But, alas! there's no such woman, The calamity is common,

The first rib did bring in ruin,

And the rest have since been doing,
Some by one way, some another,
Woman still is mischief's mother,
And yet cannot man forbear,
Though it cost him ne'er so dear.
Yet with me 'tis out of season
To complain thus without reason,
Since the best and sweetest fair
Is allotted to my share:
But, alas! I love her so

That my love creates my woe;
For if she be out of humour,
Straight displeas'd I do presume her,
And would give the world to know
What it is offends her so :
Or if she be discontented,
Lord, how am I then tormented!
And am ready to persuade her
That I have unhappy made her:
But if sick, I then am dying,
Meat and Med'cine both defying:
So uneasy is his life,

Who is marry'd to a wife.

Why then all the great pains taking? Why the sighing? why the waking? Why the riding? why the running? Why the artifice and cunning? Why the whining? why the crying? Why pretending to be dying? Why all this clutter to get wives, To make us weary of our lives?

A VOYAGE TO IRELAND IN BURLESQUE.

THE lives of frail men are compar'd by the sages,
Or unto short journies, or pilgrimages,

As men to their inns do come sooner or later,
That is, to their ends; (to be plain in my matter;)
From whence, when one dead is, it currently fol-

lows,

He has run his race, though his goal be the gallows;
And this 'tis, I fancy, sets folks so a madding,
And makes men and women so eager of gadding;
Truth is, in my youth I was one of those people
Would have gone a great way to have seen an high

steeple,

And though I was bred 'mongst the wonders o' th' Peak,

Would have thrown away money, and ventur❜d my neck.

To have seen a great hill, a rock, or a cave,

And thought there was nothing so pleasant and brave;

But at forty years old you may (if you please)
Think me wiser than run such errands as these;
Or, had the same humour still ran in my toes,
A voyage to Ireland I ne'er should have chose :
But to tell you the truth on't, indeed it was neither
Improvement nor pleasure for which I went thither;
I know then you'll presently ask me, for what?
Why, faith, it was that makes the old woman trot;
And therefore I think I'm not much to be blam'd
If I went to the place whereof Nick was asham’d.
Oh Coriate! thou traveller fam'd as Ulysses,

In such a stupendious labour as this is,

Come lend me the aids of thy hands and thy feet, Though the first be pedantic, the other not sweet, Yet both are so restless in peregrination,

They'll help both my journey, and eke my relation.

'Twas now the most beautiful time of the year, The days were now long, and the sky was now clear,

And May, that fair lady of splendid renown,

Had dress'd herself fine, in her flowr'd tabby gown, When about some two hours and an half after noon, When it grew something late, though I thought it

too soon,

With a pitiful voice, and a most heavy heart,
I tun'd up my pipes to sing, loth to depart,
The ditty concluded, I call'd for my horse,
And with a good pack did the jument endorse,
Till he groan'd and he f-d under the burthen,
For sorrow had made me a cumbersome lurden:
And now farewel Dove, where I've caught such
brave dishes

Of over-grown, golden, and silver-scal'd fishes;
Thy trout and thy grailing may now feed securely,
I've left none behind me can take 'em so surely;
Feed on then, and breed on, until the next year,
But if I return I expect my arrear.

By pacing and trotting, betimes in the even, E'er the Sun had forsaken one half of the Heaven, We all at fair Congerton took up our inn,

Where the sign of a king kept a king and his queen : But who do you think came to welcome me there? No worse a man, marry, than good master mayor, With his staff of command, yet the man was not lame,

But he needed it more when he went, than he came ;

After three or four hours of friendly potation
We took leave each of other in courteous fashion,
When each one, to keep his brains fast in his head,
Put on a good night-cap, and straight way to bed.
Next morn, having paid for boil'd, roasted, and
bacon,

And of sovereign hostess our leaves kindly taken,
(For her king (as 'twas rumour'd) by late pouring
down,

This morning had got a foul flaw in his crown,)
We mounted again, and full soberly riding,
Three miles we had rid e'er we met with a biding;
But there (having over night plied the tap well)
We now must needs water at place call'd Holmes
Chapel :

"A hay!" quoth the foremost, "ho! who keeps the house?"

Which said, out an host comes as brisk as a louse;
His hair comb'd as sleek as a barber he'd been,
A cravat with black ribbon ty'd under his chin;
Tho' by what I saw in him, I straight 'gan to fear
That knot would be one day slipp'd under his ear.
Quoth he, (with low congee) "What lack you, my
lord?"

"The best liquor," quoth I, "that the house will afford?"

"You shall straight," quoth he; and then calls out, "Mary,

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Come quickly, and bring us a quart of Canary.” "Hold, hold, my spruce host! for i' th' morning so early, '

I never drink liquor but what's made of barley." Which words were scarce out, but, which made me

admire,

My lordship was presently turn'd into squire:

"Ale, 'squire, you mean?" quoth he nimbly again, “What, must it be purl'd?"—"No, I love it best

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plain."

‘Why, if you'll drink ale, sir, pray take my advice, Here's the best ale i' th' land, if you'll go to the price;

Better, I sure am, ne'er blew out a stopple ;

But then, in plain truth, it is sixpence a bottle."
"Why, faith," quoth I, "friend, if your liquor be
such,

For the best ale in England, it is not too much:
Let's have it, and quickly."-
.”—“O sir! you may stay;
A pot in your pate is a mile in your way:

Come, bring out a bottle here presently, wife,
Of the best Cheshire hum he e'er drank in his life."
Straight out comes the mistress in waistcoat of silk,
As clear as a milkmaid, and white as her milk,
With visage as oval and sleek as an egg,
As straight as an arrow, as right as my leg:
A curtsey she made, as demure as a sister,

I could not forbear, but alighted and kiss'd her:
Then ducking another with most modest mien,
The first word she said, was, Will 't please you

walk in ?"

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I thank'd her; but told her, I then could not stay, For the haste of my bus'ness did call me away. She said, she was sorry it fell out so odd,

But if, when again I should travel that road,

I would stay there a night, she assur'd me the nation

Should no where afford better accommodation: Meanwhile my spruce landlord has broken the cork, And call'd for a bodkin, though he had a fork;