The brutish pagans, fill'd with flavish fear,
To ugly demons beastly altars rear ;
Devouter minds adore the powers above,
Because they are all clemency and love.

A prudent maid may easily discover
A false pretender, and a real lover:
The one confults her honour, and her health;
The other covets nothing but her wealth ;
The one practifes nought but melting charms,
To gain her heart, and draw her to his arms;
He'd rather chufe to languifh and to die,
Then offer her the leaft indignity.

The other fwells with luftful rage and pride,
And tries by tricks and bribes to gain the bride :
His merit's fall, to that he dares not trust,
'Tis force, or fraud, muft fatisfy his luft;
Unhappy maid! fhou'dit thou thyself furrender
A prostitute to fuch a vile pretender,
Thy liberty and happiness is loft,

And honour, which, of all, thou valuest most;
His black defigns, if once the rogue attain,
Thy wealth he'll feize, thy perfon he'll difdain :

Of which poffefs'd, away from thee he wanders,

And wastes the fame on whores, and pimps and panders,
Who, when they've spent so much of thy good gear,
Roaring and whoring nine months of the year,
Then he returns, kiffes, and calls thee honey,
Sweetheart and dear, to get more of thy money;
All which he fpends on bullies, pimps, and whores,
Whilft thou must starve and languish within doors,
By all thy neighbours flighted and neglected,
By few regarded, and by none refpected;
Thyfelf and conduct, juftly they defpife,
And bid thee boast and glory in thy choice.
Forfake the beast, thyfelf and rights recover,
Return again to thy true faithful lover;
He'll not upbraid thee with thy former folly,

One fmile from thee will make him blyth and jolly.
Return, return! he'll love thee more and more,

Forgetting

Forgetting all that thou haft done before;
Whores, rogues, and bullies, he will foon expel,
In peace and plenty making thee to dwell.

TALE V.

THE COBLER.-AN IRISH TALE.
-eft genus unum

Stultitia, nihilum metuenda timentis. HoR.

Many misfortunes here below,
A truth which no one ever miss'd,
Tho' neither fage nor moralift;
Yet all the troubles, notwithstanding,
Which fate or fortune has a hand in,
Fools to themselves will more create,
In spite of fortune and of fate.

Thus oft are dreaming wretches feen,
Tortur'd with vapours and with fpleen,
Transform'd (at least in their own eyes)
To glafs, or china, or goofe-pyes.
Others will to themselves appear
Stone-dead as Will the conqueror;
And all the world in vain might strive,
To force them t'own that they're alive;
Unlucky males with child will groan,
And forely dread their lying down,
As fearing that, to ease their pain,
May puzzle Doctor Chamberlain.
Imaginary evils flow,

Meerly for want of real woe,
And when prevailing whimfies rife,
As monftrous wild abfurdities,
Are every hour, and ev'ry minute,
Found without bedlam, as within it ;

Which, if you farther wou'd have shown,
And leifure have to read-read on.

There liv'd a gentleman, poffeft

Of

Of all that mortals reckon beft;
A feat well chofen, wholesome air,
With gardens and with prospects fair;
His land from debt and jointure free,
His money never in South-fea;
His health of body firm and good,
Tho' paft the hay-day in his blood:
His confort fair, and good, and kind,
His children rifing to his mind:
His friends ingenuous and fincere,
His honour, nay his confcience, clear:
He wanted nought of human blifs,
But pow'r to tafte his happiness.
Too near, alas! this great man's hall,
A merry cobler had a tall,

An arch old wag as e'er you knew,
With breeches red, and jerkin blue;
Cheerful at working as at play,
He fung and whiftled life away;
When rifing morning glads the sky,
Clear as the merry lark and high,
When evening fhades the landscapes veil,
Late warbling as the nightingale ;
Tho' pence came flow, and trade was ill,
Yet ftill he fung, and whistled still;
Tho' patch'd his garb, and coarse his fare,
He laugh'd and caft away old care.

The rich man view'd, with difcontent,
His tatter'd neighbour's merriment;
With envy grudg'd and pin'd, to fee
A beggar pleafanter than he ;
And by degrees, to hate began
Th' intolerable happy man,
Who haunted him like any fp'rit,
- From morn to eve, by day and night.
It chanc'd as once in bed he lay,
When dreams are true, at break of day,
He heard the cobler at his fport,
And, on a fudden, to cut fhort.
Whether his morning draught he took,

Or

Or warming whiff of wonted fmoke,
The fquire fufpected, being fhrewd,
This filence boded him no good;
And, 'cause he nothing faw nor heard,
A Machiavelian plot he fear'd;
Strait circumftances crowded plain,
To vex and plague his jealous brain;
Trembling in panic dread he lies,
With gaping mouth, and ftaring eyes,
And ftraining, luftful, both his ears,
'He foon perfuades himself he hears
One skip and caper up the ftairs:
Sees the door open quick, and knew
His dreaded foe in red and blue,
Who, with a running jump, he thought
Leapt plumb directly down his throat,
Laden with tackle of his ftall,

Laft, ends and hammer, ftrap and awl;
No fooner down, than, with a jerk,
He fell to music, and to work.
If much he griev'd our Don before,
When but o' th' outfide of the door,
How forely muft he now moleft,
When got o' th' infide of his breaft!
The waking dreamer groans and fwells,
And pangs imaginary feels;
Catches and fcrapes of tunes he hears,
For ever ringing in his ears;
Ill-favour'd fmells his nofe difplease,
Mundungus ftrong, and rotten cheese ;
He feels him, when he draws his breath,
Or tugs the leather with his teeth;
Or beats the foal, or elfe extends
His arm to th' utmost of his ends;
Enough to crack, when ftretch'd fo wide,
The ribs of any mortal fide.

Is there no method, then, to fly
This vile inteftine enemy?
What can be done in this condition,
But fending inftant for phyfician?

The

The doctor having heard the cafe,
Burst into laughter in his face,
Told him, he need no more than rife,
Open his windows and his eyes,
Whistling and ftitching there to fee
The Cobler, as he us❜d to be.

Sir, quoth the patient, your pretences
Shall ne'er perfuade me from my fenses;
How fhou'd I rife? The heavy brute
Will hardly let me wag a foot;
Tho' feeing for belief may go,
Yet feeling is the truth, you know:
I feel him in my fides, I tell ye;
Had you a cobler in your belly,
You fcarce cou'd stir as now you do,
I doubt your guts would grumble too :
Still do you laugh? I tell you, Sir,
I'd kick you foundly could I ftir;
Thou quack, that never had'ft degree
In either university,

Thou mere licentiate, without knowledge,
The hame and fcandal of the college;
I'll call my fervants, if you stay,
So, doctor, fcamper while you may.
One thus difpatch'd, a fecond came,

Of equal fkill and greater fame,
Who fwore him mad as a March hare,
(For doctors, when provok'd, will swear,)
To drive fuch whimfies from his pat,
He dragg'd him to the window ftrait.
But jilting fortune can devife,

To baffle and outwit the wife;
The Cobler, 'ere expos'd to view,
Had juft pull'd off his jerkin blue,

Not dreaming 'twould his neighbour hurt,
To fit in frefco in his fhirt:

O! quoth the patient, with a figh,
You know him not fo well as I;
'The man who down my throat is run,
Has got a true blue jerkin on.

In