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[All that precedes the article dated from White's chocolate-house, in this paper, was re-printed verbatim at the beginnings of No 2, and 3. The first four numbers of the Tatler were given gratis.]


I ORIGINAL PAPER IN FOLIO. • A vindication of Isaac Bickerstaff, esq. against what is objected to him by Mr. Partridge in his Almanack for the present year 1709. By the said Isaac Bickerstaff, esq. London, printed in the year 1709.

N° 2. THURSDAY, APRIL 14, 1709,

Quicquid agunt homines

nostri est farrago libelli.

JUV. Sat. i. 85, 86.
Whatever good is done, whatever ill-
By human kind, shall this collection fill.

Will's Coffee-house, April 13. THERE has lain all this evening on the table the following poem. The subject of it being matter very

dered, and made more public. The turn the poet gives it is very happy; but the foundation is from a

ler, to point out the respective writers, we have affixed the name of Steele (the ostensible author) to those papers re. specting the writers of which there remains any doubt. -Internal evidence, and inquiry, have, however, enabled us to ascertain the names in many instances. See the preface to the fourth volume, and N° 271,


real accident which happened among my acquaintance. A young gentleman of a great estate fell desperately in love with a great beauty of very high quality, but as ill-natured as long flattery and an habitual self-will could make her. However, my young spark ventures upon her, like a man of quality, without being acquainted with her, or having ever saluted her, until it was a crinie to kiss any woman else. Beauty is a thing which palls with possession, and the charms of thís lady soon wanted the support of good-humour and complacency of manners. Upon this, my spark flies to the bottle for relief from satiety. She disdains him for being tired with that for which all men envied him; and he never came home, but it was_Was there no sot that would stay longer? Would any man living but you? Did I leave all the world for this usage:' to which he-'Madam, split me, you are very impertinent! In a word, this match was wedlock in its most terrible appearances. She,' at last weary of railing to no purpose, applies to a good uncle, who gives her a bottle he pretended he had bought of Mr. Partridge the conjurer. "This,' said he, • I gave ten guineas for. The virtue of the enchanted liquor (said he that sold it) is such, that if the woman you marry proves a scold, (which, it seems, my dear niece, is your misfortune, as it was your good mother's before you) let her hold three spoonfuls in her mouth for a full half hour after you come home-” But I find I am not in humour for tell'ing a tale; and nothing in nature is so ungraceful as story-telling against the grain; therefore take it as the author' has given it you.

1 Mr. William Harrison. See Nichols's Select Collection of Poems, 1781, vol. vii,

Miss Molly, a fam'd toast, was fair and young,
Had wealth and charms—but then she had a tongue !
From morn to night th' eternal larum run,
Which often lost those hearts her eyes had won.

Sir John was smitten, and confess'd his flame,
Sigh'd out the usual time, then wed the dame;
Possess'd, he thought, of ev'ry joy of life;
But his dear Molly prov'd a very wife.
Excess of fondness did in time decline,
Madam lov'd money, and the knight lov'd wine.
From whence some petty discord would arise,
As, 'You're a fool!!-and, 'You are mighty wise !"

Though he and all the world allow'd her wit,
Her voice was shrill, and rather loud than sweet;
When she began-for hat and sword he'd call,
Then after a faint kiss,-cry, ‘B'ye, dear Moll:
Supper and friends expect me at the Rose.'
• And, what Sir John, you'll get your usual dose!
Go, stink of smoke, and guzzle nasty wine;
Sure, never virtuous love was us'd like mine !"

Oft as the watchful bell-man march'd his round,
At a fresh bottle gay Sir John he found.
By four the knight would get his business done,
And only then reel'd off--because alone;
Full well he knew the dreadful storm to come,
But, arm'd with Bourdeaux, he durst venture home.

My lady with her tongue was still prepard,
She rattled loud, and he impatient heard :
« 'Tis a fine hour! In a sweet pickle made !
And this, Sir John, is every day the trade.
Here I sit moping all the live-long night,
Devonr'd with spleen, and stranger to delight;
Till morn sends staggering home a drunken beast,
Resolv'd to break my heart, as well as rest.'

"Hey! hoop! d'ye hear, my damn'd obstrep'rous spouse, What, can't you find one bed about the house?

Will that perpetual clack lie never still?
That rival to the softness of a mill!
Some couch and distant room must be my choice,
Where I may sleep uncurs'd with wife and noise.'

Long this uncomfortable life they led,
With snarling meals, and each a sep'rate bed.
To an old uncle oft she would complain,
Beg his advice, and scarce from tears refrain.
Old Wisewood smok'd the matter as it was,
• Cheer up,' cry'd he! and I'll remove the cause.

A wondrous spring within my garden flows,
Of sovereign virtue, chiefly to compose
Domestic jars, and matrimonial strife,
The best elixir t'appease man and wife;
Strange are th’ effects, the qualities divine,
'Tis water call'd, but worth its weight in wine.
If in his sullen airs Sir John should come,
Three spoonfuls take, hold in your mouth-then mum.
Smile, and look pleas'd, when he shall rage and scold,
Still in your mouth the healing cordial hold:
One month this sympathetic med'cine try'd,
He'll grow a lorer, you a happy bride.
But, dearest niece, keep this grand secret close,
Or every prattling hussy 'll beg a dose.'

A water-bottle's brought for her relief;
Not Nants cou'd sooner ease the lady's grief:
Her busy thoughts are on the trial bent,
And, female like, impatient for th' event!

The bonny knight reels home exceeding clear,
Prepard for clamour and domestic war:
Entering, he cries,—Hey! where's our thunder fled!
No hurricane! Betty, 's your lady dead?
Madam, aside, an ample mouthful takes,
Court'sies, looks kind, but not a word she speaks:
Wond'ring, he star'd, scarcely his eyes believ'd,
But found his ears agreeably deceiv'd.
• Why, how now, Molly, what's the crotchet now ?! .
She smiles, and answers only with a bow,

Then clasping her about— Why, let me die !
These night-clothes, Moll, become thee mightily!"
With that he sigh’d, her hand began to press,
And Betty calls, her lady to undress. ·

Nay, kiss me, Molly,-for I'm much inclin'd :'
Her lace she cuts, to take him in the mind.
Thus the fond pair to bed enamour'd went,
The lady pleas'd, and the good knight content.

For many days these fond endearments past,
The reconciling bottle fails at last;
'Twas us'd and gone-then midnight storms arose,
And looks and words the union discompose.
Her coach is order'd, and post-haste she fies,
To beg her uncle for some fresh supplies,
Transported does the strange effects relate,
Her knight's conversion, and her happy state !

• Why, niece,' says he,' I pry'thee apprehend,
The water's water-be thyself thy friend;
Such beauty would the coldest husband warm,
But your provoking tongue undoes the charm:
Be silent and complying. You'll soon find,
Sir John without a med'cine will be kind.'

St. James's Coffee-house, April 13. LETTERS from Venice say, the disappointment of their expectation to see his Danish majesty has very much disquieted the court of Rome. Our last advices from Germany inform us, that the minister of Hanover has urged the council at Ratisbonne to exert themselves in behalf of the common cause, and taken the liberty to say, that the dignity, the virtue, the prudence of his electoral highness, his master, were called to the head of their affairs in vain, if they thought fit to leave him naked of the proper means to make those excellencies useful for the honour and safety of the empire. They write from Berlin of the thirteenth, 0. S. that the true design of general

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