A fcratching Match we'll have together;
Look to thy felf, I'll claw thy Leather.
If I fubmit, 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.
Obferve thofe Talons, and away,
And Friday next fhall be the Day.
A mod'rate Beauty will inflame,
'Till we have feen a brighter Dame.
Rivers, with Wonders, we furvey,
'Till we behold the boundlefs Sea,
So ev'ry little trifling Care
Appears a Load we cannot bear.
But if fome horrid Tortures feize us,
What late we dreaded now would eafe us.

The wretched Farmer homeward goes,
And dreads his future endlefs 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 Breaft.
Hufband and Wife, fometimes relate
Their Cares and Bus'nefs, tho' they hate.
Nor always Nature's Call deny,

And tho' both loath, yet both comply.
Her wheedling Tongue foon found the Means
To make the Wretch difclofe his Pains.

He tells the Combat, and the Laws,

And magnifies his monft'rous Paws,

Pifa! Is this all that plagues your Mind?

An eafy Remedy I'll find.

You to your Wife's Advice fubmit,
And we'll the Devil himself out-wit.

and leave your Moans,

Come, turn about,-
Thefe Hufbands are fuch very Drones.
He figh'd, obey'd, and did his beft;
His Task perform'd, he went to Reft.

Our

5

Cur happy Hours are quickly paft,
And Time to Mifery makes Hafte.
Soon Friday comes, a difmal Day!
When fuch a Gueft would Vifits pay.
The Farmer dreads the approaching Scuffle;
(The Thoughts of Hell, the boldeft Ruffle)..
But ftill his Wife keeps up her Spirits;
She knew her Safe-guard, and its Merits:
She bids him hide, what'er fhould fall on't,
While fhe receiv'd the dreadful Gallant."
He foon obeys th' advent'rous Dame;
The Hufband gone, the Devil came.

Who knocks, impetuous, at the Gate,
And angry grows, that he should wait.
Again, for Entrance, loud he cries,
But Screams and Groans are the Replies.
Love and the Devil who can bind P
They ftronger grow, the more confin'd :
If they can 'fpy the fmelleft 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 fpread on the Ground:
High as the Wafte expos'd and bare,
And with her Shrieks the pierc'd the Air.
Why, how now, Woman? Whence this Pallion

This Pofture, and fuch Exclamation?

Ah! pity, Sir, my wretched Cafe,
And quickly fly this horrid Place,
You, by your grim Majeftick Air,
Your Feet, your Claws, your Horns declare;
You with my Husband come to scratch;
But thou, ah! thou, th' unequal Match!
The cruel Monster ready ftands,
But hope not to escape 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 Prowefs fhew

This

This Chafm he made with's little Finger;
Behold, Sir, is it not a Swinger.
With that he threw her Legs afide,
And fhew'd a Hole furprifing 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 fuch Extent, and fo profcund!
If that Nail fuch a Wound could tear,
What can the Force of ten Claws bear!
And by the Stench, to fhew his Spight,
With poifon'd Weapons he would fight.
My Talons are not half fo long,
Nor is my Sulphur half so strong,
No, I'll fubmit, fince my Lot's Hell,
At least I'll in a whole Skin dwell.
The Land is his, but be he bound,
Since he has made, to fill that Wound.
With that he vanish'd from her Eyes,
And fulph'rous Stench and Fumes arife.
The Farmer häftens to the Place,
His great Delivrer to embrace.
Well haft thou freed my tim'rous Soul
But what did e'er thy Pow'r controul ?
The fierceft 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.

**************

The WHET.

WINE, 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.

'Tis

'Tis the Sun ripes the Grape,

And to Drinking gives Light;

We imitate him,

When by Noon we are at Height; They fteal Wine, who take it

When he's out of Sight. Boy, fill all the Glaffes,

Fill them up now he fhines,

The higher he rifes,

The more he refines;

For Wine and Wit fall

As their Maker declines.

W

SONG.
I.

HO their Paffions do fondly conceal,
They are Fools for their Pains;

'Tis a Confidence gains

What a modeft Intrigue never wins.

Court briskly but once, and you'll prefently find,
There's nothing than Woman, than Woman, fo kind..
II.

Then gently, good Madam, comply,

And feem not to fay,

That you rather would ftay;

If you do, I fhall tell you, you lie ;

[him to't,

For you know, had not Eve with her Charms brought

The old Man had ne'er tafted, ne'er tasted the Fruit.

On Sternhold and Hopkins, and the new Version
of David's Pfalms.

E fcoundrel old Bards, and a Brace of dull Knaves,

Y What, a plague, makes ye mutter, and talk in your

[Graves?

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

Or

5

Or the Worms had by this Time, if they had any Con-
[fcience,

Stopp'd the Tongues of thofe Fools who made David fpeak
[Nonfenfe.
Te write, and be damn'd t' ye! Ye traffick in Metre!
Why, a Baudy-house Tongue has a Voice that is fweeter:
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 Pfalms of your ma-
[king.
Shame on ye, ye Coxcombs, away with this Riot,
And rot on, like the reft, who lie by ye in Quiet;
Nor dare to prefume to petition and fquabble,
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 Tranflations fo damnably fhame

[him
Poor Pfalmift! he frets, and he ftorms, and he ftares,
Bemoans his Compofures, and renounces his Pray'rs;
Blushes more at the Drefs which his Penitence hath on,
Than when told of his Faults by the Prophet old Nathan.
So chang'd are his Lines, and fo murder'd each Sentence,
So debauch'd his God's Praife, and fo 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 affure ye,
It is well that this Warrior lies bury'd in JURY;
Had he laid near the Place which at present contains
Of the two forry 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 fhould dwell on the Subject too long,
And the Dulnefs I laugh at be feen in my Song,
Left the Muse ihould turn Jade, and, by Sympathy led,
Take Part of the Scandal fh'has flung on the Dead,
I'll no more of your Canting, and Whining, and Chim-

[ing,

Your Elizabeth Phrafe, and your Farthing al-Rhiming,

Brought