So, you know, what could I say to her any more?
I e'en left her, and came away as wise as I was be-

fore. Well ; but then they would have had me gone to the

cunning man ! No, said I, 'tis the same thing, the chaplain will be

here anon. So the chaplain * came in. Now, the servants say

he is my sweetheart, Because he 's always in my chamber, and I always

take his part. So, as the devil would have it, before I was aware,

out I blunder'd, Parson, said I, can you cast a nativity, when a body's

plunder'd? (Now, you must know, he hates to be call'd

parson like the devil !) Truly, says he, Mrs. Nab, it might become you to

be more civil; If your money be gone, as a learned dwine says,

d'

ye see; You are no text for my handling ; so take that from

me:

I was never taken for a conjurer before, I'd have

you to know.

Lord! said I, don't be angry, I am sure I never

thought you so; You know I honour the cloth; I design to be a

parson's wife; I never took one in your coat for a conjurer, in all

my life,

Dr. Swift

With that he twisted his girdle at me like a rope, as

who should say, Now you may go hang yourself for me! and so went

away. Well: I thought I should have swoon'd. Lord!

said I, what shall I do? I have lost my money, and shall lose my true love

too!
lord call’d me : Harry *, said my lord,

Then my

don't cry;

I'll give you something towards thy loss; and,

says my lady, so will I. Oh! but, said I, what if, after all, the chaplain

won't come to ? For that, he said, (an't please your excellencies,) I

must petition you. The premisses tenderly consider'd, I desire your

ercellencies protection, And that I may have a share in next Sunday's col

·lection; And over and above, that I may have your excellen

cies letter, With an order for the chaplain aforesaid, or, instead

of him, a better : And then your poor petitioner, both night and day, Or the chaplain (for 'tis his trade), as in duty bound,

shall ever pray.

* A cant word of Lord and Lady B. to Mrs. Harris.

TO THE EARL OF PETERBOROW,

WHO COMMANDED THE BRITISH FORCES IN SPAIN.

MORDANTO fills the trump of fame,
The Christian worlds his deeds proclaim,
And prints are crowded with his name.

In journies he outrides the post,
Sits up till midnight with his host,
Talks politics, and gives the toast;

Knows every prince in Europe's face,
Flies like a squib from place to place,
And travels not, but runs a race.

From Paris gazette à-la-main,
This day arriv'd, without his train,
Mordanto in a week from Spain.

A messenger comes all a-reek,
Mordanto at Madrid to seek ;
He left the town above a week,

Next day the post-boy winds his horn,
And rides through Dover in the morn:
Mordanto 's landed from Leghorn.

Mordanto gallops on alone;
The roads are with his followers strown;
This breaks a girth and that a bone.

VOL, V.

LL

His body active as his mind, Returning sound in limb and wind, Except some leather lost behind.

A skeleton in outward figure, His meagre corpse, though full of vigour, Would halt behind him, were it bigger.

So wonderful his expedition,
When you have not the least suspicion,
He 's with you like an apparition :

Shines in all climates like a star ; In senates bold, and fierce in war ; A land commander, and a tar :

Heroic actions early bred in, Ne'er to be match'd in modern reading, But by his name-sake, Charles of Sweden.

THE PROGRESS OF POETRY.

i

The farmer's goose, who in the stubble
Has fed without restraint or trouble,
Grown fat with corn, and sitting still,
Can scarce get o'er the barn-door sill
And hardly waddles forth to cool
Her belly in the neighbouring pool;
Nor loudly cackles at the door;
For cackling shows the goose is poor.

But, when she must be turn'd to graze,
And round the barren common strays,
Hard exercise and harder fare
Soon make my dame grow lank and spare :
Her body light, she tries her wings,
And scorns the ground, and upward springs;
While all the parish, as she flies,
Hear sounds harmonious from the skies.

Such is the poet fresh in pay
(The third night's profits of his play);
His morning-draughts till noon can swill
Among his brethren of the quill :
With good roast beef his belly full,
Grown lazy, foggy, fat, and dull,
Deep sunk in plenty and delight,
What poet e'er could take his flight ?
Or, stuff 'd with phlegm up to the throat,
What poet e'er could sing a note ?
Nor Pegasus could bear the load
Along the high celestial road;
The steed, oppress’d, would break his girth,
To raise the lumber from the Earth.

But view him in another scene,
When all his drink is Hippocrene,
His money spent, his patrons fail,
His credit out for cheese and ale;
His two-years' coat so smooth and bare,
Through every thread it lets in air ;
With hungry meals his body pin'd,
His guts and belly full of wind;
And, like a jockey for a race,
His flesh brought dowr to flying case: