So still he smoked, and drank, and crack'd his joke;

And, had he single tarried,

He might have smoked, and still grown old in smoke : But Richard married.

His wife was one, who carried

The cleanly virtues almost to a vice,
She was so nice:

And thrice a week, above, below,

The house was scour'd from top to toe,
And all the floors were rubb'd so bright,
You dared not walk upright

For fear of sliding:

But that she took a pride in.

Of all things else Rebecca Strype

Could least endure a pipe.

She rail'd upon the filthy herb tobacco,

Protested that the noisome vapour

Had spoil'd the best chintz curtains and the paper,

And cost her many a pound in stucco:

And then she quoted our King James, who saith, "Tobacco is the devil's breath."

When wives will govern, husbands must obey:

For many a day

Dick mourn'd and miss'd his favourite tobacco,

And scolded oft Rebecca.

At length the day approach'd, his wife must die:
Imagine now the doleful cry

Of female friends, old aunts, and cousins,

Who to the fun'ral came by dozens.

The undertaker's men and mutes

Stood at the gate in sable suits,

POINT VII.

With doleful looks,

Just like so many melancholy rooks.

Now cakes and wine are handed round,
Folks sigh, and drink, and drink, and sigh,
For grief makes people dry:

But Dick is missing, nowhere to be found.
Above, below, about

They search'd the house throughout,

Each hole and secret entry,

Quite from the garret to the pantry,

In ev'ry corner, cupboard, nook, and shelf,
And all concluded he had hang'd himself.
At last they found him-Reader, guess you where,
"Twill make
you stare-

Perch'd on Rebecca's coffin, at his rest,
Smoking a pipe of Wishart's best.

EPIGRAM ON Dick's wife, BY THE UNDERTaker.

Dick on his wife could not bestow

One tear of sorrow when she died:
Her life had made so many flow,
That all the briny fount was dried.

EPITAPH ON HIS WIFE, BY DICK STRYPE.

Here lies my wife, here let her lie;

Now she's at rest, and so am I.

HOMO VERMIS-MAN IS BUT A WORM.

"We all are creeping worms of th' earth:
Some are silk-worms, great by birth;
Glow-worms some, that shine by night;
Slow-worms others, apt to bite;

Some are muck-worms, slaves to wealth;
Maw-worms some, that wrong the health;
Some to the public no good willers,
Canker-worms and caterpillars:

Round about the earth we 're crawling;

For a sorry life we 're sprawling;

Putrid stuff we suck; it fills us;

Death then sets his foot, and kills us.”