Father, took away his Life,
And made his Mother his incestuous Wife,
To Jesus then repentingly he fled,
And him he also for Reward betray'd.
Just so the A*****ry Convert, when he'd been
Notorious long for every carnal Sin,
He quits the Sect that did the Guide despise,
And to the Church for Sanctuary flies;
Where, wreaking from his Harlots, he attends
Her sacred Rites, and daringly ascends
The Pulpit, where he counterfeits the Priest,
And underneath the Robe conceals the Beast;
Comes to her Altars loaded with Disgrace,
And still sins on with a conforming Face;

Betrays the Holy Church to publick Shame,
As Judas did the Builder of the same.
Never let's boast such Proselytes as these,
Only thrown out to purge the Sectaries.
For them he left not, but was left i'th' lurch,
That by conforming he might shame the Church,
And by his Sinful Principles ensnare
Some list'ning Flock beneath his ghostly Care.
A late detection proves, alas, too plain,
He only chang'd his Coat, but not the Man,
Retaining still those Vices which, before
His Recantation, stain'd the Cloth he wore.
O Holy Mother keep thy Pulpits free
And clean from such conforming Guides as he!
Let no lascivious Cast-off, from among
Pretended Saints, thy Reputation wrong,
Or think thy Holy Discipline can make
A good Divine of a Dissenting Rake.
No! with new Failings he'll refresh his Stains,
And scandalize the Robe with ill remains.

So nauseous Dregs, which Brewers cast away,
Distillers cleanse, and bring again in play;
Yet, when by Art the Filth is most refin'd,
The Stench will in the Spirit stay behind.

A Dialogue between two Friends, Tom and Jack.

Tom.
How now, Friend Jack, what makes thee look so sowre?

Jack.
You know I'm marry'd, prithee ask no more.

Tom.
Marry'd! what then, that's but a trifling Curse.

Jack.
But I'm a Buck (a Cuckold) Tom, that's worse.

Tom.
That's a small Plague, there's thousands in the Town.

Jack.
Z***ds! but at three Months end I've got a Son.

Tom.
No matter, Wedlock makes it yours, you know.

Jack.
But is not she a Slut to serve me so?

Tom.
'Tis but a common Failing in her Sex.

Jack.
But who that's Mortal can forbear to vex?

Tom.
Why would you wed, and such a hazard run?

Jack.
What signifies such Questions when it's done?

Tom.
You're bound to bear it, now she's made your Bride.

Jack.
Blood! Tom, I can't, for she's a Scold beside.

Tom.
Then hang thyself, I know no other Cure.

Jack.
I'll see her d***n'd first, an eternal W***re.

Tom.
Then hug thy Bargain, and be pleas'd thou'st got
A bastard-bearing Scold, not worth a Groat.
With Patience undergo thy wretched tease,
And outdo that old Cuckold Socrates.

A gentle Reproof to a deceitful Friend.

Forbear, my Outside Friend, to shake my Hand
Tell me no more, thou art at my Command.
I scorn the Wretch that studies my Disgrace,
Behind my Back, and Cringes to my Face.
Thou'rt full of nauseous Flatt'ry and Deceit,
And for true Friendship's sacred Bonds unfit:

I hate the Fawnings of a double Tongue,
That always speaks me fair, yet does me wrong:
No more into my peaceful Bosom creep,
To fish for Secrets which thou canst not keep,
Nor villify thy Friends, to let me see,
When my Back's turn'd, how thou canst rail at me,
I've penetrating Eyes, and at one view,
When e'er I see thy Face, can look thee through,
And find Self-Int'rest lurking in thy Mind,
With Craft, like unborn Twins, together join'd,
Which Monsters govern thy Designs and thee,
And fill thy Actions with Deformity,
That what kind Offices thou dost thy Friend,
Like a Whores Love, prove fatal in the end;
And, at best, terminate in some ill Word,
That blasts thy Favours, to thy gain, confer'd,
And often purchas'd at a dearer Rate,
Than Mercy at the Fleet or Compter Gate.
Therefore pray boast no Friendships thou hast done,
Since thy best Services are worse than none,

And such, that e'ery prudent Man would fly,
That knew thy Inside half so well as I.
Creep not, from place to place, to pry and sift,
Like an old Gossip, when thy only drift
Can be, by tattling, to revive or make
Mischief, for nothing but for Mischief's sake.
Let mine, and other Men's Affairs, alone,
And learn to manage, with more Wit, thy own.
Thou'rt an old Man, 'tis true, I might have said
Old Woman, by the rattle in thy Head,
Therefore in pity to thy doating Age,
I spare thy Follies, and restrain my Rage,
And use thee, like an angry Judge that hides
His Passion gravely, and with Temper chides;
But if thou irritat'st my Muse, my Next
Shall shew thee what a Poet is when vex'd;
For Wrongs repeated, more and more provoke,
And fresh Affronts deserve a smarter Stroke.

The Good Man's Supplication.

Bless me with Grace and Strength, to bear
My Fortune and my Doom,
That I my Course may boldly steer,
To my Eternal Home.
O grant me Goodness to forgive,
And Patience to sustain
The Wrongs and Inj'ries I receive
From base and wicked Men!
Let no Revenge inflame my Heart,
No Anger tease my Mind,
But let me act a Christian Part,
Tow'rds God and all Mankind.
Feed me, O Heav'n! with wholesome Food,
And Cloath me from the Cold:
Whilst Young, preserve me chast and good,
And healthful when I'm Old.

Let me be friendly to my Friend,
To e'ery Mortal just,
True to whatever I pretend,
And faithful to my Trust.
In safety Wise, in danger Brave;
Be lib'ral but discreet,
That when I'm mouldring in my Grave
My Mem'ry may be sweet.

FINIS.

The Cuckoldy Yeoman:

OR, The Adulteress's Visit to her dead Gallant.

A wealthy Yeoman of Renown,
Residing in a Country Town,
Had chosen for his Wife a Woman
Whose Lust had made her Tail too common;
Among the rest of her Gallants,
That satisfy'd her Female Wants,
She had a strong-back'd Bully-Blade,
Cut out for riding such a Jade,
Who, by his Nonsence and his Noise,
Jack-pudding Tricks and am'rous Toys,

And other things we must not Name,
So pleas'd the Cockles of the Dame,
That him the Dowdy fancy'd best,
And kiss'd much oftner than the rest.
From whence it justly may be noted,
That Wantons, to their Lust devoted,
Chuse Fellows by their Backs, not Brains,
To pleasure their Concupiscence.

At length, by Revelling and Ranting,
Horse-racing, Tipling, and Gallanting,
Thackum, for by that Name alone
The blust'ring Blade was chiefly known,
Had brought himself so very low
In Pocket, that the Country Beau
Was forc'd to hang upon the Skirt
Of her with whom he us'd to Sport,
And live like that salacious Louse
That plagues the Fair, and sticks so close,
In lushious Parts criniferous.

Nor had she any way to succour
The craving Hand that us'd to stroke her,
But by those Sleights which all such Hussies
Will practise that Cornute their Spouses.
The Key could not be left a Minute
In the old Chest, but she was in it:
No Money could his Pockets keep,
Them she examin'd in his Sleep;
And now and then a silver Spoon,
Or Thimble, would be strangely gone;
Which Rob'ry, to be sure, was laid
Upon the guiltless Man or Maid;
Or some poor Gammar who, at Door,
Had beg'd Skim-milk but just before.
By such collusive Arts as these
She fed her Spark, till, by degrees,
She'd made away with e'ery thing,
That would the ready-Peny bring
And that by Day or Night could be
Remov'd without Discovery;

Which shews what kind intriguing Dames
Will do for those that feed their Flames,
And how they'll knock things out of Joint,
At home, to gain a ticklish Point.
For Lust, alas, admits no Bridle,
There's no Discretion in the middle,
Where things will dance without a Fiddle.

The Wanton much concern'd to find
That she could be no longer kind
To her dear Thackum, now was forc'd,
In short, to let him know the worst,
Telling him, tho' she lov'd him dearly,
And would oblige him late or early,
She'd not a Peny left to give him,
Or any Present to relieve him,
Besides those Favours which he knew
He always should be welcome to.

Marry, quoth Thackum, in a bluster,
Without the Pence no Pater-noster.

Adding, Large goings out, my dear,
You know, large comings in require;
Money buys Wine that makes as glad,
Without, no Pleasure's to be had.
For if you once withhold your Purse
My am'rous Courage flags in course.

After they had a while reflected
On their past Pleasures, much dejected
To think that Want should put an end
To Love, and sep'rate Friend from Friend,
Young Thackum and his dear departed,
In mutual Grief, half broken hearted;
The Dame lamenting for the loss
Of what she'd often hug'd so close.
The Spark, now left without Provision,
As much concern'd at his Condition,
Who was of all support bereft,
And to the greatest hardships left.
Thus pleasures gain'd by Usurpation,
Have soon a sorrowful Cessation,

And e'ery sweet bewitching Vice,
Leaves Stings proportion'd to their Joys.

Thackum, who'd been of late so jolly,
Now felt the smart of all his Folly,
And bit so hard upon the Bridle,
That he could live no longer idle;
Therefore resolv'd, whate'er came on't,
By Robb'ry to relieve his Want.
Accordingly he rode abroad,
To try his Fortune on the Road,
Flushing himself in divers places,
With very notable Successes.
That now his Pockets b'ing replenish'd,
And his late fear of Starving vanish'd,
He soon renew'd his am'rous League,
And carry'd on his old intrigue,
Wanting no Money to support
Th'Expence of meeting with his Flirt,
That now they revell'd up and down
In this and 'tother Country-Town,

As oft as the Adult'rous Blowze
Could feign a Lye to cheat her Spouse:
But as such sweet delights at last,
Are always bitter to the tast,
Thackum, who'd gone a step too far,
And kill'd a noted Traveller,
As well as rob'd him, was pursu'd
By Clowns, and taken in a Wood,
Carr'd, Coram nobis, and committed
To Prison, where he lay unpity'd;
Till try'd, the next Assize, before
Judge Graybeard, and a dozen more,
And when convicted by his Betters,
Was sentenc'd to be hang'd in Fetters,
Which, on the next Fish-day, in presence
of Hundreds, was perform'd with decence,
Whilst many Gammars in the Crowd
Held up their Hands and cry'd aloud

'Twas pity such a clever smug
Well-looking Fellow, tho' a Rogue,
Should be tuck'd up, so like a Dog;
But all the sorrow that they shew'd,
Did dying Thackum little good,
For there, as soon as he had sung
His penetential Psalm, he swung,
And hung to scare the Crows away
From the Corn-Fields that round him lay,
And to deter the Country Gaffers
From ploughing with their Neighbours Heifers.
Thus wanton Women, we may see,
Bring foolish Men to Poverty,
And Poverty, for want of Grace,
Still prompts them to be further base.

When Thackum thus had made his End,
And left his old Adult'rous Friend
To mourn the loss of her Gallant,
Who us'd to ease her greatest Want,

The Dame, who did not dare to pay
A Visit, all the time he lay
Fetter'd i'th' County Jayl, because
The Jaylor knew whose Wife she was,
Grew much concern'd that she had been
So slighting to the best of Men.
For Wantons measure humane goodness,
Not by Mens Vertues but their Lewdness:
Therefore, since she had prov'd ungrateful
To him who'd always been so faithful,
She now resolv'd, one Night or other,
To steal out to her pendant Lover,
Hoping a Visit to her dead
Gallant, affectionately paid,
Might so attone for her remisness,
As to remove her great uneas'ness;
Accordingly, one Ev'ning dark,
She Journey'd tow'rds her hanging Spark,
Who'd taken up his lofty Station,
A Mile without the Corporation,

Fearing, should she attempt the same
By Day, 'twould scandalize her Name;
Therefore she staid till friendly Night
Had just o'ercome the fading Light,
And then, like any Buxom Lass
In hopes of stealing an Embrace,
She jog'd along with all her pow'r,
As if each Minute seem'd an Hour.

As she was thus approaching near
Her elevated dangling Dear,
A drunken Tinker, who, by chance,
In nappy Ale had drown'd his Brains,
Beneath a Hedge was laid along,
Close by the Gib where Thackum hung,
That a cool Sleep upon his Fuddle,
Might soberize his dizzy Noddle;
And having, for some time, been taking
A hearty Nap, was just awaking
As Madam made a stop, to stare
At her dear Lover in the Air;

She seeming very much dismay'd
To see him hanging o'er her Head,
Began with Tears, and, for a while,
Cry'd like a Crocodile of Nile;
At length her sobbing Silence broke,
And thus to the Cadaver spoke:

O wretched Eyes! O dismal Night,
That shews me this unhappy Sight!
O faithless Woman I! to fail
Of comforting thy heart in Jayl,
When thou, to me, wouldst often spare
Much more than was one Woman's share,
And must I now, my only Dear,
Go back and leave thee swinging here.?

“No, quoth the Tinker, let's not part,
“I'll with thee gang, with all my Heart.

Th'Adultress hearing this reply,
And seeing none but Thackum nigh,
Thought 'twas an Answer from her Lover,
And run as if the Devil drove her,

Believing he was coming down
To hand her back into the Town;
The Tinker rising, hobbl'd after
As fast as e'er he could for Laughter,
And teasing Corns, that made him tread
Too cautious for a Man of speed,
Crying, Good Honey slack your pace,
You scowre as if you run a Race,
I am too stiff for such a course.
Nouns, you are swifter than a Horse.
But nothing would abate her Vigour,
For still she gallop'd like a Tyger,
Conceiting, all the way she fled,
'Twas Thackum, tho' she saw him dead,
The rather, 'cause she heard a clinking
O'th' Tinker's Tools, which, to her thinking,
Were the loose Irons, Chains and Fetters,
About the dearest of her Creatures;
Therefore she did the faster trudg it,
At e'ery rattling of the Budget:

Nor could she, by her looking back,
Discover more than something black,
Which undistinguishable sight,
At e'ery gaze, encreas'd her Fright,
And made her trespass upon Nature,
The more, to make their distance greater,
Till she, at length, recover'd home,
Where the poor Cuckold, in a Room,
In solitude had perch'd his Crupper,
On a tall Buffet Stool, at Supper,
But in run frighted Blowzabel,
Expecting Thackum at her Tail,
And tumbl'd down the greasy Eggs
And Bacon, 'twixt her Husband's Leggs,
Dreading sad usage, shame, or slaughter,
From him she fear'd was coming a'ter;
Therefore, to make herself securer,
Blunder'd o'er all that stood before her,
Crying, Dear Husband fight and save me,
Or Thackum, tho' he's hang'd, will have me.

Which so amaz'd her 'Spouse, that he
Was frighted full as bad as she.
But her Friend Thackum never came,
As was expected by the Dame;
For when the Tinker saw her Hous'd,
He went to th'Alehouse and carous'd,
There made the merry Story known,
From whence 'twas bruited up and down,
Till the Adult'rous Jilt became
A common Town-talk, to her shame.

Moral.

Tho' many act an odious part,
In hopes to hide their sins by Art,
Yet humane Craft no Guilt can smother,
'Twill come to light some way or other.

The End.