"Hostess," quoth he, " before I go,
I thank you for your hearty fare;
Would it were in my pow'r to pay
My gratitude a better way;
But money now runs very low,

And I have not a doit to spare; But if you'll take this piece of stuff-" "No," quoth the dame," I'm poor as you, Your kindest wishes are enough,

You're welcome, friend, farewel-Adieu." "But first," repiy'd the wand'ring guest, "For bed and board and homely dish, May all things turn out for the best,

So take my blessing and my wish: May what you first begin to do, Create such profit aud delight, That you may do it all day through, Nor finish till the depth of night."

"Thank you," she said, and shut the door,
Turn'd to her work; and thought no more.
And now the napkin, which was spread
To treat her guest with good brown bread,
She folded up with nicest care;
When lo! another napkin there!
And every folding did beget
Another and another yet.

She folds a shift-by strange increase,
The remnant swells into a piece.
Her caps, her laces, all the same,
Till such a quantity of linen,
From such a very small beginning,
Flow'd in at once upon the dame,
Who wonder'd how the deuce it came,
That with the drap'ry she had got
Within her little sbby cot,
She might for all the town provide,
And break both York-street and Cheapside.

It happen'd that th' attorney's wife,

Who, to be sure, took much upon her,
As being one in higher life,

Who did the parish mighty honour,
Sent for the dame, who, poor and willing,
Would take a job of charing work,
And sweat and toil like any Turk,
To earn a sixpence or a shilling. f

She could not come, uot she indeed!
She thank'd her much, but had no need.

Good news will fly as well as bad,

So out this wond'rous story came,
About the pediar and the damne,
Which made th' attorney's wife so mad,
That she resolv'd at any rate,
Spite of her pride and lady airs,
To get the pedlar tête-à-tête,
And make up all the past affairs:

And though she wish'd him at the devil,
When he came there the night before,
Determin❜d to be monstrous civil,
And drop her curtsie at the doðr.

Now all was rack t, noise and pother,
Nell running one way, John another,
And Tom was on the coach-horse sent,
To learn which way the pediar went.
Thomas return'd;-the pedlar brought.
What could my dainty madam say,
For not behaving as she ought,
And driving honest folks away?

Upon my word, it shocks me much,
-But there's such thieving here of late-
Not that I dream'd that you were such,
When you came knocking at my gate.
I must confess myself to blame,

And I'm afraid you lately met
Sad treatment with that homely dame,
Who lives on what her hands can get.
Walk in with me at least to night,
And let us set all matters right.

I know my duty, and indeed
Would help a friend in time of need.
Take such refreshment as you find,
I'm sure I mean it for the best,

And give it with a willing mind
To such a grave and sober guest.

So in they came, and for his picking,
Behold the table covers spread,
Instead of Goody's cheese and bread,
With tarts, and fish, and flesh, and chicken.
And to appear in greater state,

The knives and forks with silver handles,
The candlesticks of bright (French) plate
To hold her best mould (tallow) candles,
Were all brought forth to be display'd,
In female housewifry parade.

And more the pedlar to regale,

And make the wond'rous man her friend, Decanters foam'd of mantling ale,

And port and claret without end;

They hobb'd and nobb'd, and smil'd and laugh'd,
Touch'd glasses, nam'd their toasts, and quaff'd;
Talk'd over every friend and foe,

Till eating, drinking, talking past,
The kind house-clock struck twelve at last,
When wishing madam bon repos,
The pedlar pleaded weary head,
Made his low bow, and went to bed.
Wishing him then at perfect ease,
A good soft bed, a good sound sleep:
Now gentle reader, if you please,
We'll at the lady take a peep:

She could not rest, but turn'd and toss'd,
While Fancy whisper'd in her brain,

That what her indiscretion lost,
Her art and cunning might regain.
Such linen to so poor a dame!
For such coarse fare! perplex'd her head;
Why might not she expect the same,
So courteous, civil, and well-bred?
And now she reckon'd up her store

Of cambrics, Hollands, muslins, lawns,
Free gifts, and purchases, and pawns,
Resolv'd to multiply them more,

Till she had got a stock of linen,
Fit for a dowager to sin in.
The morning came, when up she got,
Most ceremoniously inclin'd
To wind up her sagacious plot,

With all that civil stuff we find
'Mongst those who talk a wond'rous deal
Of what they neither mean uor feel.

"How shall 1, ma'm," reply'd the guest, "Make you a suitable return For your attention and concern, And such civilities exprest To one, who must be still in debt For all the kindness he has met?

For this your entertainment's sake,
If aught of good my wish can do,

May what you first shall undertake,
Last without ceasing all day through.'
Madam, who kindly understood
His wish effectually good,

Straight dropp'd a curtsie wond'rous low,
For much she wanted him to go,
That she might look up all her store,
And turn it into thousands more.
Now all the maids were sent to look
In every cranny, hole and nook,
For every rag which they could find
Of any size, or any kind,

Draw'rs, boxes, closets, chests and cases
Were all unlock'd at once to get
Her point, her gauze, her Prussia-net,
With fifty names of fifty kinds,
Which suit variety of minds.

How shall I now my tale pursue,
So passing strange, so passing truc?
When every bit from every hoard,
Was brought and laid upon the board,
Lest some more urgent obligation
Might interrupt her pleasing toil,

And marring half her application,
The promis'd hopes of profit spoil,
Before she folds a single rag,

Or takes a cap from board or bag, That nothing might her work prevent, (For she was now resolv'd to labour, With earnest hope and full intent

To get the better of her neighbour) Into the garden she would go

To do that necessary thing,
Which must by all be done, you know,
By rich and poor, and high and low,
By male and female, queen and king;
She little dream'd a common action,
Practis'd as duly as her pray'rs,
Should prove so tedious a transaction,
Or cost her such a sea of cares.
In short the streams so plenteous flow'd,
That in the dry and dusty weather,
She might have water'd all the road
For ten or twenty miles together.
What could she do? as it began,
Th' involuntary torrent ran.

Instead of folding cap or mob,
So dreadful was this distillation,
That from a simple watering job,
She fear'd a general inundation.

While for her indiscretion's crime,
And coveting too great a store,
She made a river at a time,
Which sure was never done before1.

A FAMILIAR LETTER OF RHYMES.
TO A LADY.

YES-I could rifle grove and bow'r
And strip the beds of every flow'r,

This story, which occurs in the conference between a papish priest and Villiers duke of Buckingham (see the works of the latter) has been versified by Mr. Merrick. Dodsley's Poems, vol.v. p. 230. C.

And deck them in their fairest hue, Merely to be out-blush'd by you. The lily, pale, by my direction, Should fight the rose for your complexion: Or I could make up sweetest posies, Fit fragrance for the ladies' noses, Which drooping, on your breast reclining, Should all be withering, dying, pining, Which every songster can display, I've more authorities than Gay; Nay, I could teach the globe its duty To pay all homage to your beauty, And wit's creative pow'r to show, The very fire should mix with snow; Your eyes, that brandish burning darts To scorch and singe our tinder hearts, Should be the lamps for lover's ruin, And light them to their own undoing; While all the snow about your breast Should leave them hopeless and distrest. For those who rarely soar above The art of coupling love and dove, In their conceits and amorous fictions, Are mighty fond of contradictions, Above, in air; in earth, beneath; And things that do, or do not breathe, All have their parts, and separate place, To paint the fair one's various grace.

Her cheek, her eye, her bosom show The rose, the lily, diamond, snow. Jet, milk, and amber, vales and mountains, Stars, rubies, suns, and mossy fountains, The poet gives them all a share

In the description of his fair.

She burns, she chills, she pierces hearts With locks, and bolts, and flames, and darts. And could we trust th' extravagancy

Of every poet's youthful fancy,

They'd make cach uymph they love so well,
As cold as snow, as hot as

-O gentle lady, spare your fright,
No horrid rhyme shall wound your sight.
I would not for the world be heard,
To utter such unseemly word,
Which the politer parson fears
To mention to politer ears.

But, could a female form be shown,
(The thought, perhaps, is not my own)
Where every circumstance should meet
To make the poet's nymph complete,
Form'd to his fancy's utmost pitch,
She'd be as ugly as a witch.

Come then, Q Muse, of trim conceit,
Muse, always fine, but never neat,
Who to the dull unsated ear

Of French or Tuscan sonneteer,
Tak'st up the same unvaried tone,
Like the Scotch bagpipe's favourite drone,
Squeezing out thoughts in ditties quaint,
To poet's mistress, whore, or saint;
Whether thou dwell'st on ev'ry grace,
Which lights the world from Laura's face,
Or amorous praise expatiates wide
On beauties which the nymph must hide;
For wit affected, loves to show
Her every charın from top to toe,
And wanton Fancy oft pursues
Minute description from the Muse,
Come and pourtray, with pencil fine,
The poet's mortal nymph divine.

Her golden locks of classic hair, Are nets to catch the wanton air; Her forehead ivory, and her eyes Each a bright sun to light the skies, Orb'd in whose centre, Cupid aims His darts, protect us! tipt with flames; While the sly god's unerring bow Is the half circle of her brow. Each lip a ruby, parting, shows The precious pearl in even rows, And all the Loves and Graces sleek Bathe in the dimples of her cheek.

Her breasts pure snow, or white as milk,
Are ivory apples, smooth as silk,
Or else, as Fancy trips on faster,
Fine marble hills of alabaster.

A figure made of wax would please
More than an aggregate of these,
Which though they are of precious worth,
And held in great esteem on Earth,
What are they, rightly understood,
Compar'd to real flesh and blood?

And I, who hate to act by rules
Of whining, rhyming, loving fools,
Can never twist my mind about
To find such strange resemblance out,
And simile that's only fit

To show my plenteous lack of wit.
Therefore, omitting flames and darts,

Wounds, sighs and tears, and bleeding hearts,
Obeying, what I here declare,

Makes half my happiness, the fair,
The favourite subject 1 pursue,

And write, as who would not, for you.
Perhaps my Muse, a common curse,
Errs in the manner of her verse,
Which, slouching in the doggrel lay,
Goes tittup all her easy way.
Yes-an acrostic had been better,

Where each good natured prattling letter,
Though it conceal the writer's aim,
Tells all the world his lady's name.

But all acrostics, it is said,
Show wond'rous pain of empty head,
Where wit is cramp'd in hard confines,
And Fancy dare not jump the lines.
I love a fanciful disorder,
And straggling out of rule and order;
Impute not then to vacant head,
Or what I've writ, or what I've said,
Which imputation can't be true,
Where head and heart's so full of you.

Like Tristram Shandy, I could write
From morn to noon, from noon to night,
Sometimes obscure, and sometimes leaning,
A little sideways to a meaning,
And unfatigu'd myself, pursue
The civil mode of teasing you.

For as your folks who love the dwelling
On circumstance in story telling,
And to give each relation grace,
Describe the time, the folks, the place,
And are religiously exact

To point out each unmeaning fact,
Repeat their wonders undesired,
Nor think one hearer can be tired;
So they who take a method worse,
And prose away, like me, in verse,
Worry their mistress, friends or betters,
With satire, sonnet, ode, or letters,

And think the knack of pleasing follows
Each jingling pupil of Apollo's.
-Yet let it be a venial crime
That I address you thus in rhyme.
Nor think that I am Phoebus'-bit
By the tarantula of wit,

But as the meanest critic knows
All females have a knack at prose,
And letters are the mode of writing
The ladies take the most delight in;
Bold is the man, whose saucy aim
Leads him to form a rival claim;
A double death the victim dies,
Wounded by wit as well as eyes.

-With mine disgrace a lady's prose,
And put a nettle next a rose?
Who would, so long as taste prevails,
Compare St. James's with Versailles?
The nightingale, as story goes,
Fam'd for the music of his woes,
In vain against the artist try'd,
But strain'd his tuneful throat-and died,
Perhaps I sought the rhyming way,
For reasons which have pow'rful sway.
The swain, no doubt, with pleasure sues
The nymph he's sure will not refuse.
And more compassion may be found
Amongst these goddesses of sound,
Than always happens to the share
Of the more cruel human fair;
Who love to fix their lover's pains,
Pleas'd with the rattling of their chains,
Rejoicing in their servant's grief,
As 't were a sin to give relief.
They twist each easy fool about,
Nor let them in, nor let them out,
But keep them twirling on the fire,
Of apprehension and desire,
As cock-chafers, with corking pin
The school-boy stabs, to make them spin.
For 't is a maxim in love's school,
To make a man of sense a fool;

I mean the man, who loves indeed,
And hopes and wishes to succeed;
But from his fear and apprehension,
Which always mars his best intention,
Can ne'er address with proper ease
The very person he would please.

Now poets, when these nymphs refuse,
Straight go a courting to the Muse.
But still some difference we find
'Twixt goddesses and human kind;
The Muses' favours are ideal,
The ladies' scarce, but always real.
The poet can, with little pain,
Create a mistress in his brain,
Heap each attraction, every grace
That should adorn the mind or face,
On Delia, Phyllis, with a score
Of Phyllisses and Delias more.
Or as the whim of passion burns,
Can court each frolic Muse by turns;
Nor shall one word of blame be said,
Altho' he take them all to bed.
The Muse detests coquetry's guilt,
Nor apes the manners of a jilt.

Jilt! O dishonest hateful name, Your sex's pride, your sex's shame, Which often bait their treacherous hook With smile endearing, winning look,

And wind them in the easy heart

Of man, with most ensnaring art,
Only to torture and betray

The wretch they mean to cast away.
No doubt 'tis charming pleasant angling
To see the poor fond creatures dangling,
Who rush like gudgeons to the bait,
And gorge the mischief they should hate.
Yet sure such cruelties deface
Your virtues of their fairest grace.
Aud pity, which in woman's breast,
Should swim at top of all the rest,
Mast such insidious sport condemn,
Which play to you, is death to them.
So have I often read or heard,
Though both upon a trav'ller's word,
(Authority may pass it down,
So, vide Travels, by Ed. Brown)
At Metz, a dreadful engine stands,
Form'd like a maid, with folded hands,
Which finely drest, with primmest grace,
Receives the culprit's first embrace;
But at the second (dismal wonder!)
Unfolds, clasps, cuts his heart asunder.
You'll say, perhaps, I love to rail,
We'll end the matter with a tale:

A Robin once, who lov'd to stray,
And hop about from spray to spray,
Familiar as the folks were kind,
Nor thought of mischief in his mind,
Slight favours make the bold presume,
Would flutter round the lady's room,
And careless often take his stand
Upon the lovely Flavia's hand.

The nymph, 'tis said, his freedom sought,
-In short, the trifling focl was caught;
And happy in the fair one's grace,
Would not accept an eagle's place.
And while the nymph was kind as fair,
Wish'd not to gain his native air,
But thought he bargain'd to his cost,
To gain the liberty he lost.

Till at the last, a fop was seen,
A parrot, dress'd in red and green,
Who could not boast one genuine note,
But chatter'd, swore and ly'd-by rote.
"Nonsense and noise will oft prevail,
When honour and affection fail."
The lady lik'd her foreign guest,
For novelty will please the best;
And whether it is lace or fan,
Or silk, or china, bird or man,

None sure can think it wrong, or strange,
That ladies should admire a change.
The parrot now came into play,
The Robin! he had had his day,

But could not brook the nymph's disdain,
So fled and ne'er came back again.

He'd tell you when 't would rain, and when
The weather would be fine agen;
Precisely when your bones should ache,
And when grow sound, by th' almanack.
For he knew ev'ry thing, d'ye see,
By, what d'ye call 't, astrology,
And skill'd in all the starry system,
Foretold events, and often mist'em..
And then it griev'd me sore to look
Just at the heel-piece of his book,
Where stood a man, Lord bless my heart!
(No doubt by matthew matics art,)
Naked, expos'd to public view,

And darts stuck in him through and through,

I warrant him some hardy fool,

Who scorn'd to follow wisdom's rule,
And dar'd blasphemiously despise
Our doctor's knowledge in the skies.
Full dearly he abides his laugh,
I'm sure 'tis Swift, or Bickerstaff.

Excuse this bit of a digression,
A cobbler's is a learn'd profession.
Why may not I too couple rhymes?
My wit will not disgrace the times;
I too, forsooth, among the rest,
Claim one advantage, and the best,
I scarce know writing, have no reading,
Nor any kind of scholar breeding;
And wanting that's the sole foundation
Of half your poets' reputation.
While genius, perfect at its birth,
Springs up, like mushrooms from the earth.
You know they send me to and fro

To carry messages or so;

And though I'm somewhat old and crazy,
I'm still of service to the lazy,

For our good squire has no great notion
Of much alacrity in motion,

And when there's miles betwixt you know
Would rather send by half than go;
Then I'm dispatch'd to travel hard,
And bear myself by way of card.
I'm a two-legg'd excuse to show
Why other people cannot go;
And merit sure I must assume,
For once I went in Garrick's room.

In my old age, 't were wond'rous hard
To come to town, as trav'lling card.
Then let the post convey me there,
The clerk's direction tell him where.
For, though I ramble at this rate,
He writes it all, and 1 dictate;
For I'm resolv'd-by help of neighbour,
(Who keeps a school, and goes to labour)
To tell you all things as they past;
Cobblers will go beyond their last,
And so I'm told will authors too,
-But that's a point I leave to you;
Cobbling extends a thousand ways,
Some cobble shoes, some cobble plays;
Some-but this jingle's vastly clever,
It makes a body write for ever.
While with the motion of the pen,
Method pops in and out agen,
So, as I said, I thought it better,
To set me down, and think a letter,
And without any more ado,
Seal up my mind, and send it you.
You'll ask me, master, why I choose
To plague your worship with my Muse;

I'll tell you then-will truth offend? Though cobbler, yet I love my friend. Besides, I like you ferry folks,

Who make their puns, and crack their jokes;
Your jovial hearts are never wrong,

I love a story, or a song;

But always feel most grievous qualms,
From Wesley's hymns, or Wisdom's psalms'.
My father often told me, one day
Was for religion-that was Sunday,
When I should go to prayers twice,
And hear our parson battle vice;
And dress'd in all my finest clothes,
Twang the psalmody through my nose.
But betwixt churches, for relief,

Eat bak'd plumb-pudding, and roast-beef;
And cheerful, without sin, regale
With good home-brew'd, and nappy ale,
But not one word of fasting greetings,
And dry religious singing meetings.
But here comes folks a-preaching to us
A saving doctrine to undo us,
Whose notions fanciful and scurvy,
Turn old religion topsy-turvy.
I'll give my pleasure up for no man,
And an't I right now, master Show-man?
You seem'd to me a person civil,
Our parson gives you to the devil;
And says, as how, that after grace,
You laugh'd directly in his face;

Ay, laugh'd out-right (as I'm a sinner)

, I should have lik'd t' have been at dinner,
Not for the sake of master's fare,
But to have seen the doctor stare.
Odzooks, I think, he's perfect mad,
Scar'd out of all the wits he had,
For wheresoe'er the doctor comes,
He pulls his wig, and bites his thumbs,
And mutters, in a broken rage,
The Minor, Garrick, Foote, the stage;
(For I must blab it out-but hist,
His reverence is a methodist)
And preaches like an errant fury,
'Gainst all your show folks about Drury,
Says actors all are hellish imps,
And managers the devil's pimps.
He knows not what he sets about;
Puts on his surplice inside out,
Mistakes the lessons in the church,
Or leaves a collect in the lurch;
And t'other day-God help his head,
The gardner's wife being brought to bed,
When sent for to baptize the child
His wig awry, and staring wild,
He laid the prayer-book flat before him,
And read the burial service o'er him.
-The folks must wait without their shoes,
For I must tell you all the news,
For we have had a deal to do,
Our squire's become a show-man too!
And horse and foot arrive in flocks,
To see his worship's famous rocks,
Whilst he, with humorous delight,
Waiks all about and shows the sight,
Points out the place, where trembling you
Had like t' have bid the world adieu;

1 Robert Wisdom was an early translator of the Psalms. Wood says, he was a good Latin and English poet of his time. He died 1568.

It bears the sad remembrance still,
And people call it Garrick's Hill.
The goats their usual distance keep
We never have recourse to sheep;
And the whole scene wants nothing now,
Except your ferry-boat and cow.
I had a great deal more to say,
But I am sent express away,

To fetch the squire's three children down
To Tissington from Derby town;
And Allen says he'll mend my rhyme,
Whene'er I write a second time.

THE

COBBLER OF CRIPPLEGATE'S LETTER

TO ROBERT LLOYD, A. M.

UNUS'D to verse, and tir'd, Heav'n knows,

Of drudging on in heavy prose,
Day after day, year after year,
Which I have sent the Gazetteer;
Now, for the first time, 1 essay
To write in your own easy way.
And now,
O Lloyd, I wish I had,
To go that road your ambling pad,
While you, with all a poet's pride,

On the great horse of verse might ride.

You leave the road that's rough and stoney,
To pace and whistle with your poney;
Sad proof to us you're lazy grown,
And fear to gall your huckle-boné.
For he who rides a nag so small,
Will soon, we fear, ride none at all.
There are,
and nought gives more offence,
Who have some fav'rite excellence,
Which evermore they introduce,
And bring it into constant use.
Thus Garrick still in ev'ry part
Has pause, and attitude, and start:
The pause, I will allow, is good,
And so, perhaps, the attitude;
The start too's fine: but if not scarce,
The tragedy becomes a farce.

I have too, pardon me, some quarrel,
With other branches of your laurel.
I hate the style, that still defends
Yourself, or praises all your friends,
As if the club of wits was met
To make eulogiums on the set;
Say, must the town for ever hear,
And no reviewer dare to sneer,
Of Thornton's humour, Garrick's nature,
And Colman's wit, and Churchill's satire?
Churchill, who-let it not offend,

If I make free, though he's your friend,
And sure we cannot want excuse,
When Churchill's nam'd, for smart abuse-
Churchill! who ever loves to raise

On slander's dung his mushroom bays:
The priest, I grant, has something clever,
A something that will last for ever:
Let him, in part, be made your pattern,
Whose Muse, now queen, and now a słattern,
Trick'd out in Rosciad rules the roast,
Turns trapes and trollop in the ghost,
By turns both tickles us, and warms,
And, drunk or sober, has her charms.