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A scratching Match we'll have together;
Look to thy self, I'll claw thy Leacher.
If I submit, the Land is thine;
If I o'ercome, thy Soul is mine.
Think for your Quiet, I conjure ye;
Should you to Hell, you leave a Fury.
Observe those Talons, and away,
And Friday next shall be the Day.
A mod’rate Beauty will infame,
Till we have seen a brighter Dame.
Rivers, with Wonders, we furvey,
Till we behold the boundlefs Sean
So ev'ry little triping Care
Appears a Load we cannot bear.
But if some horrid Tortures seize us,
What late we dreaded now would ease lis.
The wretched Farmer homeward goes,
And dreads his future endless Woes.-
His Cares, his Dunsz, his Wants, his wife,
And all the Banes of happy Life,
Would now afford him vaft Concent,
Could he the unequal Match prevent.
His prying Turtle quickly guest
Some Care uncommon fill'd his Breaft
Husband and Wife, sometimes relate
Their Cares and Bus’njefs, tho' they hatea
Nor always Nature's Call deny,
And tho both loath, yet both comply.
Her wheedling Tongue foon found the Means
To make the Wretch disclose his Pains,
He tells the Combat, and the Laws,
And magnifies his monstrous Paws,
Pish! Is this all that plagues your Mind?
An easy Remedy I'll find.
You to your Wife's Advice submit,
And we'll the Devil himself out-wit.
Come, turn about, and leave your Moans,
These Husbands are such very Drones.
He figh’d, obey'd, and did his left i
His Talk perform'd, he went to Reft.
Cur happy Hours are quickly past, And Time to Misery makes Hafte. Saon Friday comes, a dismal Day! When such a Guest would. Vifits
The Farmer dreads the approaching Scuffle; 7
(The Thoughts of Hell, the boldelt Rifhe) "1"
But still his Wife keeps up lier Spirits;
She knew her Safe-guard, and its Merits :
She bicts him hide, what'er should fall on't,
While she receiv'd the dreadful Gallant.
He soon obeys ch’advenc'rous Dame;
The Husband gone, the Devil came.
Who knocks, impetuous, at the Gate,
And angry grows, that lie should wait.
Again, for Entrance, loud he cries,
Buc Screams and Groans are the Replies.
Love and the Devil who can bind ?
They stronger grow, the more confin'd :
If they can 'fpy the smallest Hole,
One takes the Heart, and one the Soul.
So Satan, vex'd at the Delay,
Whipp'd thro' the Key-hole to his Prey;.
But, to his great Amazement; found
Th’indecent Wife spread on the Ground:
High as the Waste expos’d and bare,
And with her Shrieks the pierc'd the Air.
Why, how now, Woman? Whence this Palion
This Posture, and fuch Exclamation ?
Ah! piry, sir, my wretched Cafe,
And quickly fly this horrid Place,
You, by your grim Majestick Air,
Your Feet, your Claws, your Horns declare;
You with my Husband come to scratch;
But thou, ah! thou, th'unequal Match!
The cruel Monfter ready stands,
But hope not to escape his Hands:
His Nails are Scythes, upou my Life,
And for his Horns, Sir,
I'm his Wife.
This Morn, to try what he could do,
On me hę would his Prowess thew : .
This Chasm he made with's little Finger;
Behold, Sir, is it not a Swinger.
With that the threw her Legs aside,
And thew'd a Hole surprising wide.
Zounds, quoth the Devil, (quite amazid,
When on the deadly Gulph he gaz’d); .
What do I fee! what makes that Wound
Of such Extent, and so profound!
If that Nail such a Wound could tear,
What can the Force of ren Claws bear!
And by the Stench, to fliew his Spighty
With poison'd Weapons he would fight.
My Talons are not half so long,
Nor is my Sulphur half so strong,
No, I'll submit, fince my Lot's Hell,
At least I'll in a whole Skin dwell.
The Land is his, but be tre bound,
Since he has made, to fill that Wound.
With that he vanithd from her Eyes,
And sulph'rous-Stènch and Fuines arise.
The Farmer häftens to the Place,
His great Deliv'rer to embrace.
Well haft thou freed my tim'rous Soul ;
But what did e'er thy. Pow'r controul ?
The tiercest Rage it foon difarms,
Tho? Hell it frights, yet Men it charms.
But be it on thy Tomb engrav'd,
-Tis the first Soul a Wife e'er fav'd.
That like Eagles we foar
In the Pride of the Day. Gouty Sots of the Night
Only find a Decay.
'Tis the Sun ripes the Grape,
And to Drinking gives Light ; We imitare him,
When by Noon we are at Height; They steal Wine, who take it
When he's out of sight. Boy, fill all the Glasses,
Fill them up now he shines, The higher he rises,
The more he refines; For Wine and Wit fall
As their Maker declines. SUN seosesoressoressores
HO their Paffions do fondly conceal,
W They are Fools for their pains;
'Tis a Confidence gains
Whát a modest Intrigue never wins.
Court briskly but once, and you'll prefently find,
There's nothing than Woman, than Woman, fo kind.
Then gently, good Madam, comply,
And seem not to fay,
That you rather would stay;
If you do, I shall tell you, you lie ;
(him to't, For you know, had not Eve with her Charms brought The old Man had ne'er cafted, ne'er tasted the Fruit.
On Sternhold and Hopkins, and the new Version
of David's Psalms.
E scoundrel old Bards, and a Brace of dull Knaves,
Whaf, a plague, makes ye mutter, and talk in your
ye drank in your Porridge, like a couple of Sots, And have mix'd the Spoor-Meat with che Belch of the Pots;
Or the Worms had by this Time, if they had any Con
[fcience, Stopp'd the Tongties of those Fools who made David speak
[Nonfenfe. Te write, and be damn'de ye! Ye traffick in Metre ! Why, a Baudy-house Tongue has a Voice that is sweéter : A White-Fryer Sinner, or a Saint in Duck Lane, A Crowder’s-Well Sonnet, or a Pye-Corner Strain, Has Raptures and Flights, full of Judgment and Taking, When compar'd to the Things ye call Psalms of your ma
[king. Shame on ye, ye Coxcombs, away with this Riot, And rot on, like the rest, who lie by ye in Quiet; Nor dare to prefume to petition and squabble, When there's none takes your Part but the ignorant
[Rabble. As for David, for God's sake, how dare you to name him, When your wretched Translations fo damnably shame
[him? Poor Psalmist! he frets, and he storms, and he stares, Bemoans his Composures, and renounces his Pray’rs ; Blushes more at the Dress which bris Penitence hath on, Than when told of his Faults by the Prophet old Nathan, So chang'd are his Lines, and so murder'd each Sentence, So debauch'd his God's Praise, and so lame his Repentance, That to know the good King by the Words ye create him, Is a Thing much more hard, than it is to translate him.. Let me tell you, grave Dons, I'll be bold to assure ye, It is well thacthis Warrior lies bury'd in JURY ; Had he laid near the Place which at present contains of the two sorry Sinners the stupid Remains, 'Tis a Pound to a Penny, bứt his Ashes would fly on, And handle your Skulls like the Bear and the Lion.
But for fear I should dwell on the Subject too long, And the Dulness I laugh at be seen in my Song, Left the Mufe ihould turn Jade, and, by Sympathy led, Take Part of the Scandal Ali'has ftung on the Dead, I'll no more of your Canting, and Whining, and China
[ing, Your Elizabeth Phrase, and your Farthing al-Rhiming,