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Oh that dear conqueror of the world! She pitied Betterton in age, That ridicul'd the god-like rage. She, first of all the town, was told, Where newest India things were sold: So in a morning, without bodice, Slipt sometimes out to Mrs. Thody's; To cheapen tea, to buy a screen: What else could so much virtue mean? For, to prevent the least reproach, Betty went with her in the coach. But, when no very great affair Excited her peculiar care, She without fail was wak'd at ten; Drank chocolate, then slept again: At twelve she rose; with much ado Her clothes were huddled on by two; Then, does my lady dine at home? Yes, sure —But is the colonel come * Next, how to spend the afternoon, And not come home again too soon; The Change, the city, or the play, As each was proper for the day: A turn in summer to Hyde-park, When it grew tolerably dark. Wife's pleasure causes husband's pain: Strange fancies come in Hans's brain: He thought of what he did not name; And would reform, but durst not blame. At first he therefore preach'd his wife The comforts of a pious life: Told her, how transient beauty was; That all must die, and flesh was grass: He bought her sermons, psalms, and graces; And doubled down the useful places. But still the weight of worldly care Allow'd her little time for prayer: And Cleopatra was read o'er; While Scot, and Wake, and twenty more, That teach one to deny one's self, Stood unmolested on the shelf. An untouch'd Bible grac'd her toilet; No fear that thumb of her's should spoil it. In short, the trade was still the same: The dame went out: the colonel came. What's to be done poor Carvel cry'd: Another battery must be try’d: What if to spells I had recourse? Ts but to hinder something worse. The end must justify the means; He only sins who ill intends: Since therefore 'tis to combat evil; Tis lawful to employ the devil. Forthwith the devil did appear (For name him and he's always near): Not in the shape in which he plies At miss's elbow when she lies; Or stands before the nursery doors, To take the naughty boy that roars: But, without saucer-eye or claw, like a grave barrister at law. Hans Carvel, lay aside your grief,

The devil says; I bring relief.
Relief! says Hans: pray, let me crave
Your name, Sir?—Satan—Sir, your slave;
I did not look upon your feet:
You'll pardon me:–Ay, now I see’t:
And pray, Sir, when came you from hell?
Our friends there, did you leave them well?
All well; but pr’ythee, honest Hans,
(Says Satan) leave your complaisance:
The truth is this; I cannot stay
Flaring in sunshine all the day:
For, entre nous, we hellish sprites
Love more the fresco of the nights;
And oftener our receipts convey
In dreams, than any other way.
I tell you therefore as a friend,
Ere morning dawns, your fears shall end:
Go then this evening, master Carvel,
Lay down your fowls, and broach your barrel
Let friends and wine dissolve your care;
Whilst I the great receipt prepare:
To-night I'll bring it, by my faith !
Believe for once what Satan saith.
Away went Hans; glad? not a little;
Obey'd the devil to a tittle;
Invited friends some half a dozen,
The colonel and my lady's cousin.


The meat was serv'd; the bowls were crown'd;

Catches were sung: and healths went round;
Barbadoes waters for the close;
Till Hans had fairly got his dose:
The colonel toasted “ to the best:”
The dame mov'd off, to be undrest:

The chimes went twelve: the guests withdrew:

But, when, or how, Hans hardly knew.
Some modern anecdotes aver,
He nodded in his elbow chair;
From thence was carried off to bed,
John held his heels, and Nan his head.
My lady was disturb’d: new sorrow!
Which Hans must answer for tomorrow.
In bed then view this happy pair;
And think how Hymen triumph'd there.
Hans fast asleep as soon as laid;
The duty of the night unpaid:
The waking dame, with thoughts opprest,
That made her hate both him and rest:
By such a husband, such a wife!
'Twas Acme's and Septimius' life:
The lady sigh'd; the lover snor'd :
The punctual devil kept his word:
Appear'd to honest Hans again;
But not at all by madam seen :
And giving him a magic ring,
Fit for the finger of a king;
Dear Hans, said he, this jewel take,
And wear it long for Satan's sake:
'Twill do your business to a hair:
For, long as you this ring shall wear,
As sure as I look over Lincoln, -
That ne'er shall happen which you think on.
Hans took the ring with joy extreme

(All this was only in a dream);
And, thrusting it beyond his joint,
'Tis done, he cry'd : I’ve gain'd my point.-
What point, said she, you ugly beast :
You neither give me joy nor rest:
'Tis done:—What's done, you drunken bear 2
You've thrust your finger God knows where.


* Est enim quiddam, iddue intelligitur in omni virtute, quod deceat: quod cogitatione magis a virtute potest quam re

separari.” eparar Cic. de Off. l. i.

Beyond the fix’d and settled rules
Of vice and virtue in the schools,
Beyond the letter of the law
Which keeps our men and maids in awe,
The better sort should set before 'em
A grace, a manner, a decorum ;
Something, that gives their acts a light;
Makes them not only just, but bright;
And sets them in that open fame,
Which witty malice cannot blame.
For 'tis in life, as 'tis in painting:
Much may be right, yet much be wanting;
From lines drawn true, our eye may trace
A foot, a knee, a hand, a face;
May justly own the picture wrought
Exact to rule, exempt from fault;
Yet, if the colouring be not there,
The Titian stroke, the Guido air:
To nicest judgments show the piece,
At best 'twill only not displease:
It would not gain on Jersey's eye;
Bradford would frown, and set it by.
Thus in the picture of our mind
The action may be well design'd ;
Guided by law, and bound by duty;
Yet want this je ne scai quoi of beauty :
And though its error may be such,
As Knags and Burgess cannot hit;
It yet may feel the nicer touch
Of Wycherley's or Congreve's wit.
What is this talk replies a friend,
And where will this dry moral end ?
The truth of what you here lay down
By some example should be shown.—
With all my heart—for once; read on.
An honest but a simple pair
(And twenty other I forbear)
May serve to make this thesis clear.
A doctor of great skill and fame,
Paulo Purganti was his name,
Had a good, comely, virtuous wife;
No woman led a better life:
She to intrigues was ev'n hard-hearted:
She chuckled when a bawd was carted;
And thought the nation ne'er would thrive,
Till all the whores were burnt alive.

On married men, that dar'd be bad, She thought no mercy should be had; They should be hang'd, or starv'd, or flay'd, Or serv'd like Romish priests in Swede.— In short, all lewdness she defied: And stiff was her parochial pride. Yet, in an honest way, the dame Was a great lover of that same; And could from scripture take her cue, That husbands should give wives their due. Her prudence did so justly steer Between the gay and the severe, That if in some regards she chose To curb poor Paulo in too close, In others she relax'd again, And govern'd with a looser rein. Thus though she strictly did confine The doctor from excess of wine: With oysters, eggs, and vermicelli, She let him almost burst his belly: Thus drying coffee was denied ; But chocolate that loss supplied: And for tobacco (who could bear it 3) Filthy concomitant of claret: (Blest revolution () one might see Eringo roots, and Bohea tea. She often set the doctor's band, And strok'd his beard and squeez'd his hand: Kindly complain'd, that after noon He went to pore on books too soon : She held it wholesomer by much To rest a little on the couch: About his waist in bed a-nights She clung so close—for fear of sprites. The doctor understood the call; But had not always wherewithal. The lion's skin too short, you know, (As Plutarch's morals finely show) Was lengthen’d by the fox's tail: And art supplies, where strength may fail. Unwilling then in arms to meet The enemy he could not beat; He strove to lengthen the campaign, And save his forces by chicane. Fabius, the Roman chief, who thus By fair retreat grew Maximus, Shows us, that all that warrior can do, With force inferior, is cunctando. One day then, as the foe drew near, With love, and joy, and life, and dear; Our Don, who knew this tittle-tattle Did, sure as trumpet, call to battle, Thought it extremely a propos, To ward against the coming blow : To ward: but how Ay, there's the question; Fierce the assault, unarm'd the bastion. The doctor feign'd a strange surprise: He felt her pulse; he view'd her eyes: That beat too fast, these roll'd too quick; She was, he said, or would be sick; He judg'd it absolutely good,

That she should purge, and cleanse her blood.
Spa waters for that end were got;
If they past easily or not,
What matters it? The lady's fever
Continued violent as ever.
For a distemper of this kind
(Blackmore and Hans are of my mind),
If once it youthful blood infects,
And chiefly of the female sex,
ls scarce remov’d by pill or potion;
Whate'er might be our doctor's notion.
One luckless night then, as in bed
The doctor and the dame were laid;
Again this cruel fever came,
High pulse, short breath, and blood in flame.
What measures shall poor Paulo keep
With madam in this piteous taking
She, like Macbeth, has murder'd sleep,
And won't allow him rest, though waking.
Sad state of matters! when we dare
Nor ask for peace, nor offer war;
Nor Livy nor Comines have shown
What in this juncture may be done.
Grotius might own, that Paulo's case is
Harder than any which he places
Amongst his Belli and his Pacis.
He strove, alas! but strove in vain,
By dint of logic to maintain
That all the sex was born to grieve,
Down to her ladyship from Eve.
He rang'd his tropes, and preach'd up patience,
Back'd his opinion with quotations,
Divines and moralists; and run ye on
Quite through from Seneca to Bunyan.
As much in vain he bid her try
To fold her arms, to close her eye;
Telling her, rest would do her good,
If any thing in nature could :
So held the Greeks quite down from Galen,
Masters and princes of the calling:
So all our modern friends maintain
Though no great Greeks) in Warwick-lane.
Reduce, my Muse, the wandering song:
A tale should never be too long.
The more he talk'd, the more she burn'd,
And sigh'd, and tost, and groan'd, and turn'd:
Atlast, I wish, said she, my dear—
(And whisper’d something in his ear)
You wish ' wish on, the doctor cries:
Lord ' when will womankind be wise 2
What, in your waters? Are you mad?
Why poison is not half so bad.
I'll do it—but I give you warning:
You’ll die before tomorrow morning.—
Tis kind, my dear, what you advise;
The lady with a sigh replies!
But life, you know, at best is pain;
And death is what we should disdain.
So do it therefore, and adieu:
For I will die for love of you.-
Let wanton wives by death be scar'd:
But, to my comfort, I'm prepar’d.


As Nancy at her toilet sat,
Admiring this, and blaming that,
Tell me, she said ; but tell me true;
The nymph who could your heart subdue,
What sort of charms does she possess
Absolve me, fair-one ; I'll confess
With pleasure, I reply'd. Her hair,
In ringlets rather dark than fair,
Does down her ivory bosom roll,
And, hiding half, adorns the whole.
In her high forehead's fair half round
Love sits in open triumph crown'd:
He in the dimple of her chin,
In private state, by friends is seen.
Her eyes are neither black nor gray;
Nor fierce nor feeble is their ray :
Their dubious lustre seems to show
Something that speaks nor yes, nor no.
Her lips no living bard, I weet,
May say, how red, how round, how sweet;
Old Homer only could indite
Their vagrant grace and soft delight:
They stand recorded in his book,
When Helen smil'd, and Hebe spoke—
The gipsy, turning to her glass,
Too plainly show’d she knew the face;
And which am I most like, she said,
Your Cloe, or your Nut-brown Maid :


To the tune of King John and the Abbot of Canterbury. 1715.

I sing not old Jason, who travell'd through Greece,
To kiss the fair maids, and possess the rich fleece;
Nor sing 1 ACneas, who, led by his mother,
Got rid of one wife, and went far for another.
Derry down, down, hey derry down.

Nor him who through Asia and Europe did roam, Ulysses by name, who ne'er cry'd to go home, But rather desir'd to see cities and men, Than return to his farms, and converse with old Pen.

Hang Homer and Virgil their meaning to seek, A man must have pok'd into Latin and Greek ; Those who love their own tongue, we have reason to hope, Have read them translated by Dryden and Pope.

But I sing of exploits that have lately been done By two British heroes, call'd Matthew and John; And how they rid friendly from fine London town, Fair Essex to see, and a place they call Down.

Now ere they went out you may rightly suppo How much they discours'd both in prudence and prose; [certed, for, before this great journey was thoroughly conFull often they met, and as often they parted. F e

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