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),
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.

60

70

80

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 the 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 tittletattle
Did, sure as trumpet, call to battle:
Thought it extremely apropos,

100

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 pass'd 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,
Is scarce remov'd by pill or potion;

* Sir Richard Blackmore.

† Sir Edward Hannes.

110

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 through 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, and 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 their calling:
So all our modern friends maintain
(Though no great Greeks) in Warwick-lane.

* John Bunyan, author of the Pilgrim's Progress.

120

130

140

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 toss'd, and groan'd, and turn'd : At last, 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? 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 to-morrow 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.

150

160

THE LADLE.

HE sceptics think, 'twas long ago,
Since gods came down incognito :
To see who were their friends or foes,
And how our actions fell or rose:

That since they gave things their beginning,
And set this whirligig a spinning;

Supine they in their Heaven remain,
Exempt from passion, and from pain.
And frankly leave us human elves,
To cut and shuffle for ourselves:
To stand or walk, to rise or tumble,
As matter, and as motion jumble.

The poets now, and painters hold
This thesis both absurd and bold:
And your good-natur'd gods, they say,
Descend some twice or thrice a-day:
Else all these things we toil so hard in,
Would not avail one single farthing:
For, when the hero we rehearse,
To grace his actions and our verse;
'Tis not by dint of human thought,
That to his Latium he is brought;
Iris descends by Fate's commands,
To guide his steps through foreign lands:
And Amphitrite clears the way
From rocks and quicksands in the sea.
And if you see him in a sketch
(Though drawn by Paulo or Carache),
He shews not half his force and strength,
Strutting in armour, and at length:
That he may make his proper figure,
The piece must yet be four yards bigger:
The nymphs conduct him to the field;
One holds his sword, and one his shield:
Mars standing by asserts his quarrel;
And Fame flies after with a laurel.

These points, I say, of speculation (As 'twere to save or sink the nation) Men idly learned will dispute,

10

20

30