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A scratching Match we'll have together;
Look to thy self, I'll claw thy Leather.
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 feen a brighter Dame.
Rivers, with Wonders, we furvey,
'Till we behold the boundlefs Sea,
So ev'ry little triping Care
Appears a Load we cannot bear.
But if some horrid Tortures seize uis,
What late we dreaded now would ease lis.

The wretched Farmer homeward goes,
And dreads his future endless Woes. -
His Cares, his Duns, his Wants, his wife,
And all the Banes of happy Life,
Would now afford him vast Content,
Could he the unequal Match prevent.
His prying Turtle quickly guest
Some Care uncommon fill'd his Breast.
Husband and Wife, sometimes relate
Their Cares and Bus'nefs, 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 monft'rous Paws,

Pish! Is this all that plagues your Mind?
An eafy Remedy I'll find.
You to your Wife's Advice sulmit,
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;
His Task perform'd, he went to Reft.


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Cur happy Hours are quickly past, And Time to Misery make's. Haste. Soon Friday comes, a dismal Day! When such a Guest would Visits

The Farmer dreads the approaching Scuffle;u!?.
(The Thoughts of Hell, the boldest Ruffie) n.311
But still his wife keeps up her Spirits;
She knew her Safe-guard; and its Merits :
She bids him hide, what'er should fall on't,
While the receiv'd the dreadful Gallant.
He soon obeys cl’advenc'rous Dame;
Tlie Husband gone, the Devil came.

Who knocks, impetuious, at the Gate,
And angry grows, that he 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 'Spy the fmallest 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 Amazementy found
Th’indecent Wife spread on the Ground:
High as the Waste expos'd and bare,
And with her shrieks Mlie pierc'd the Air.

Why, how now, Woman? Whence this Palion
This Posture, and such Exclamation ?

Ah! piry, sir, my wretched Case,
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 ra escap: his Hands:
His Nails are Scythes, upon my Life,
And for his Horns, Sir, I'm his Wife.
This Morn, to try what he could do,
On me he would his Prowess Mew :


This Chafm 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 furprising wide.

Zounds, quoth the Devil, (quite amaz'd,
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 sew 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 vanishid from her Eyes,
And sulph'rous Stènch and Fumes arise.

The Farmer häftens to the Place,
His great Delivrer to embrace.
Well haft clou 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 à Wife e'er favid.

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INE, Wine in the Morning

Makes us frolick and gay, That like Eagles we foar

In the Pride of the Day. · Gouty Sots of the Night

Only find a Decay.


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'Tis the Sun ripes the Grape,

And co Drinking gives Light ; We imitare him,

When by Nooit 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, COUNCISCseresse sessoreness


HO their Passions do fondly conceal,
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 say,

That you rather would stay;
If you do, I shall tell you, you lie ;

Chim to't,
For you know, liad 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,

Y ,

[Graves ? Sure ye drank in your Porridge, like a couple of Sots, And have mix'd the Spoon-Meat with che Belch of the Pots;


Os the Worms had by this Time, if they had any Con

[fcience, Stopp'd the Tongues of those Fools who made David speak

(Nonfenfe. Te write, and be damn’d t'ye! Ye traffick in Metre ! Why, a Baudy-house Tongue has a Voice that is sweeter : 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 ror 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 fake, 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 his 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, chan it is to translate him. Let me tell you, grave Dons, I'll be told to assure ye, It is well thac chis 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, but his afhes 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 Muse ihould turn Jade, and, by Sympathy led, Take Part of the Scandal fh'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,


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