Poems; chiefly tales by William Hutton

Perhaps there is no instance upon record of a man like me, upwards of eighty, enlisting among the Poets; and, for the first time, handing to the world a volume of Verse. I may justly be called "A short-lived Poet."

Like my brethren of rhyme, I wish to amuse, but doubt of success. A man may wish, but not expect. I am not solicitous after profit; but should be sorry if another suffered by my pen.

I do not attempt those flights of modern Poetry which demand the whole attention to understand, and often oblige the Reader to recede a few lines to recover the meaning. Here sense is lost in sublimity! Nay, I have sometimes doubted whether the matter was understood by any except the writer.

This brings to my mind the remark made upon a school-master--"That he wrote two hands; one of them none could read but himself, and the other was even beyond his own ability."

My Poems, like myself, are in the stile of the last generation. They boast no language but the intelligent; neither will the tale admit of any other. They are remarks upon real life, character, and incident.

If the modern flowers of rhetoric do not flourish here, I have substituted something preferable--Truth. I believe every one of the tales is founded on fact. Many of them fell under my own eye.

The history of my political life is rather singular. Love and Rhyme often start together in the career of youth; I held both in 1747. One half continued till 1752. During that period I composed a volume of Poems, which rested upon the shelf, and were scarcely ever opened, for thirty-nine years. Nor did I write one Poem in the long interval of forty.

In the fatal year 1791, when the mad rioters, encouraged by those who ought to have acted otherwise, found infinite pleasure in destroying more than ten thousand pounds worth of my property, my poor Poems perished in the flames. If they did not feel, their author did. This loss, but chiefly withdrawing from public business, awoke the Muse, after sleeping a long age.

A few of the pieces in the beginning, dated 1752, which remained upon memory, I have inserted.

Though the work should not be so fortunate as to pay the bookseller, or please the reader, it has paid me; for I consider their fabrication among the happiest moments of my life.

The poetical club

WHO MET AT THE COCK, SPOKE IN RHYME, AND PASTED THEIR PRODUCTIONS ON THE WALL

Pluto, offended with a sprite,
Discharged from the realms of night,
(So masters turn away from school
The turbulent they cannot rule.)

Her impship, in a wretched plight,
Patroll'd the streets from morn till night;
Then curl'd her hair, adorn'd her spruce,
And took the lovely name of Muse;
Went to the Cock in quest of sport,
Where powerful Dulness keeps her court;
There, seated in a one-arm'd chair,
Dissolv'd herself in empty air,
Flew to the caverns of each brain,
Which drowsy floods of life contain;
Made the slow currents change their tide,
And through poetic channels glide:
Silence was banish'd in disgrace,
And tumult overflow'd the place.
They try to spin harmonious verse,
And make the vocal walls rehearse.
Thrice happy Bards, with genius small,
Can animate a stupid wall!
O fertile wall, in barren times,
Can bear a heavy crop of rhimes.

True genius leads to certain fame,
But, since her aid you can't attain,
To make your feeble names endure,
A lump of marble each procure,
When shap'd a busto, high in air
Place it nine feet in Westminster,
This, like the sun, for ages seen,
Will keep your laurels ever green.

A close connection will appear
'Twixt marble heads, and those you wear.
Pond'rous they are, by all allow'd,
But equall'd by the rhiming crowd;
For, when they're weighed in scales together,
Yours will be lighter than a feather.
One to the other is a sequel,
Because the brains of both are equal;
They, dull, and thick, and cold, 'tis true,
And this is just the case with you.

To a lady

WITH A POCKET BOOK, WHICH SHE REFUSES TO ACCEPT TILL SOMETHING WAS WRITTEN IN IT.

Your word's obey'd; nay, e'en your look
Who can withstand?--Receive the book
Pale as the morn ere ting'd with red,
But empty, as you know whose head
To sounding fame has no pretence,
Spotless as virgin innocence.
Must it be fill'd with dying strains?
The sighs of nymphs, the vows of swains?
With scandal, dress, or China ware,
Chief objects of a lady's care?
Or, with Beau phrase, not understood,
As, vastly little, devilish good;
With polish'd rubs, that current flow,
Though antient fifty years ago;
A list of lovers, or of rhimes,
A cure for Pug,--or Betty's crimes?
Must it contain tea-table heads,
Or crippled verse, or silken shreds?
Who can its real worth declare
When fill'd with such important ware?
Too few its pages to display
The tattle of a single day;
And yet the size is much too large
If these contents are all its charge.
If with such trump'ry it must shine,
Let not a soul e'er read a line;
'Twill issue in your own disgrace,
You'll lose the hearts gain'd by your face.

But, if true merit you place there,
You cannot fill it in a year.
But this advantage then you'll spy,
'Twill pleasure give to ev'ry eye;
Who sees your face receives a dart,
Who sees your book will lose his heart.

The frowning beauty

Though not one look, my heart to warm,
Yet she has every power to charm.
What though no chearing beams are seen,
Love springs in me an ever-green.

With eager haste I view her eyes,
And see a thousand beauties rise;
Grac'd with a thousand pleasing wiles,
Surpassing every charmer's smiles.

As frowns succeed, smile not, my fair;
Sol's dazzling ray, what eye can bear?
But let me still thy beauties trace,
Behold the frown with every grace.

Though each gay charmer I pursue,
My heart, still constant, points to you;
The steel may round the compass roll,
But, trembling, centres near the pole.

To a friend going into the ministry

When walking spruce along the street
What eyes you draw! what bows you meet!
Future directions seem far better,
With Reverend fronting every letter.

Then, for expressions delicate,
The tribe Levitic, imitate
Thus, when you in the pulpit stand,
Adorn'd with powder'd wig and band.

When gloves are in the pocket thrusted,
And stud and wristband both adjusted,
Your handkerchief and sermon fixt,
"Chapter the fourth, and verse the sixth,
My general heads"--a hem, "are two--
The method which I shall pursue--
Beloved--Now to be more plain--
If time allows--but now again--
The doctrine--brethren--come we next--
Then--in a word--to close my text--
The application--use--I say--
Consider what you've heard."--This way
You'll gain the wond'ring hearers praise,
Thus amply vers'd in pulpit praise.

The Church-and-King Club;

The Catholics steady, and truly devout,
Are so hemm'd in by Parsons they cannot get out;
They need not be anxious their own eyes to use,
For the Priest will see for them as long as they chuse.

The keen Sons of Jacob appear rather low,
Their wealth and their honesty are but so, so;
Perfection, they plead, as from Abraham descended,
So 'tis not worth their notice to try to be mended;
His faith's a soft pillow, without variation,
On which they deposit their future salvation.

The Quakers abundant in riches are grown,
And meddle with no man's affairs but their own;
They pay such attention to act as they ought,
We should almost declare, they were men without fault.

Independants and Baptists, but let them alone,
They're peaceable people, and quarrel with none.
A Church without blemish is not among men;
Then don't pry too deep, and you'll find none in them.

The Methodists, numerous, herd altogether,
And keep their religion quite dry from the weather;
Improving in morals, good order, and plight;
Were the rioters Methodists, all had been right.

The props of Jerusalem here a place find,
From Emanuel Swedenborg's love to mankind.
May the props never moulder, nor power on them trample,
Till the rest of the Churches pursue their example!

The poor Presbyterians to church can't resort,
For cruelty left them no church to support;
The children of Satan, let loose, did fire bring,
And made a burnt-offering to Church, and to King.
Down tumbled their temples, instructions, and praise,
While Church-and-the-King's-men rejoic'd at the blaze.
The religion of Meekness, which bids us be quiet,
Is the purest religion for--making a riot.

One class of the peoples and hence spring our boasts,
Are so fond of divine things, they drink them in toasts.
Their church's support comes from eating and drinking,
A Church-and-a-King-club prevents her from sinking;
She floats quite secure, on a butt of bright claret,
She'll ne'er find the bottom-they'll find it, ne'er fear it.
The Church-and-King-Club-Men are votaries able,
Their devotions ascend with the smoak of the table;
The more they'll abound, as good eating grows plenty,
And nothing disturbs like a bottle that's empty:
They're models of meekness,--what men can be more
When perfectly tipsy, humbly lie on the floor!
For the good of religion, their appetites cram,
And support Church and King with fervent G--D--.

To the corpulent Counsellor W--

Comparisons are foolish stuff,
When they are found untrue;
There's no two things are farther off,
Than Bacchus is from you.

Curiously wrought in wood, or stone,
And dress'd in smiles, his face,
While yours, as ev'ry one must own,
Smiles in eternal brass.

In fable, I'll no verse equip,
But sober truth will tell ye;
In circumf'rence you far outstrip
The God of wond'rous belly.

In that great swell, above your fobs,
A swell outdone by few,
If empty, then a dozen gods
Might dance a jig or two.

His fees pass under him, through the inn-doors,
Yours issue from a flaw,
He kindly casts an eye within doors,
You, to a Court of Law.

One tongue in silence may be laid,
Another talk by fits,
But yours wag by the hour, 'tis said,
White Bacchus silent sits.

He ne'er, in all his days, maintain'd
A thing that was not true;
Though both are by the bar sustain'd;
Can this be said of you?

Besides his grapes, a wreath divine
His sacred temples bound;
He rides triumphant on a sign,
You waddle on the ground.

Half down, half up, which of the two
In kindnesses surpass;
You hack the Presbyterians through,
He offers them a glass.

His bottle makes his clients gay
By dissipating trouble;
But yours, their vitals suck'd away,
Perceive their cares are double.

Naked, he braves th' inclement skies,
And overlooks the town,
While you, in vain, attempt to rise,
And reach a silken gown.

We'll now conclude, as we begun,
A subject that allures;
His bauble rests upon his tun,
Your tun rests upon yours.

Lord Chesterfield and the farmer's wife

My rising Muse shall, now and then,
Record the acts of Noble Men.
Whoe'er on human worth refines,
And glorious in the Senate shines;
I'll never interrupt his course,
He shall rise higher in my verse:
Let Stanhope then my verse engage,
A Stanhope shall adorn my page;
For he, while I his fame make known,
Will rather tend to swell my own.

An Earl of Chesterfield there were
At Bretby Hall, in Derbyshire,
Who ate and drank, who slept and woke,
Soon after Charles had left the oak;
Plain was his person to the scan,
As any farmer, or his man;
While others shone in wig and lace,
He figur'd in a homely case
His manners, too, were like his dress,
A compliment could scarce express,
For what mouth the word Sir can spare,
Except it first shall enter there?
He seldom made a courtly bow,
Nay, we much doubt, if he knew how.

The morning fine, sweet sung the lark,
He stroll'd about in Bretby park;
Whoever saw him would not guess
An Earl was hid in such a dress
The passenger, from town to town,
Suppos'd he saw a brother clown,
Was neither struck with joy or sorrow,
But gave a nod, or said, "Good morrow."

Along the foot-path, he descry'd
A woman; he attentive ey'd
Her age: we're not exactly told,
But she was far from being old,
Seem'd as belonging to a farm,
A basket hung upon her arm;
A large straw hat her temples bind,
Deck'd with straw ornaments behind;
Her apron, and her stockings too,
With handkerchief, were clean and blue;
What colours might her garters show
My Lord himself did not yet know;
For to a husband should be known
The colours there, and him alone;
Her gown, of house'ife's stuff was trimm'd,
And carefully behind was pinn'd.

"How far away, Dame?" says the Peer.
"To market, with my butter, here."
"How many pounds have you to sell?
And what's the price? I like it well."
"I've thirty, and its very nice;
The weight is large; a groat's the price."
"Give me the basket, as you're willing,
"I'll buy the whole.--So here's ten shilling."

She seem'd surpriz'd, but yet obey'd;
Such customers she seldom had.
But, what was her astonishment,
When to a large oak-tree he went,
And on the root, completely round,
He slamm'd the butter, pound by pound.
So great a tree, all England through,
Had never in May butter grew.
In silence she beheld the wrong,
Because amazement tied her tongue;
During seven minutes looking on
The profits of a week were gone.

Her powers within were sorely heated
To see such butter rudely treated;
More waste she saw, in that short strife,
Than she'd committed all her life.
The neat devices on each pound
Were sticking to the bark around,
Which many figures made, no doubt,
But then it blotted all her's out.

The basket, emptied of its ware,
He then return'd, with easy air;
While she the martyr'd butter mourn'd,
He march'd away, quite unconcern'd.
She, too, went back, my Lord could see,
But ey'd the man., and ey'd the tree;
Hurt to see butter in that plight,
She wish'd the fellow out of sight;
While he, suspecting her design,
Resolv'd her plot to countermine.

The moment out of view was he,
She hasten'd to the butter'd tree;
Began the work of separating
The clean and foul, for profit-making:
A work she always counted good,
Which she from childhood understood.
"The best would serve for market still,
The rest would serve to greese a wheel."
But ere she could the butter pack,
Lord Chesterfield was at her back.

"What right have you, my Dame," says he,
"To any thing about the tree?
To take that property's a crime,
I bought, and paid you at the time;
The error lies with you alone
For taking what is not your own."
Says she, "'Tis pity to abuse
Whatever we can bring in use;
Some trifling purpose I shall try
To put it to."--" And so shall I,"
Reply'd the Earl, without a frown,
And instantly he threw her down,
Pull'd up her petticoats behind,
Regardless both of wet and wind,
When on her butt-end, slamm'd as free
The butter, as he'd done the tree.

The whole applied, with dext'rous art,
Instantly swell'd her nether part;
She look'd, for all the world, as plump
As if she'd put on a cork rump.
The fashion chang'd of female kind,
Some swell before, but she behind.

"There, Goody, as you're fond of gains,
Take that large plaister for your pains."
Then, in a moment, turn'd to go,
Regardless whether watch'd or no.
A curious figure you might spy,
A woman, butter'd half-way high.

He's wisdom to a large amount,
Who turns misfortunes to account;
Like bees, who follow nature's law,
Can sweetness from rank poison draw.
This fine accomplishment I name,
Was easy to the farmer's dame;
She long the powers had understood,
From evil of substracting good.

Her fingers did, without delay,
Rake all the, parts where profit lay;
Then knife applied, to hill and gutter,
With which the buyer tastes the butter;
Moulded it fresh, both neat and round;
Her eye could nearly guess a pound.
Well pleas'd it was but little worse,
To Burton market bent her course,
And sold her ware, with profit more
Than ever she had done before.
Of thirty pounds, but five were wasted;
Her pen-knife neither smelt nor tasted;
Nor did the buyer once discern
'Twas gather'd from the lower churn.

Lord Chesterfield and the tinker

When we are travelling abroad,
We cannot always chuse our road;
But prudent men will pick the best,
And cautiously avoid the rest;
"But, should a dirty slough appear;
What then?" He never plac'd it there.
All that is ever done by man
Is to tread lightly as he can;
Thus Poets, with a just decorum,
Must take the road which lies before 'em.
My road, but take it not amiss,
Is not so clean I could wish
But rough, or smooth, or dark, or clear,
The Muse resolves to send me there;
And no reluctance must be seen,
I've forty years a rebel been.

Which, Reader, will you most decry,
A dirty truth, or polish'd lie?
Leave it to me, and never fear,
I'll not offend the nicest ear.

The same Lord Chesterfield I sing,
Who dealt in butter in the spring.
He rose, he dress'd, went out of door,
The lark, and morning, as before;
The lawns, the hills, the clumps, were dress'd,
And Summer wore a lovely vest;
Nay, turn his eyes which way he will,
He was the only thing dress'd ill.
The park most beautifully shone,
'Twas all delight --'twas all his own.

At no great distance, with his load,
A Tinker mov'd along the road;
He bent his back, he dropt a heap,
Which nature would not let him keep.
My Lord approach'd, in angry mood,
Before the Tinker'd made all good;
Or, rather, seem'd in wrath to run,
That he might introduce some fun.
"What right have you, you dirty hound,
With your vile filth, to daub the ground?
This instant take it in your hand,
And clean convey it off the land."

Feeling reduc'd by what had pass'd,
The son of Vulcan stood aghast;
He neither seem'd inclin'd to obey,
Nor yet attempted much to say;
For, when surpriz'd in situations,
Rather beneath our usual stations,
The mind feels little, to its cost
Its wonted dignity is lost.
Although his hands no whiteness boasted,
They were not with such stuff accosted;
But, if about that work he set,
They would become more dirty yet.

Much altercation now ensued,
And all that altercation rude.
The Earl grew higher still, and higher,
'Till he blew up the Tinker's fire;
So that, my friend, had you been there,
You would have thought both tinkers were.
The colour of each face,'tis true,
Were equally of swarthy hue;
For Stanhopes do, in ev'ry case,
Hold fairer intellects than face;
And tink'rish, to declare I'm loath,
The polish'd manners were of both.
The language us'd on either side
I think myself oblig'd to hide;
For decency won't let me speak,
Nor faithfulness my promise break.

The Tinker made so bold a stand,
He seem'd to have the upper hand;
With doubled fist began to stammer,
A fist as big as Vulcan's hammer,
And just the colour, seem'd to show
The strongest argument we know,
"That if he did not change his note,
He'd ram the bolus down his throat."

My Lord now suffer'd a defeat,
Unus'd, at second-hand, to eat;
For having no auxiliary near,
He was not wholly without fear;
So spoke less loud; parley'd a while;
Stood at a distance; forc'd a smile;
And told the man of black, "that he,
With servants, at the hall, was free;
That if he would attend him there
Was sure to find the best of cheer."
He took the tinker, without cost,
To eat and drink, full what he'd lost.
What Tinker would not wish to cease
A war, when offer'd such a peace?
He order'd meat, he order'd drink,
And, to the servants, tipp'd the wink,
Who 'tic'd him to a room behind,
"Where he a charming tap should find."
Yet he no liquor could see there
But what was weaker than small-beer;
For all the vessels he beheld
Was a vast tub, with water fill'd.

The servants told him to untrim
And let them see if he could swim.
The Tinker turn'd a little souer,
But there's no standing against power.
Then, with main strength, they forc'd him in,
Which took him fully to the chin.

He swore, and threaten'd, when he spoke,
But they alone enjoy'd the joke;
To see the Tinker stand in prim,
They all laugh'd heartily, but him.
It seem'd to them a curious matter,
A dark head rising from the water.
He could not bow, I'm pretty clear,
Even had George the Third been there;
Nor bend his back in light or dark,
As he'd just done within the park.

While they enjoy'd the pleasing sight,
Viewing the Tinker bolt upright,
His Lordship enter'd, full of wrath,
And bluster'd like the man of Gath.
With hasty step, with savage eye,
And naked sword, which he rais'd high,
"Where is the wretch, which quarrels foment,
I'll strike his head off in a moment;"
And, while the vengeful spirits flow,
Aim'd a decapitating blow,
Which the poor Tinker, to avoid,
Instantly sunk beneath the tide.

His note was alter'd from before,
For now he rather pray'd than swore.
The Earl he struck, and struck amain,
The Tinker dipt, and dipt again;
Whenever Stanhope aim'd a blow,
The frighten'd Tinker sunk below.
Who would not sink as deep to th' full,
When its to save his only skull?
By rising up, and diving down,
Th' afflicted man began to drown.

My Lord's sham wrath began to cool;
A man too long may play the fool.
He gave his folks another nod,
Which was completely understood;
They drew him forth, without a laugh,
For all agreed he'd div'd enough.
The Tinker too, believ'd the same,
As clear as any one of them.

A sight, now curious to be seen,
They stripp'd the Tinker to the skin,
(But all descriptions I shall wave,
That I my former word may save),
And terminating all dispute,
They cloth'd him well from head to foot;
So gaily he appear'd to view,
That now himself he hardly knew;

When he'd survey'd his dress awhile,
Could not repress the rising smile;
For, should he meet a stranger now,
He almost merited a bow;
Nay, not one thing could cause the lack,
Except the budget on his back.
He'd thump, in this luxurious case,
A kettle, with a double grace;
And, whether finish'd rough or nice,
Would bring him in a better price.
No soul had seen, for this long while,
So fine a Tinker mount a stile.

His belly fill'd, his budget plac'd,
A gift, in cash, his pocket grac'd.
He now prepar'd to march away,
And shine upon a summer's day.

But now reflection call'd to mind
The dang'rous scene he'd left behind.
He rather wish'd a man would dub him
Knight of the hammer than to tub him.
In casks of water there's no beauty;
He lik'd the pay, but not the duty;
And, as on dry land he'd remain,
Was cautious where he bent again.

The sermon

Why may n't a Priest, for once, appear,
Better than priests in common are!
A faithful shepherd out I'll trim,
Who lov'd his flock--his flock lov'd him.
By penetration, he could tell
The art of spiritual ruling well,
That mode of ruling ne'er should cease
Which has its origin in peace.

The parts sublime of priesthood knew,
And ev'ry part he brought to view;
Kept up his visits in rotation,
Knew where to find the best potation,
Knew when the jack would turn and rest,
And where the meat was roasted best.
His judgment was exceeding clear,
In strength and quantity of beer;
Could tell what oysters, and what ale,
Were needful for a full regale.

If with the better sort he dine,
He well knew how to praise the wine;
The compliment was sure to pass,
And introduce another glass.

Could praise the girl, and stroke the boy,
Which always gives the parent joy;
For ev'ry mother fancies well
Her child's a perfect nonpareil;
Therefore exerted all his power
In commendations by the hour.

A minister his fate would bless,
In finding all this happiness;
For how can he be reckon'd poor,
Supported by the pantry door;
Nor need he ever fear mishap,
When to assistance comes the tap.

Our philosophic Parson thought
The world might soon be better taught
The reason why men did not mend,
The priest began at the wrong end.
That fowler, who'd success engage,
Decoys the bird into his cage.
If you should want your horse from grass,
You'd think your servant but an ass,
And acted like a silly clown,
Should he attempt to run him down.
Through the creation there's a shyness,
Bird, fish, and fair, are caught by finesse.

The first concern of every teacher,
Whether a father, master, preacher,
Should be to find out, if he can,
The greatest enemy to man;
And, when discover'd where he lies,
Then try to conquer by surprize.

He studied men, he studied books,
He canvass'd actions, motives, looks;
He thought, and scratch'd, and thought again,
And many a candle burnt in vain.
At length, with joy, began to own,
He'd found the philosophic stone,
That lying was the very devil
Which led to ev'ry other evil.
This enemy was of long standing,
And ev'ry evil had a hand in,
It started up in Adam's time,
And took a part in ev'ry crime.

Cain caught the itch, and down it flew
Through all the sons, and daughters too.
For if a man but steps awry,
He'll try to hide it with a lie;
And yet confession, at the time,
At least expunges half the crime;
But, when we cover with a lie,
'Tis tinctur'd with a deeper dye.

He'd have more joy than at a feast,
Could he reduce this monstrous beast,
Who, for six thousand years, possess'd
A place in ev'ry human breast;
And, to that throne could truth restore,
That throne the monster held before.

If telling fibs we put an end to,
And simple truth alone attend to,
This useful practice brought about
Would drive all other evils out.
"Could I but plant this tree that's true,
Its branches might spread England through."
That this fair scheme he best might thrive in,
Persuasion he preferr'd to driving;
Thought ministers were soul-protectors;
Men were not fond of pulpit Hectors;
Treated his flock with sermons sound,
Taken from Paul--"Let truth abound."

He painted in a horrid view
Whatever should be said untrue:
"That man must always guard his tongue,
And never say the thing that's wrong;
For when he's number'd with the dead,
A vengeance falls upon his head;
Neither must he expect to thrive
For telling fibs while yet alive.
Nor must he only guard his own,
A care must be to others shown;
To let another speak untrue,
A weighty sin will follow you:
For instance; should another say,
"I will do so and so today,"
We never should be so absurd
To suffer him to break his word,
But aid, that he his word maintain,
Although we should a loss sustain."

The Sermon ended, people pleas'd,
And Priest, that he'd his conscience eas'd,
When, coming soberly from church,
A person stopp'd him in the porch;
"Accept of what I say as true,
This day, dear Sir, I'll dine with you."
He seem'd a shabby suppliant sinner,
Who very seldom eat a dinner.

The fellow ate and drank at noon,
As if he could not fill up soon,
While the caught Priest, a little low,
Eat his own dinner but so so,
Concluding then, that fashion's best
Which lets a man invite his guest.

The dinner done; grace after meat
'Twas thought the stranger would retreat,
But, in that moment, he got up,
Cry'd, "Sir, I'll stay with you and sup."

The Parson now was rather vext,
Both at his sermon and his text,
But, by his doctrine must abide,
Therefore his tongue and hands were tied;
He visibly began to fear
His sentiments would cost him dear.

The Doctor his hard Fate bewail'd,
T'have such a legacy entail'd;
This fatal truth produc'd a frown,
A truth that almost knock'd him down;
A truth he no way could deny,
It hurt him more than would a lie;
But to no purpose did he moan,
The argument was still his own;
And though the stranger's bed was worst,
He slept much better than his host.

The Parson, and the morning too,
Both of them rose a little blue;
The stranger, I'd declare on oath,
Shew'd more serenity than both;
Then on the Doctor cast an eye,
"I'll have some breakfast by and by."

The honest Priest began to fear
He'd have the stranger by the year;
For breakfast, dinner, supper, bed,
Were granted just as soon as said;
The moment was one favour o'er,
That very moment claim'd one more.

By some means he must end the strife,
Or he'll demand the Parson's wife,
And then what troubles we begin,
Our doctrine's adding sin to sin!
That weapon we should think the best
To serve the parson, as his guest,
Who careful watch'd the time to hit
When he should swallow the last bit;
For then he thought, without a doubt,
That, as the stranger's glass run out,
He might, by chance, prevent his power,
From being renew'd another hour.
He cry'd, as if 'twas to a foe,
"My friend, you shall this moment go."

The breakfast ended, they set out,
And walk'd a mile, or thereabout.
"I'll go no further," says the Priest.
"I'll have your purse then," says the guest.
"Then all the money shall be mine,"
Rejoin'd the resolute divine.

The purse and cash now part in peace,
Which, frequently, we find the case;
And, though they strive to meet again,
Their utmost efforts are in vain;
For, like the stranger to the Priest,
Will never more become his guest.

Half of them glad, but both obey,
They either take a different way.
The stranger shew'd the utmost wish
To hear a sermon just like this.
The Parson, as to'ards home he came,
Found his reflections not the same;
Review'd his conduct with a sigh,
His sentiments had run too high,
For though in theory they were right,
Yet practice gain'd but little by't.

Vile man! to vicious habits tending,
He scarcely thought him worth the mending.
What sermons preach'd! and preach'd in vain!
He's scarcely worth a drop of rain.
Though mighty sums have been expended,
That creature man's not one jot mended.

"The human mind is human still,
And must be so, do what he will;
Such doctrine I'll no more advance,
'Twill neither do for here or France;
In future I'll exert less pains,
And bound my utmost view with gains;
Like other priests I'll take the prey,
Like other flocks my own may stray."

The ant

Exalted by the Muse, shall shine
A reverend and a fat Divine;
For if in bulk he shall excel
He'll fit a pulpit twice as well;
And if he runs to twenty stone,
I've stuff enough to work upon.

Mild was his temper, you might swear,
As men of belly often are;
Was gently through church trammels led,
He fed his flock--himself he fed;
Though, of the two, it is confess'd,
The reverend Doctor throve the best.

His congregation us'd to tell,
His sermons he conducted well;
But this small evil lay on hand--
To preach them, he was forc'd to stand:
This prov'd a double duty straight,
Because he carried double weight;
For two legs only was his store,
But twenty stone demanded four.

To remedy this foul defect,
His people, out of pure respect,
As they could hear what he should say,
Whether he stood, or sat, or lay,
('Twas not his posture edify'd,
But what he said must be their guide)
A stool they in the pulpit set,
And bass, to raise him higher yet.

This apparatus, all made good,
He seem'd as high as if he stood.
How much it must a parson please,
When people shall contrive his ease!

Thus all went well; from evil freed,
The shepherd and his flock agreed.
Perhaps some little things occurr'd,
Too small to introduce a word;
As heavy bodies, we all know,
Press hard upon the parts below;
So his, which on the bass did rest,
In summer, was with heat oppress'd;
But his own fore-sight could, with ease,
Remove a dozen ills like these.
His breeches loosen'd, down they slid,
And not a soul knew what he did,
That underneath fresh air might go,
To cool the parts which lie below;
Besides, fresh air, he might suppose,
Becomes a sweet'ner where it goes.

And, pray, what is't to you or me
Where any parson's breeches be?
Or, should they hang about his heels,
It is not you, but he, who feels;
Nay, e'en to pull them off was naught,
The evil lies in being caught.

Our worthy Priest, as some divine,
Drank deepish of the vestry wine,
And in no moment cast an eye
Upon his clerk, who stood close by;
But, while the wine did merry pass,
Ne'er once said, "Roger, take a glass."
Why did he leave him in the lurch,
For he alone, of all the church,
Was well appriz'd of little arts,
With which he cool'd his nether parts.
Roger must disappointed be,
Who long'd for wine as well as he.

A nest of ants he took from grass,
And hid them in the parson's bass;
Both old, and eggs, and great, and small,
He found new dwellings for them all.
How much an ant must be elated,
When to a pulpit he's translated!
Nor much expences would he lack;
He was already dress'd in black;
And could a flock instruct at least,
As well as here and there a priest.

The day was hot, the moisture crept,
While half the congregation slept;
The parson preach'd, his breeches down,
And copious sweat, from foot to crown,
As plenteous drew the exhalation,
Arising from the congregation.

The little ants grew tir'd of home,
Like 'prentice lads, on Sunday roam.
What could a bulky parson do;
The liquor stood at eighty two.
He labour'd hard, 'twixt heat and fear,
And felt a tickling, God knows where.
He scratch'd and preach'd, and scratch'd again.
Thy scratching, Doctor, 's adll in vain,
For what man can attempt to stand
Against a troop with single hand?

The cruel strife was hard and long;
Employ'd his fingers, check'd his tongue,
He cast a wildish look around,
But still the enemy gain'd ground;
Could not conceive whence rose the pest;
With energy he this express'd;
"Though gospel from my tongue may flow,
"Yet sure the devil lies below."

The attentive shepherd

"Aye, d--n 'em" said the priest again,
But all my dressings are in vain;
For though I dress them e'er so clever,
Next week they want as bad as ever."

King Edgar and the servant girl

Abbeys, of ev'ry size, he built,
To cover ev'ry size of guilt.
Whatever sin he should commit,
Could make a plaster just to fit.
Should he a trifling oath let go,
He'd patch a stone or two, or so;
And when the crime's not quite so small,
'Twas balanc'd by an abbey wall;
Or, when he chose a girl to ravish,
A nunnery hid a trick so knavish.
The moment he debauch'd a daughter,
Began t'atone with brick and mortar.
If murder in his wrath appear'd,
A noble monastery he rear'd.
He sinn'd and built, and sinn'd again;
The building made repentance vain:
This keeps the sinner's balance even,
And quits, exactly, scores with heaven.
He's heir to that divine abode,
For not a spiritual groat he ow'd.
If Peter won't unlock the door,
He ought to hold the keys no more.
Whene'er a pretty girl was seen,
He tried to make her wh--e, or queen;
And as the latter were but few,
Left many a lovely lass to rue;
Left many a parent, with wet eye,
And many a worthy nymph to sigh.
For virtue, in those times, was known,
Except we look about the throne.

A noble Earl, respected well,
In Hampshire liv'd, old stories tell;
Among his first possessions, stood
A daughter, beautiful and good;
Who never did, as authors say,
Nor shew'd a wish, to go astray.
This lady, elevated, fair,
Could not escape the monarch's ear;
His minions, knowing his desire,
Assist in blowing up the fire.
Such minions hover near a crown,
To start the game the King runs down.

The charms of this bright nymph, oft told,
Excite a love of baser mould.
Resolv'd, he'll all delays give over,
And take a journey to Andover.
Happy the monarch, we think still,
Who's power to do whate'er he will.
But then that joy is not full quite,
Except whate'er he does is right.

He saw the noble Earl's abode,
Who view'd him as a demi-god;
He saw the daughter young and fair,
Deported with a modest air.
His passions grew, the fire was fed,
The lady's order'd to his bed!
When both shall enter, King and ruin;
To houses it portends un-doing.
The state of laws we justly weep,
When what's our own we cannot keep.

The Countess, with distressing fears,
Approach'd her Sovereign Lord with tears;
With words of pity, aspect wild,
She pleaded for her ruin'd child.
But did a Prince, when passion's high,
Ever regard a tear or sigh!
To weakness he'd become a dupe
If e'er he gave a trifle up.
She might as well to winds complain;
Her intercessions were in vain.

The family, in deep dismay,
Knew not to act, nor yet to say.
Through Edgar only they're distress'd,
Who held the power to make them bless'd.
For self we've happiness in view
Why don't we give it others too?
For, if we let our neighbours share,
We only give what we can spare;
And while to them we grant the boon,
'Tis an addition to our own.
We may, should desp'rate case appear,
Leave it to WOMAN to get clear.
How many wives have made good shift
To free the husband at dead lift!

The Countess call'd the kitchen wench
That she the royal fire might quench.
Nearly the size, at transient view,
Appear'd the figure of the two;
Told her King Edgar lately said,
That she must lead her to his bed.
Her conduct must not be absurd,
And charg'd her not to speak a word:
But should the King a question ask;
To deal in whispers was her task.
"Be steady to mind what I say,
And rise before 'tis break of day.
If you're not up before the sun,
Your morning's work will not be done.
Obey, and you'll be much respected,
If not, you're sure to be neglected."
A small reward was given then,
Which brought a promise back again.
Reward amounting to some cost,
Unequal still to virtue lost.

The King in bed. The night was hush;
The darkness sav'd the damsel's blush.
The lovers pass'd the night with glee;
Edgar was pleas'd--and so was she.

The morning came, serene the skies,
Sol, and the wench, attempt to rise.
The King to let her go was loth,
Although he'd reasons against both:
For love, 'tis said, is oft begun,
Much better by the moon than sun.

She told him plain, "she could not stay,
Because much work before her lay,
Which must be done in haste," she said
"Before her mistress rose from bed;
Or, she was sure to have her hire,
The fat would all be in the fire."

The sovereign view'd her as she lay,
But found her chang'd since yesterday.
Some small vexation it might bring--
A woman over-reach'd a King!

Upon reflection, he thought best
To turn deception to a jest.
The wench had pleasures to bestow;
He'd not consent to let her go.
'Twas only, if he'd his desire,
Raising his abbey three feet higher.

How long they lay, how long caress,
The muse can neither tell nor guess;
But 'twas till so much time was gone,
Her morning's work could not be done.
"She wish'd he'd try her fault to hide,
Or else her lady'd sorely chide.
'Twould foul disgrace upon him bring,
If the companion of a King,
Who serv'd him out of pure respect,
Should suffer for a small neglect;
Besides, 'twould have an oddish look,
Should she be beaten by the cook,
Who was with royal favours bless'd,
Whom the first Sovereign had caress'd."

The man who loses his last shilling,
Must bear such jokes as he's unwilling;
But, should he then a guinea find
Against the joker turns the wind,
So Edgar, having lost his case,
Resolv'd to treat it with good grace,
To bear the loss without disdain,
As by the kitchen wench he'd gain.

He took her for his concubine,
And she, in splendour, learn'd to shine.
In luxury saw many a day,
In royal sun-shine blaz'd away.
She thought of servitude no more;
Look'd down on those she fear'd before;
While they, their humble suit prefer,
To gain a point look up to her;
Well pleas'd that fate had plac'd her there,
And sav'd their daughter from a snare.

To Miss P--

Dear Sally, why do you complain
That from the sting you feel a pain,
Forgetting, while you love pursue,
How many pains are caus'd by you
A remedy you want that cures--
Then let my lips be join'd to yours.
Balsamic virtues may be found,
Sufficient for a deeper wound;
But if this should not lay your smart,
'Twill heat the wound that's in my heart.

The enlightened priest

A handsome Priest, but not a lewder,
Lived in the reign of Henry Tudor.
Condemn'd to pass a single life,
Though he'd much rather had a wife;
For prudent wives, in many a case,
Will tend to keep us from disgrace,
And, vice versá, we conclude,
There's cases where a husband's good.
But if he had none, good or bad,
Could point out many a man who had;
And beauties too. Could he decoy them
His first advances were to eye them.
Nor is it hard for lovely faces
To get into each other's graces.
When youth and charms together mess,
'Tis easy to insure success;
A leer, a bow, a smile, a squeeze,
Are often sent, and often please.
To press the hand, will soon impart
The road directly to the heart;
The heart once conquer'd in the breast,
He eas'ly captur'd all the rest.

A priestly dress is the most sure
To find a way through ev'ry door.
What lock or bolt could ever stand
Against a priest with cowl and band?
And when he enters with an air,
Becomes the chief commander there;
Knows every dish, is often tasting;
Master of all things, but of--fasting.
Possession, if he once obtain,
As easy is to keep, as gain.
Then comes confession, absolution,
Advice, and pardons in profusion;
With dinners, suppers, benediction,
Charming barriers against detection.
They'll house him safely, and what's more,
Will keep suspicion out of door.

Our handsome Priest, of fair renown,
Had beauties scatter'd through the town;
In whate'er street he should appear,
A bright seraglio was there.
But what to this would conscience say?
Why, eas'ly argue faults away.
He thought an injury none could tell,
If he drew from another's well;
Because supplies within remain
Which instant fill the well again.

It far'd well with our handsome Priest,
Who, all his life-time, had been bless'd.
The smiles of fortune, and the fair,
Had quite disbanded every care;
And he suppos'd, through life's remain,
They'd never muster force again.

Alas, how shallow are our schemes,
Nay empty, just as idle dreams.
He was, upon a Christmas tide,
Caught in a fact he wish'd to hide;
And, in a posture, I confess,
A posture-I'll leave you to guess.
Yet keen-ey'd servants, at the time,
Accus'd him but of half a crime;
The other half, those servants said,
They boldly on their mistress laid.
O, why not on St. Martin call,
To save him from a dreadful fall?
But, close engag'd, the people say,
He'd something else to do than pray.

The matter's blaz'd, the people smile,
He's dragg'd before the court awhile,
Where a stern sentence issued thence is
Of penance for his past offences.

Now to the crowd expos'd to view,
Adorn' d with sheet, and candle too,
His face look'd handsome as before,
But modester than 'twas of yore;
For sorrow, with his harsh rebukes,
Will rather tend to spoil our looks.
The rude, among the crowd of folks,
Could not refrain from spouting jokes.
"If punish'd, when he goes astray,
He'll hold a candle every day;
At least he should due penance seek,
Be clothed and lighted once a week.
His powers have peopled many a street;
He sins and suffers in a sheet:
Is better versed, upon the whole,
In forming bodies than the soul.
A candle he takes now and then
To let his light shine before men."

One of the members of the throng
Address'd a priest who march'd along,
And told him plainly, "that the times
Could not excuse such heinous crimes;
And hop'd the priests would keep from wives;
Would live, in future, righteous lives.
The clergy should disdain the sheet,
Nor carry candles in the street.
Their piety should shine agen,
And lanthorns be to other men."

The Parson, with a smiling eye,
Instantly made him this reply
"What priest or smith can work by rules
When you deprive him of his tools?
No lanthorn e'er our hand adorns
Because you laymen wear the horns."

Justice

With three grand things will verse look big
A judge, an apple, and a pig;
For, with a mighty pace we trudge,
Though full employ'd, to see a judge:
Nay, it would doubtless give the spleen,
E'en to himself, were he not seen.
When power and title on us lie,
Our wish is to attract the eye.

A tithe-pig's what the parson wishes;
It classes with the best of dishes.
And what man in his senses, pray,
His apples ever threw away?
These three great points being fix'd upon
You'll bear in mind--so I'll go on.

Justice! a word supremely good,
Which may be eas'ly understood;
It means no more, say all we can,
Than what is right 'twixt man and man.
Nor will the word admit a doubt;
The dullest head may find it out;
And yet our practice is so blind,
As if plain sense we could not find.

An inch she'll farther go, therefore,
And mildness shew creation o'er;
For Justice cannot smile applause
If we keep partially her laws.
Whate'er has life, insect or beast,
Claims our humanity at least.
No eye could ever Justice see
Wanton in acts of cruelty;
Keeps racks and gibbets out of sight;
To torments she's a stranger quite;
The path of mildness ne'er forsakes,
If life is forfeit, life she takes;
Teaches humanity to man
By soft'ning all the pain she can.
That treasure, life, is all his store;
A monster only covets more.

Justice! as by the chizzel made,
And is on our Guild-halls display'd,
Appears delightfully, we own,
Modell'd, most curiously, in stone.
Her countenance benign we see,
And grateful flows her drapery:
But by this dress do artists mean
She only must in stone be seen?
A pair of scales, just even made,
Declares she a mistress of her trade.
This means, that in temptation's spite
She'll deal to ev'ry man his right;
Or, should a man dispute her cause,
Her sword is to enforce her laws.
Her robes and fire, her scales and sword,
Are emblems which her worth record.
Dignity, mildness, right, and power,
Are represented by these four.

Treat not this figure with your scorn,
Because I've but an image drawn;
Know, this fair nymph is seen no where,
In such perfection as she's here;
For, if we look in common life,
People with Justice are at strife;
For her reception's most unkind;
She rarely can a lodging find;
Attempts the rich, attempts the poor;
Is frequently turn'd out of door;
Treated, while off'ring man relief,
Just like a dog who steals your beef.
People in common speak her fair,
But seldom for her maxims care.

When waves and tempests jointly roar,
And strew with wrecks the British shore,
Keen vultures, in the human form,
Plunder the refuse of the storm,
Justice steps in, with all her might,
And loudly pleads the suff'rer's right;
In vain she pleads--what thief will hear?
She turns her head, and drops a tear,
While savage man, without delay,
Takes what the sea has cast away,
With just that pity in his lip,
As in the rock which dash'd the ship.

She sees another, with dismay,
Contracting debts he'll never pay.
Perhaps his payment is a sneer,
Because a lawyer gets him clear.
The crowd look on with unconcern;
Justice and creditor may mourn.

While circumvention money draws,
And men grow rich by bankrupt laws;
Or houses set in flames at night,
That thieves may gain some plunder by't;
While those who judge may often find
An inward bias on the mind;
While many a thousand pounds of debts
Are spung'd off by certificates;
The money spent on bawd or whore,
And creditor may work for more;
While fair recovery's defeated,
And men abuse the men they've cheated;
Can Justice all these crimes discern
And still look on with unconcern?

As solid beds of earth we see
Seem to divide the root and tree;
To place this motto, I'll not fail,
Between the preface and the tale.

Two men of wealth, in days of yore,
Quarrell'd, as men had done before;
And when folks quarrel, never stick
T'assign each other to Old Nick;
And if Old Nick cannot be had,
A Lawyer comes, and that's as bad.
But lest a single one won't do
Our bold contenders muster'd two.
By this manœuvre they could see
Each was to fleece the enemy.
But there's a truth, could they rely on't,
Each man, by chance, might fleece his client.

Examinations now begin,
Each party, there's no doubt, will win;
For as one side his case discloses,
The other in proportion loses
Each grows elate, his case so clear
That both are right they need not fear.
For, when a cause is fairly tried,
They'll gain it--by the fire-side.
If on the mind some doubts remain,
The lawyer comes--they're gone again.

The 'sizes now approach with speed,
The brief's drawn up, the counsel fee'd;
A crowd attends the Sheriff's coach,
The trumpet sounds my Lord's approach.
As far as our grand suit advances
Each client stands the best of chances;
For all weak sides discover'd there
Were guarded with the utmost care.

Though each had well his part conducted,
Counsel and witnesses instructed,
Yet, on reflection, they could find
A leading person left behind.
Counsel, and evidence, and laws,
Will go great length to win a cause;
Yet these, like hands and feet, 'tis said,
Effect not much without a head.
The Judge, they plainly understand,
Holds, like a Prince, the chief command.
His interest, it must be confess'd,
Is twice the worth of all the rest.
His favour then the cause must rest on,
But how to gain it was the question;
To offer him a bare-fac'd bribe
Would hurt the cause, and hurt his pride;
A delicacy must be shewn,
Which to no creature must be known.
For nauseous pills, when gilded nice,
Pass squeamish stomachs in a trice.

One of the suitors got a few
Of the best apples that e'er grew,
And to the learned Judge was sent
His basket, and his compliment.
The valet took the present there,
Who in the Judge's secret were.
"My Lord, a basket here I bring"--
"Open, and let me see the thing."
For curiosity runs wild
From four-score years down to the child.
"Apples! Are these the whole? ad rot 'em,
Does nothing better lie at bottom?"
"Nothing, my Lord," said with a sneer,
"There are no better pleaders here."
"Can such cold language gain applause?
Was trash e'er known to gain a cause?
A single peck of apples sent
To gain a cause of vast extent!--
However, though he'll lose the suit,
I'll taste--they look like finish fruit."

While John a lovely apple par'd,
His knife was stopp'd by something hard.
As knife and John its hardness tried,
A guinea seem'd to line th' inside.
"Ho, ho, what's here? I'll cut up more;
An apple with a golden core!
A guinea in each one that's sent!
This is a powerful argument.
Figures in rhetoric are the powers;
These go beyond--they are the flowers.
What opposition can refute
The argument of such rich fruit?"

Thus, while the master and his friend
A fruit so delicate commend,
Or, rather, the rich nest behold,
In which appears an egg of gold,
Was heard a rapping at the door,
And John descends the stairs once more.

"My Lord," with glee the valet cries,
"I'm coming with a second prize.
The other suitor, to prevent
A losing cause, a pig has sent,
But can a pig a cause restore?
One apple's worth him o'er and o'er.
It shews, howe'er, in point of laws,
That you stand umpire in the cause."

The pig upon the table laid,
The solemn umpire shook his head.
"A sucking pig's a feeble pleader,
He'll neither follow nor be leader."

Now as he lay the board upon,
Nor car'd a pin for Judge or John,
The keen-ey'd umpire soon beheld
His belly more than common swell'd;
For, when the bowels leave the flank,
It ought to look a little lank.

"John," says the judge, "draw out your knife,
And cut the stitches--'pon my life
I never saw a sucking pig
Which shew'd a belly quite so big."
John did the work--the belly thin is,
For out there flew a heap of guineas.
The Judge surpriz'd, and so was t'other,
They eyed the pig, and eyed each other.
Not that they fear'd a tell-tale tongue,
For they'd well known each other long;
But either of them pleas'd to find
The sweet effect upon the mind.
"This," says the master of the law,
"Is the best pig I ever saw;
The owner, we can plainly tell,
Spar'd no expence to feed him well.
Among the miracles of old
We never find guts turn'd to gold;
And sure as liquor's in that cup,
This pig will eat those apples up."

The pleasures of matrimony

Why, among laws, was one forgot,
That would untie the marriage knot?
Prevent three evils at one view,
As scolding, fighting, killing too?

Of wedlock, let us say or sing,
For this with man's a weighty thing.
Of all the bargains in his life
The most uncertain is a wife.
The prospect may look fair enough,
But who can judge without a proof?
Shou'd he succeed in this grand test,
Of all good bargains this is best.

When the reverse becomes his state,
Can he be more distress'd by fate?
While other contracts which he'll share,
Compar'd to this but trifles are,
Which if he prudently attend to,
He easily may put an end to;
By marriage only must abide,
Because no law sets it aside.
The chain is fix'd which links them fast,
A chain which must for ever last;
But rests with them what sort to chuse,
Whether they'll silk or iron use;
For the chief springs that cause the strife
Arise from either man or wife.
Their quarrels usually begin
From nothing, feather, straw, or pin;
While some deplorable I see,
Thank the kind stars that favour'd me.

This life affords, though but a span,
Rattles for every age of man;
Yet constancy he can't engage,
His rattles change in every stage;
For when ten years accomplish'd are,
He'll quit his book to see a fair;
But, turn'd of forty, if you'll look,
He'll quit the fair to read his book.

At one year old no dire alarms,
Then every thing we see has charms;
We long for all, for all are new,
And lie within a yard or two.

If we to seven years live by chance,
There opens then a wide expanse;
Delighted now with taw and ball,
Which three-score could not bear at all,
The scenes which rise all joyous go;
The spirits at that age o'erflow;
For, when we find the spirits high,
What trouble ever can annoy?
Retrench not liberty or food,
Whatever else that comes is good.
To offer your estate's absurd,
For whip, for hobby-horse, or bird.
Nor bond of fifty'll purchase quite
His flimzy but his lofty kite.
Rather than be depriv'd of play,
He'll throw your bond and deeds away.

Another view may now be had,
To twelve years old we'll raise the lad.
Fresh scenes arise from this great ball,
And pleasure issues from them all.
Misfortune has no business there,
Dips into every thing but care.
His play-things number by the score,
To twenty's added twenty more;
Which, like your candles, change about,
Some lighted up, while some go out;
And in those games he sought to learn
Now teaches others in his turn.

Two changes in our way are gone,
At twenty will a third come on.
He's now enlisted among men;
His fav'rite rattles change again;
And are, though multiplied the more,
Just as important as before.
Tippling and smoaking-- he's for both--
Gambling, with now and then an oath.
Powder and dress now intervene--
Then "All for Love," to change the scene.
"No pleasure's equal to the fair;
Felicity is center'd there;
And, contradict it if you can,
Woman herself was made for man;
And the chief happiness we view
Lies in the union of the two.
Every man, the world throughout,
Holds a degree of bliss, no doubt:
This must be doubled, free from care,
When lovely woman adds her share.
Who then would fool away this life
In solitude, without a wife,
When their united efforts are,
T'increase their joys, and banish care?
For pray what trouble can come nigh,
When, to oppose it, both shall try?
If man's philosophy can bear
Against those evils which come near,
United with his heart's delight
They'll quickly put them all to flight."

Such weighty blessings in his eye,
Who can withstand the promis'd joy?
A scene now opens, and most clever,
Fill'd with more happiness than ever;
A wife is added to his store,
And what can mortal wish for more?
But one regret escapes his tongue,
"That he'd delay'd his bliss so long."

Thus, while through life we make a pother,
We quit one bauble for another;
But with this diff'rence from the past,
We've now a bauble that will last.

Through every play-thing that we've gone,
A man may quit them all but one;
Others, like flimzy chattels, fail,
But she's a freehold with entail.

Let me record--Our loving pair
Can scarcely speak without--"My dear!"
Which indicates, it must be granted,
That marriage gives us what we wanted;
And that no state of bliss we try
Can ever raise us quite so high.

But, if a little time we wait,
Some small degree we must abate.
When Hymen's torch shall cease to burn,
Then Bet and Tom may serve their turn.
Nay, if we sink a peg at all,
Who then can tell how low we'll fall?
For Tom and Bet must now give place
To names which would my page disgrace.

The husband, in his wife, can spy
Faults which scape every other eye;
And, with a vengeance, charges free
Others that he himself can't see.
From bad to worse they quickly fall,
And soon they reach the worst of all.
He knows not how to treat a wife,
But plagues her, and himself, for life.
Detests the very name of bride.
"O that the knot could be unty'd!"

A prudent wife is seldom had,
Because the husband makes her bad.
If you'd in happiness rejoice,
Then treasure up this short advice:
With gentle hand her errors cure,
And what you cannot mend, endure.

Where is the loving couple, pray,
Who never sport their bliss away?
When we with ease command a blessing,
It grows insipid by possessing;
This shews, that many a happy hour
We hold compleatly in our power;
But this gay season never lingers,
'Twill, like an eel, slip through our fingers,
And darting down the stream of time,
Leave nothing in our hands but slime.

Our former part was meant to say
What happiness we throw away.
A cross-grain'd husband plagues his wife;
They pull two ways, and both in strife
Keep lab'ring on, but without hope;
Yet there's no law to cut the rope,
And turn adrift th' ill-blended pair
To seek for happiness elsewhere.
It shews his gords are stupid still,
Except he change them when he will.
That wives alone, of all the range,
Are rattles which he cannot change.

T'illustrate these, we shall not fail
To bring a true and recent tale
Not from Jerusalem, I protest,
But Nottingham, upon the Forest.
Nor shall a Roman date be mine,
'Twas seventeen hundred forty-nine;
And William Martin, I'll engage,
The hero who shall tread the stage.

Drawing to'ards manhood, he began
To think himself a tightish man.
Among the passions of the breast,
Love seem'd to dawn among the rest;
Nor is it strange that love he'd got;
Where is the man who has it not!
Love, from his eye, quick sent a dart,
And lodg'd it in Miss Woolley's heart.
Yet, strange to tell, and yet 'tis true,
From that one dart another grew.
Cupid knew this, though he'd no eye,
And thought it should not idle lie.
He strung his bow; he took this dart,
And sent it into Martin's heart,
Thus assiduity will prove
The faithful minister of love.
For as a looking-glass procures
Another face exact like yours,
So, when fond love a heart shall strike,
'Twill, in another, raise its like.

When two kind folks to love are prone,
They cannot keep asunder long,
The happy moments robb'd from sleep
Our tender lovers often keep;
Nor could they even wish for more,
Much in possession--hope in store,
How enviable is their state,
'Tis only lovers can relate.

There's bounds of honour in our case
Which prudence will not let us pass;
Those bounds poor Martin and his fair
Forgot to keep with decent care;
From toying, loving thus, anon
It chanc'd a pregnancy came on.
Alarm succeeds, and sore dismay;
Martin resolv'd to run away.
A child half-form'd, to life unknown,
Could drive its father out of town.
The father, fearful of his race,
His infant offspring durst not face.
The future mother you might view
Distracted quite betwixt the two.
One half she lost, with her repose;
That which she kept she wish'd to lose.

O cruel world, unlike to heaven,
That one false step can't be forgiven!
Repentance pardon can't obtain,
Nor floods of tears wash out the stain;
For weakness no allowance made,
Nor strong temptations which invade.
Ill-fated woman! censur'd long
Through inward bias and a tongue.
But should the world abate a tittle,
Relax its scandal but a little,
And take the culprit into grace,
Smile, and give her a smiling face,
Two benefits would thence arise,
One please the good, and one the wise.
The fruits which come from stol'n embrace
Add much to our laborious race--
The whole would into life be led,
And not one half be knock'd o' th' head.

A man may run away, I grant
But, if his money should run scant,
He'd find that evil such a bar
As would prevent him running far.
This was Will Martin's case, I own
He stopp'd at Hinckley, quite broke down.
Then should not man some pity find,
When money's gone, and peace of mind?
If these two ills await his door,
We really think he needs no more.

He work'd and play'd with small content,
While many a Sunday came and went.
For who can act, that thinks he feels
A constable about his heels?

Of all the places where there's rest
He thought a Public-house was best
Because, should warrants come about,
There's one door in, another out.

While in the ale-house he was got,
Drinking, with company, his pot,
Where, with full freedom, they dispence
With every chat but that of sense,
A woman enter'd to the guests,
And modestly made these requests
"That her dear Man would quit his cup
As soon as he had drunk it up;
Would pay his shot, and with her come
To tend their infant flock at home."

Not touch-wood to the fire applied,
Nor flint and steel to tinder dried;
Not joiner's shavings parch'd in June,
To which you put a candle soon;
Nor gin so fierce a flame will catch,
When you apply a lighted match,
As darted from the husband's eye;
It struck with fear the standers-by.
'Tis wonderful he made demur;
The flame should rather come from her;
For she had cause to be concern'd;
He spent the money which she earn'd.

Unite the thunder of a drum
With words that from a foul mouth come,
With fire above describ'd a little,
You'll see our husband to a tittle.
No reason could his vengeance check;
"He'd break her heart, or break her neck.
To rid his hand he would not fail,
He'd sell her for a quart of ale."

A contract of such magnitude
Requires some moments to conclude.
For wives, of all the goods we hold,
Ne'er come to market to be sold.
Neither could Martin, I declare,
Examine, as he would a mare;
For, in a market, we suppose
The buyer strips her of her clothes;
But Martin could not then begin
To scrutinize her wind and limb.

Hannah, desponding, sat in fears;
Her only language was--her tears.
Fair decency had mark'd her dress,
Dejected modesty her face;
And every soul alive could see
Some beauty in her face, but he,
Who, of all men, should see it first,
Should prudently that beauty nurs'd;
For if to her he'd acted kind,
He'd found returns to his own mind.
Which proves, to ev'ry one who tries,
That happiness within us lies.
But we want conduct how to use it,
We must destroy it, or abuse it.
It proves too, from the husband's tongue,
He'd kept his rattle much too long.
And what did most his mind derange,
It never could admit a change.

Whether the contract firm will set,
Or not, is most uncertain yet;
The husband, in his price, won't sink,
Nor Martin rise one drop of drink.
Hannah's in equilibrio,
Not knowing how the sale will go;
But, like a wife of prudent cast,
Shew'd strict obedience to the last.
She rather would adhere unto
The evils she already knew,
Than venture where the ills are sure,
Uncertain in their size and cure.
For let our state be ne'er so curst,
We always wish to know the worst.

The pint was order'd, bargain struck
And nothing back return'd for luck.
The parties of a halter thought,
But this they found would cost a groat.
The halter scheme was instant lost,
As being twice what Hannah cost.
For that same reason neither would
Pay four-pence that she might be toll'd.

While they consume the pint in strife,
The purchase of a prudent wife,
'Twas thought a deed would best avail,
T'insure the bargain and the sale;
For when a treaty is to last
'Tis needful we should make all fast.

An article they jointly draw,
Declaring rights in terms of law.
To all great treaties which are brought on,
There's lesser matters to be thought on:
To these 'tis needful that we look,
Like an appendix to a book,
Two lovely babes our pair had brought;
And lovely babes are worth a thought:
To other fathers they'd have charms;
One us'd its feet, and one in arms.
The first fell to the husband's care;
The last the mother could not spare;
Nay, both so hung about her heart,
As caus'd a bleeding wound to part.

"And will you sell me?" Hannah cries,
While in distress she wip'd her eyes,
"From madness will you ne'er recede?
Has this dear child no power to plead?
But infant cries were never known
To melt, like yours, a heart of stone.
The time will come when this you'll rue;
Repentance I shall leave to you.
My cruel pangs no tongue can tell!
Preserve my infant babe.--Farewell!"

Why among laws was one forgot,
That would have tied the marriage knot;
Uniting in one happy hour
The gentle male and female flower?

What would the antients, think you, said,
To wives being sold two-pence a head?
Why, they'd conclude, as we are taught,
"The price being low, the goods are naught,"
Jacob, the Patriarch of old,
Purchas'd at no such price, we're told.
Seven tedious years were forc'd to pass,
Which only brought a blear-eyed lass;
And bound for seven long years again
Before another could obtain;
"And when to him they both were gone,"
Why, then he'd twice the plague of one.
T'asperse the girls I'm very loth,
But I think Hannah worth them both.
His treatment to his wives were kind;
To all their failings rather blind;
But our coarse husband, full of terrors,
Saw nothing in his wife but errors.

Of many virtues none could scan;
This is the random creature man!
The liquor drunk, the bargain made,
The wife deliver'd, money paid;
The husband pleas'd that he could part
From her who long had lost his heart;
Or, rather, none could she receive,
Because he ne'er had one to give.

Poor Hannah saw the idle tale
To pass through Hinckley would not fail
Nay, any town, from Thames to Soar,
Would gladly cuff it o'er and o'er.
It would, of her and child, be told,
They, like a cow and calf, were sold.
This Martin saw--they would not stay,
But would for Loughbro' shape their way.
Besides, repentance might come on,
And then poor Martin's pint was gone.

Celestial folks assemble strait,
And enter into close debate,
"Whether they can, by methods certain,
Assist poor Hannah and Will Martin."
They soon determine on a plan
To serve them every way they can.

The night was dark--the world in bed--
All Hinckley in deep silence laid.
The cock brake early forth, and crew,
And sleepy Cinthia rose at two.
She instant quitted her abode,
To light our couple on the road.
But here, alas, as one that mourns,
She shew'd no part except her horns.
Her face was hid, and vex'd, as 't were,
Because she could not serve the pair;
For by the little light she shew'd
Our couple could not find their road.

Cinthia's design might only be
To let the surly husband see
The pattern of what horns to wear;
For he was making up a pair.

The folks celestial still observe them,
And find the moon too faint to serve them.
Aurora issued from her bed,
And grandly streak'd the heavens with red;
To Sol's groom call'd, he being in view,
"To harness quick, and then put to;
That Sol would not a moment stay,
But light our couple on the way:
For, as he'd often seen them both,
Was well acquainted with their worth.
That she, Aurora, points their course
Till Phœbus shines with brighter force."

Our couple not a moment waste;
Young travellers set out in haste,
But losing breath, and weary soon,
Are apt to lag before 'tis noon.

Phœbus, to guide our couple, came,
Determin'd to do just the same.
He urg'd his coursers--whipp'd them still--
And gallop'd up the Eastern hill;
When, finding he was far from earth,
Then lagg'd, as they did, to get breath.

Our couple were not incommoded
With chattels, and yet both were loaded.
His right hand, empty, swang most kind
One swing before, and one behind.
Your pendulum the time can tell;
This hand could tell it just as well
And though it might the right leg shun,
Exactly with the left went on.
The centre of a hedge-stake press
On his left shoulder, with some stress;
His left hand pulling at the end on't;
The other end a bundle pendant;
While in his face the features smil'd,
And she trudg'd after with the child.

When two young folks together go,
Fifteen or twenty miles, or so,
And both good-natur'd seem to be,
Much of each other they may see;
And if to love they're both inclin'd,
They'll fathom each the other's mind.
Friendship and love they'll soon impart,
And creep into each other's heart.
This prov'd our happy couple's case,
Who ne'er before could bliss embrace;
As in the sex he never knew
How to select the bad from true;
So, when unsatisfied, the mind
To fix it seldom is inclin'd;
Like running waters, as they fall,
Salute each bank, but quit them all.

But now he found in Hannah more
Than all he look'd for long before:
"She, of the fair sex, was the best;
With her alone he'd fix his rest;"
Nor wish'd to change in small degree;
He lov'd the child as well as she.
For innocents, in every case,
Clasp round the heart with close embrace;
Except that heart like marble stands,
Then there's no hold for little hands.

Her state of bliss appear'd much more
Because she'd recently been lower.
She liv'd at ease, which brought surprize,
A new world open'd to her eyes.
For good she look'd, and look'd again,
In her first husband--but in vain.
To all choice fruits he seem'd a foe;
The soil was bad, they could not grow.
In Martin virtues found alone,
Which corresponded with her own.
Though man and wife, they act at will,
But find themselves the lovers still;
Nor ever yet appear'd to be
Sick of each other's company.
Then what need they abroad to roam
When both were better pleas'd at home?
Each to the other's failings blind,
They found all which they hop'd to find.
Material errors they avoid;
The lesser they knew how to hide;
Should but a little fault appear,
'Twas quite forgot--for she was there;
Should one with blemish mark a deed,
The other an excuse would plead.

To hear his foot when he'd been gone,
Was harmony of sweetest tone;
It banish'd every gloomy sigh,
And rais'd the joyous spirits high;
A welcome issued from her eyes,
Which he alone knew how to prize;
And should she ever hold forth long,
He never once said, "Hold your tongue!"
For why should he attempt to stint
A tongue with so much music in 't?

Love can do all things with great ease,
Possessing every power to please.
For where the wish is well inclin'd,
The hand will rarely lag behind.
Between them went no jarring sound,
A perfect harmony was found.
Why, when so near to bliss alloy'd
Could not the marriage knot be tied?

In our fourth part I end the clue,
But can't poetic justice do;
For married folk who act like these
Justly expect to live at ease.
No fiction in my verse I tell,
But real facts--I knew them well.

A twelvemonth pass'd, or thereabout,
And they from Loughbro' ne'er went out.
Though both were strange to every road,
Happy as those who went abroad.
For happiness, it is confess'd,
Consists in what we love the best.

We'll now to Hinckley send the Muse,
To see how surly husband does.
Repentance seiz'd him. When alone,
He damn'd himself for what he'd done.
His rattle sold in evil hour,
Because 'twas wholly in his power;
That power departed, he in vain,
Cry'd for his rattle back again.
This random temper verifies
That what we have we all despise,
And what we have not, after pant;
"'Tis just the very thing we want."
Now all her charms he saw, and more
Charms which he could not see before.

Himself examines all the streets;
Tells every passenger he meets,
And his egregious folly states
To churchwardens and magistrates.
But all adhering to one rule,
Join, with himself, to call him fool.

It happen'd on a luckless day,
When life's sweet stream had no allay,
William and Hannah careless sat,
Amus'd with inoffensive chat,
A sudden voice approach'd the room;
"The overseers of Hinckley come!"

Suppose a catchpole seiz'd a beau,
He could not be reduc'd so low.
No author, when his book's run down;
Nor miser, when he's lost a crown;
Nor you when Chancery suit miscarried;
Nor Betty when her sweet-heart married;
Nor tradesman when his banker broke;
Ever experience'd such a shock.

Two faces pale, but not with sorrow,
Were his and her's, but mark'd with horror.
"Hannah," they said, "must with them come;
Her husband wanted her at home."

The stile in which these words did flow
Appear'd not to admit of no;
Nor in the least afforded rest
To the rough tumults in the breast.

William the art of speech knew well,
In elocution could excell;
And in no period, you'd allow,
Was it so needful as just now;
For who would not, to save a wife,
Speak better than in all his life;
But now his words, through agitation,
All underwent compleat stagnation.
Instead of must'ring up a trope,
They riotted within the throat;
And though he tried to drive them hence,
They still continued in suspence;
Nay, that same power which used to aid them,
Now fast within the gullet made them;
Though sorely wanted, could not use them,
For all internals were confusion.

When wind and words procur'd a vent,
He boldly drew an instrument;
"Conveyance fairly sign'd and seal'd,
By which he lovely Hannah held.
And how can this, pray, be undone,
Deliver'd free before the sun?
A bargain that can never fail;
The money paid upon the nail.
This is the title-deed which gives
Me lovely Hannah while she lives;
He, by this writing, did resign
His Hannah, and by this she 's mine.
A man may sell his own, 'tis true;
Nor can repentance sales undo.
Were he to have her back once more,
They'd say he'd made his wife a w--.
And who black scandal would abide,
Which is so easy to avoid?
Besides, there's more to think upon,
In pregnancy she's six months gone.
What stupid husband then would groan
Under a burthen not his own?"

These powerful arguments, of course,
With justice weigh, but not with force;
For he with whom a power shall go
Holds the best arguments we know;
And though sheer reasons flow in fast,
He's sure to win his cause at last.
Nay, should we argue e'er so long,
The hand will always beat the tongue.

They said, "he might the writings hold;
They'd shew the price a wife was sold;
But that his title had a flaw;
The purchase was not good in law;
For in that place she should not fix
Though she should prove with child of six!
Might keep the writing for her sake;
But, for the freehold, they would take."
Thus though poor WilI by far could speak best,
His arguments were far the weakest.

When conquer'd by the tongue or whip,
There's nothing left but to submit;
For William, and his purchas'd bride,
Are doom'd for ever to divide.

The lovers shock'd, with sighs and tears
Pierce every heart but overseers.
For hearts united just like these
Can never separate with ease.

The loss of her he thought was more
Than all he ever held before.
And should he e'en to old age live,
'Twas more than all the world could give.
He sorely wept, to be remov'd
From her he most sincerely lov'd;
And while the fair one could be view'd
His eye attentively pursued;
And glanc'd the way, though she's not there,
As well as able through a tear.

Poor Hannah wept, being forc'd from one
She'd firmly fix'd her heart upon.
Nor did that one the least degrade
The worthy present which she made.
Now must submit to many an oath
From one who's ign'rant of her worth.
For as in him, if we look round,
Not one good quality was found;
So he no good in her could spy
When view'd by his corrupted eye.

The winning officers were gay,
And in small triumph led the way;
She follow'd, but in anguish cried,
"O that the knot could be untied!"

The tobacconist

Whoe'er in trade shall money find,
Acquires a pleasure to his mind;
More joy by far he'll have in heaping,
Than either spending or in keeping.
The saving man never looks duller
Because his bag's a little fuller;
Yet were it always in one state
It could not keep the mind elate;
But, when it's lighter by a crown,
It certainly will let him down.
That pleasure which is most endearing,
The florists say consists in rearing.

But Great Moguls would cause no flame,
Should they continue just the same.
What gardener refrains from sighing,
His Emperor of Morocco dying?
What mother can a smile refrain,
When Tommy shall his feet attain;
But when young master's walk'd awhile,
It never more excites a smile.

Man's a free agent, we think still,
Who must be guided by his will.
If you to drive him have begun,
Just like a pig he'll backwards run.
Should he by chance but step aside,
A silken cord may prove a guide.
This rectifies the milder breast,
And justice comes to drive the rest.
Compulsion us'd in any case
Sits ill upon the human race.

A Christian church for ever itches
After accumulating riches.
And pray what Church could ever rest,
Except with wealth compleatlv bless'd?
Her loving sons, of godly mould,
Are vastly full of power and gold;
For well they know, if gold they find,
Delicious power won't lag behind.
They're watchful early, watchful late,
To lay their thumb on your estate.
They far behind leave in the lurch
The founders of the Christian church.
The twelve Apostles seem as naught
For all their wealth was scarce a groat.
Among a dozen men divine
Did not a single mitre shine.
They barely could afford to eat,
And in their journeys us'd their feet:
But, though their feet were full in use,
Could not procure a pair of shoes.
If but one shirt to each betide,
Must lie in bed till that was dried;
While their successors smiling pray,
"And fare most sumptuous ev'ry day;"
Appear in mitre, robe, and rocket,
And show a swelling in the pocket.
Adorn'd with purple and fine linen,
Are oft the gilded chariot seen in;
Wear shoes as if they meant to tread,
Though scarce more needful than in bed:
For, being drawn along the street,
Have little need for shoes or feet.

What though the twelve were poor indeed,
Their Sons have taught the Church to feed.
But modern gratitude appears
To apostolic characters,
For forming a religion that on
The grave Divine can soon grow fat on.
For men who could not spare a vest
Are now in solid silver dress'd;
And further is display'd each saint
In copper plate and costly paint.
For self-denial Parsons hallow them;
But where's the man attempts to follow them?
Thus industry.--A thriving chest
The cravings of a hungry priest.
These three points settled, we shan't fail
To tell you--"thereby hangs a tale,"
Which we'll apply to what's before,
And therefore moralize no more.

While I the faithful tale rehearse,
A Grocer shall adorn my verse.
Christopher Stephens now we'll view,
The hero of a tale that's true;
Who sold tobacco; gain'd renown;
Was resident in Reading town.
From small beginnings could create,
In length of time, a good estate.
Shew'd in what point the road might lie,
Which other folks might walk and buy.

He daily kept a steady line;
Was never found asleep at nine.
He some commercial maxims chose;
Could well repeat them though in prose:
"'Tis not from trade the man is made;
No, 'tis the man that makes the trade.
Small profits if you once combine,
Compose a mass that soon will shine.
The goods well bought are then half sold;
Their profits may be doubly told.
The man who pays upon the nail
Commands the market and the sale.
Exonerate the debts you owe,
Then what you're worth you'll quickly know.
Get money fast, and spend it slow,
Your fortune rapidly will grow.
A growing fortune will impart
A growing pleasure to the heart."

No wonder, by these rules surrounded,
Gold often on his counter sounded;
Would lovely to the eye appear,
And sound delightful in the ear.
And should three pounds the till contain,
He sent back two to buy again.

His mode of living we'll survey;
Milk-porridge usher'd in the day.
'Twas wholesome--to the body kind;
'Twas cheap--which satisfy'd the mind.
And as he eat his breakfast soon,
Like his fore-fathers din'd at noon.
If he weigh'd plums, it was for gain;
He chose to eat his pudding plain,
Because he this conclusion drew--
"The price of one would furnish two."

At ev'ning, when at supper sat,
Regal'd upon a frugal treat,
Fragments of dinner--cheese and beer,
With true content brought up the rear.
Of all his food he wasted none,
But scrap'd his crumbs as he went on.

The supper done, he did not fail
T'enjoy another full regale;
A cup of home-brew'd always us'd,
And o'er his pipe and profits mus'd.
Not that he ever seem'd unwilling,
When interest serv'd, to spend a shilling.
But this was rather with a view
That he might probably gain two.

On Sunday he enlarg'd his treat,
'Twas broth and pudding, roots and meat,
Nor was his entertainment spoil'd,
For he eat roast as well as boil'd.

Thus life pass'd on, he watch'd, he slept,
And regular one tenor kept.
He strove to get; he made no waste;
Enjoy'd a station to his taste;
From which he drew that happiness
Which few experience, many guess.

His fortune swell'd on either hand;
His hobby-horse was buying land;
Could in that jockyship excel,
For all allow he rode him well.

Old Time observ'd him full three score,
And bad age rap hard at his door,
And say, "his work was nearly done,
His game was up, his stake was won."

II you heap wealth upon your back,
Be watchful of a thing in black;
For if that thing once gets command,
'Tis gone, as 'twere by slight of hand.

We're travellers upon the road,
Yet act as if 'twas our abode.
This we find blam'd by our divines,
But here, I think, our conduct shines;
For, if neglected our affairs,
We hurt ourselves, and hurt our heirs.
The farmer, when he sows his wheat,
Is not quite sure he'll live to eat.
Then if into neglect he'll give,
Can the next generation live?
Kind Heaven will this care preserve,
Or we should make the future starve.
And if such evils come apace,
They'll quickly thin the human race.

Our hero now his day had run;
'Twas drawing to'ards the setting sun;
And yet through life no issue made
To heir his fortune and his trade.

One nephew had, he'd often say,
Residing in America.
"This youth he'd back to Reading call,
And constitute him heir of all."
'Tis done--the favour'd youth drew nigh,
To act beneath his uncle's eye.

Schemes are more apt to bring vexation,
Than they to answer expectation.
The youth elate, his fortune made,
And master of a prosperous trade,
His morning rose supremely bright;
He never thought it could be night;
Liv'd gaily; spent his money quick;
And seem'd to gallop to Old Nick;
Promis'd the fortune to o'er-whelm:
His uncle could not guide the helm.

The parish priest an opening spies
For parish priests have keenish eyes.
He ponder'd deeply in his mind
Whether he could a profit find?
But he knew well that men grown old
Were rather stubborn stuff to mould;
Yet, not o'er-stock'd with self-denial,
Saw no great loss in making trial;
To Mr. Stephens mov'd his hat,
And enter'd into common chat;
Then by-and-by a visit made;
The priest was master of his trade.

The way once found, he fairly seated,
His visit frequently repeated.
The ale was good, tobacco mild,
The story clever, they both smil'd.
Thus the sly priest perform'd his part,
And crept into Kit Stephens' heart.

The man who has a point to gain
Attacks in a religious strain.
That antient cloak is hack'd about,
From age to age, yet not worn out.
"Sir," says the priest, with easy air,
"Kind Providence has bless'd your care.
To your affairs you paid regard,
And thousands are your just reward.
He who succeeds in honest ways
Is worthy of the highest praise;
But when by care he's riches won,
He's only half his duty done.
Simply to gain is an abuse,
Unless applied to proper use;
For riches, it is understood,
Are granted for promoting good.
But 'tis observ'd by all the town
Your fair-got fortune's melting down.
Your nephew will the whole undo,
And ruin soul and body too.
Fair prudence might, ere 'tis too late,
Prevent the waste of your estate;
To distant times record your name,
And save a falling youth from shame.
Your whole estate deposit free
Into the lap of Charity.
This, like your bread, on waters cast,
Returns when many days are past;
And the best charity we know
Is to support the church below:
For there the man is taught to rise
And place his hopes beyond the skies.
The pulpit plants that heavenly tree,
Which springs up to eternity.
What blessings then on them await
Who aid the Church in this fall'n state!"

Stephens was silent as a door;
His eyes fix'd on the parlour floor;
His elbow on the table rest;
One hand below the cheek-bone press'd;
The other hand, with steady gripe,
Within his mouth retain'd the pipe.

He loos'd it with a closing puff;
His face looked sorrowful enough;
For can a human face look gay,
His lands just wing'd to fly away?
Lands which had been his dear delight
Two different ways were taking flight.

"Your sentiments I much admire,
They're full of heav'nly desire;
Those sentiments are, to a hair,
True pulpit doctrine, worn thread-bare.
To heaven our thoughts the parson brings,
But sets his own on earthly things.
If to the church we give our lands,
You say for charity it stands;
But can you, Sir, one instance name
Of any priest, when money came,
Becoming better--preaching more
Than ever he had done before?
But I could some before you lay
Where priests are idle--people stray.
What minister his flock will heed
When he in luxury can feed?
If they don't preach, nor better live,
Can it be charity to give?

Land, too, applied to sacred use,
Becomes a general abuse.
No staple owner--fields grow poor;
Their produce is but half the store.
These may be fairly call'd dead lands,
Which ne'er return to private hands.
When a long race of devotees
Have lodg'd in holy hands their fees;
Religion then, at their command,
Wholly consists in Holy land;
And property accumulating,
Acquires a power there's no combating.
Man would be taught not to fear God,
But only fear the Church's rod;
'Till an Eighth Henry rise once more,
And rob the Church as heretofore.
Though Hal,'tis said, went to the devil,
Much good we find came out of evil.
Besides, you know, Sir, I presume,
That charity begins at home.
A man's relations, when he's dead,
Have just the right that he once had.
Should I give you what I get rent of,
Then one sin more I have t' repent of.

My nephew, I allow, is wild,
By youthful follies nearly spoil'd;
But, should I cut him off by will,
'Twould tend to make him wilder still;
Besides, his money must run scant;
The more he spends, the more he'll want.
But not more pleasure can he find,
In spending what I leave behind,
Than has already been my lot
In getting fairly what I've got.

For pipe and beer I thought you came
Nor were you grudg'd the humble claim;
But when a deep-laid scheme is brewing,
To bring a family to ruin,
Prudence should drag that scheme to light,
And firmness overturn it quite.
I'm not the man to act your farce on,
And so your humble servant, Parson."

Unhappy is that city's lot
When she between two fires has got.
The smoaky tempest hides the land
Distruction lies on either hand:
This was Kit Stephens' case, in fact;
Prudence was needful for each act.
The nephew storms, and makes a gap;
The priest approaches him by sap;
But he, by firmness, could oblige
One enemy to raise the siege.

Not many days past in rotation
Before this curious conversation
The nephew fully understood:
It mov'd his ire, it chill'd his blood.
More hard he could not be beset,
If he a surly ghost had met.
He sought his uncle full of fears,
Dissolv'd in penitential tears.
Pure gratitude had fill'd his breast;
"Without a pardon could not rest:
Told him his wish should be his choice,
He never more would follow vice."
Drawn by the silken cords of love,
From virtue's paths he did not rove;
But shunn'd the selfish priest with dread,
Who tried to feed upon his bread.
Accus'd the brotherhood of blame;
Thought ev'ry priest would do the same:
And when a man in black he met,
Look'd sour, and never touch'd his hat.

The milkman

In all concerns a man shall share
He'd better act upon the square;
For then he'll most advantage find;
It shews an open, upright mind.
He'll rise to riches, fame, and worth;
Be courted though he boasts no birth;
While the sly rogue in want may roam,
Who robs another of his own.
For he who rakes in filth for gain
Will at no certain point refrain.
His ill-got property shall end;
The world detest him as a fiend.

What though he's lovely fruit to shew,
Which he hangs out to tempt the view,
And in the road a trap shall lay
To catch th' unwary in his way;
Perhaps his superficial gin
By chance may let the owner in.

While selfish men shall money draw
From the uncertainty of law;
While learned counsel truth despise,
Treat every subject with disguise,
And when he wins rejoices long,
Whether the cause be right or wrong;
While the pursuit of law is worse
Than if a man puts up with loss;
While he, who's right, is often found
To win, yet lose a hundred pound;
Something's amiss, most plain the fact is,
Either in law, or else the practice.

A barber led a single life,
'Till tir'd, and then he took a wife;
"But chose to swerve from gen'ral rules,
And thought the bulk of men were fools,
Who labour hard with hand and head
That idle wives may be well fed.
That man appears a silly elf
Who gives what he can eat himself.
'Twas quite the thing, he thought, through life
To be supported by a wife.
For, as to wives, who would not fly them,
Except he gains some profit by them?
A gentleman if he was made;
Aye, that must be the nicest trade. "
But here again a man may fall,
Except he's tools to work withal.
Beauty's the finest tool on earth;
His wife claim'd this in right of birth."
Thus was the barber's fortune made;
He'd what he wanted--the best trade.

The milkman every morning came,
And with his ware supplied the dame;
For should he ever miss a day
"She'd surely be depriv'd of tea."
And where's the maid or matron who
Would so divine a treat forego?

The time of coming was well known;
He found her usually alone.
He made good measure--stopp'd a minute--
"Her tongue had something pleasing in it."
His pail, he on the table set it,
Apt, for five minutes, to forget it.
He press'd her hand--he glanc'd awhile
And she return'd it with a smile.
Her hand was soft--with love he burn'd;
He thought he felt the squeeze return'd;
But while, in rapture, view'd her face,
Was sure he saw the smiles increase.
Thus when on amorous billows tost,
No wonder then the man is lost.

Sometimes he thought, but only guess'd,
A tumult rose within her breast.
His eye could not distinguish well,
But thought his hand could better tell;
Yet he was fearful he'd no warrant,
To send it on that dangerous errand.

Prudence was absent, Love close press'd;
He clasp'd her round the slender waist,
And, like two harriers, in a tether,
Mov'd gently to'ards the wall together;
When she a dreadful yell begun,
"O help, o help, or I'm undone."

The husband, and a friend in store,
Burst from behind the cellar door,
Where through a chink, convenient made,
They knew whate'er was done or said.
Cursing and blasting he began,
Like any carrier, or his man.

What were the feelings of our lover
Is not quite easy to discover.
All his internal powers were chang'd
His very system was derang'd.
He could not be astonish'd more
If thunderbolt had burst the door;
Nor could he tell, we freely own,
If he was wood, or flesh, or stone.

The husband, terrible to see,
Turn'd out the wife, and turn'd the key;
Seiz'd a large poker in great haste;
The trembling milkman stood aghast.
The friend, less wrathful, stopp'd his arms;
Said "it was best to come to terms."
But can a naked person treat
With an opponent arm'd compleat?
Tell me, bright Venus, from above,
Are these the melting joys of Love?

A strict enquiry now was made,
What sum, in cash, the milkman had.
But when they'd search'd his pockets round,
His capital was scarce a pound.
The culprit must, for this was kept,
Make it two guineas ere he slept.
This was a favourable doom,
For sleep was fled three nights to come.

Besides this sum, the husband swore,
"By G--I'll have ten guineas more!"
Then, from a shabby pocket-book,
A dreadful stamp, price sixpence, took,
Which, like a catch-pole, took its stand,
The moment wanted was at hand;
And wrote upon it as he sat,
"Ten guineas, two months after date."
The captive now could not resist,
But sign'd it with a trembling fist.

Thus Frisseur his new trade began;
Was what he wish'd--the gentleman:
And found a charming specimen
How future profits would flow in;
Thought he'd his pinching irons sell,
For he could pinch without them well.

Far other thoughts the milkman seize,
But not a thought was found to please.
"What had he left to live upon?
The profits of his pail were gone.
If Love must play such pranks as these,
Within his bosom it shall freeze."
The dose prov'd, from the barber's dove,
A pill which carried off his Love.

'Twas for decisions such as this
I lost my property and bliss.
Could I have let both parties win,
Then safe most perfectly I'd been.

'Tis easier, in the money way,
To promise, than it is to pay.
He, too, who's been in pain awhile,
Or finds himself in durance vile,
To gain relief from cruel ill,
Will sign or promise what you will.
This was exact our hero s case;
Or milkman rather, if you please;
From whom all liberty was taken,
Except the art of promise-making.

Full many a night he slept in bed,
And yet the money was unpaid;
For, when fair freedom came in sight,
He view'd things in a diff'rent light.
"He ought, he said, to be reliev'd
From paying, when he ne'er receiv'd."
But to the barber, gent. I mean,
The matter as before was seen.
"For if at first it was a debt,
The very same it must be yet,
And a just debt it will be thought,
Or else, how came I by this note?"

Patience will tire, when offer'd wrong;
Nor should a gentleman wait long.
"He would not these delays support;"
But sued the milkman in the court.

Now, in the flimzy stile of state,
And solemn form, the court is sat.
The lawyers powder'd, trimm'd, and fee'd,
Muster up all their powers to plead;
For fifty minutes words dispense,
When five would compass all the sense;
Will put the enemy to rout,
But trying, go a mile about;
To win the bench is their chief aim,
For then they're sure to win the game.
The bench, nail'd by long-winded sinners,
Fear only lest they lose their dinners.

By con and pro, and pro and con,
Our cause but heavily goes on.
But who can wonder matters stay,
When there's a lawyer in the way?

The fluent pleadings being o'er,
And they the cause left as before;
For howsoever words were priz'd,
Fair truth was rather more disguis'd.

The court remark'd--"'Tis now our turn.
At all false colouring we spurn;
To strip the veil must be our care,
And try to see things as they are.
No prejudice must we pursue,
But give to every man his due.

If to the note it shall appear
The plaintiff has a title clear,
We'll never wrong him of a doit;
The money must go with the right;
But should the bold demand be found
To rest upon no solid ground,
We'll quash the action without fear,
And the defendant fully clear.

If this defendant form'd a plan
To trespass on another man;
The fence of virtue trampled down,
And pluck'd the fruit that's not his own;
Then our decision we declare,
Value receiv'd the note must bear.
For every shilling should lie on,
A suit to stifle of crim. con.
And in that case we plainly see
The culprit will a gainer be;
But if collusion shall appear
Between an artful husband here,
And a deceiptful wife, to fleece
The man who ne'er design'd amiss,
To bait a trap with female smiles
To catch the innocent in wiles;
Dismission we shall ratify,
And the security destroy.

Though freedom taken with the bride
In honour can't be justified;
No prudent thought his love retarded,
'Twas human nature quite unguarded.
Yet if strict justice draws the line,
It merits a reproof--not fine.

Value received--the note expresses;
Does that consist in her caresses?
If not, the bargain has a flaw,
No profit could the milkman draw.
If one faint clasp about the waist
Is worth ten guineas, snatch'd in haste,
Then full possession of the prize
Must to ten thousand guineas rise.
How happy is the plaintiff's lot,
Which so immense a treasure's got!
He'd rather she remain'd alone,
In any arms before his own.

Four things upon the trial shews
The evil from the plaintiff rose;
Shews his aversion to what's right,
And sets him in the blackest light.
Himself, with evidence in store,
Well stow'd behind the cellar door;
And this about the hour of nine
Has all th' appearance of design.

The wife cry'd out, as if for fear,
Although 'twas plain no force was there;
This for a signal was design'd,
A shatter'd character to bind.
In seeming wrath he turn'd her out;
To save appearances, no doubt.
And to complete a scheme, deep laid,
She to a female neighbour said,
'I'll pay a visit to the silkman,
We've had success, and nabb'd the milkman.'

Poems; chiefly tales

Contents

Preface