"But now, repenting what was done, "She left all Bus'ness to her Son; "She puts the World in his Poffeffion, "And let him use it at Difcretion." The Cry'r was order'd to difmifs The Court; fo made his last O yes ! The Goddess wou'd no longer wait But rifing from her Chair of State, Left all below at Six and Sev'n ; Harness'd her Doves, and flew to Heav'n.

t;

Baucis and Philemon.

I

Imitated

from the Eighth Book of Ovid.

N ancient Times, as Story tells,

The Saints wou'd often leave their Cells, And ftrole about, but hide their Quality, To try good People's Hospitality. It happen'd on a Winter Night, As Authors of the Legend write, Two Brother Hermits, Saints by Trade, Taking their Tour in Masquerade, Difguis'd in tatter'd Habits, went To a finall Village down in Kent ; Where, in the Strollers canting Strain, They begg'd from door to door in vain ; Try'd ev'ry Tone might Pity win, But not a Soul would let them in. D 3

Our

Our wand'ring Saints in woful state,
Treated at this ungodly rate,
Having thro' all the Village pass'd,
To a Imall Cottage came at laft;
Where dwelt a good honeft old Yeoman,
Call'd, in the Neighbourhood, Philemon,
Who kindly did these Saints invite.
In his poor Hut to pass the Night;
And then the hofpitable Sire
Bid Goody Baucis mend the Fire ;
While he from out the Chimney took
A Flitch of Bacon off the Hook;
And freely from the fatteft fide
Cut out large Slices to be fry'd;
Then ftepp'd afide to fetch 'em Drink,
Fill'd a large Jug up to the brink,
And faw it fairly twice go round;
Yet (what is wonderful) they found,
"Twas ftill replenish'd to the top,
As if they ne'er had touch'd a drop.
The good old Couple were amaz'd,
And often on each other gaz`d;
For both were frighted to the Heart,
And just began to cry, ----What art!
Then foftly turn'd afide to view,
Whether the Lights were burning blue.
The gentle Pilgrims foon aware on't,
Told 'em their Calling, and their Errant ;
Good Folks, you need not be afraid,
We are but Saints, the Hermits faid;
No Hurt fhall come to you or yours;
But for that Pack of churlish Boors,

Not

Not fit to live on Christian Ground,
They and their Houfes fhall be drown'd;
Whilft you fhall fee your Cottage rife,
And grow a Church before your eyes.

They scarce had spoke; when fair and foft
The Roof began to mount aloft;
Aloft rofe ev'ry Beam and Rafter,
The heavy Wall climb'd flowly after.
The Chimney widen'd, and grew higher,
Became a Steeple with a Spire.

The Kettle to the Top was hoist,
And there stood fasten'd to a Joist,
But with the Upfide down, to show
Its Inclination for below;
In vain; for a fuperior Force
Apply'd at Bottom, ftops its courfe,
Doom'd ever in Sufpence to dwell;
'Tis now no Kettle, but a Bell.

A Wooden Jack, which had almost
Loft by difufe the Art to roaft,
A fudden Alteration feels,

Increas'd by new Inteftine Wheels;
And what exalts the Wonder more,
The Number made the Motion flow'r.
The Flyer, tho't had leaden Feet,
Turn'd round fo quick, you scarce cou'd fee't;
But flacken'd by fome fecret Pow'r,
Now hardly moves an inch an Hour.
The Jack and Chimney near ally'd,
Had never left each other's Side;
The Chimney to a Steeple grown,
The Jack would not be left alone;

But

But up against the Steeple rear'd,
Became a Clock, and still adher'd;
And ftill its Love to Houfhold Cares
By a fhrill Voice at Noon declares,
Warning the Cook-Maid, not to burn
That Roaft-Meat, which it cannot turn.
The Groaning Chair began to crawl,
Like an huge Snail along the Wall;
There stuck aloft in publick view;
And with small Change, a Pulpit grew.
The Porringers, that in a Row
Hung high, and made a glitt'ring Show,
To a lefs noble Subftance chang'd,
Were now but leathern Buckets rang'd,
The Ballads pafted on the Wall,
Of Joan of France, and English Moll,
Fair Rofamond, and Robin Hood,
The little Children in the Wood,
Now feem'd to look abundance better,
Improv'd in Picture, Size, and Letter;
And high in Order plac'd, describe
The Heraldry of ev'ry Tribe.

A Bedstead of the antique mode,
Compact of Timber, many a Load,
Such as our Ancestors did use,
Was metamorphos'd into Pews :
Which still their ancient Nature keep,
By lodging Folks difpos'd to Sleep.

The Cottage, by fuch Feats as these,
Grown to a Church by juft degrees,
The Hermits then defir'd their Hoft
Toalk for what he fancy'd most.

Philemon

Philemon having paus'd a while,
Return'd them Thanks in homely Style;
Then faid, my House is grown so fine,
fo
Methinks I still wou'd call it mine:
I'm old, and fain wou'd live at Ease;
Make me the Parfon, if you pleafe.
He spoke; and prefently he feels
His Grazier's Coat fall down his Heels
He fees, yet hardly can believe,
About each Arm a Pudding Sleeve;
His Waistcoat to a Caffock grew,
And both affum'd a fable Hue;
But being old, continu'd just
As thread-bare, and as full of Duft.
His Talk was now of Tythes and Dues;
He fmoak'd his Pipe, and read the News ;
Knew how to preach old Sermons next,
Vamp'd in the Preface and the Text;
At Chrift'nings well could act his Part,
And had the Service all by Heart;
Wish'd Women might have Children fast 3
And thought whofe Sow had farrow'd laft;
Against Dissenters would repine,

And ftood up firm for Right divine.
Found his Head fill'd with many a System,
But Claffick Authors,----he never mift 'em.
Thus having furbish'd up a Parfon,
Dame Baucis next they play'd their Farce on.
Inftead of Home-fpun Coifs were feen
Good Pinners edg'd with Colberteen ;
Her Petticoat transform'd a-pace
Became black Satin flounc'd with Lace.