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And long-attending Hymen from above,
Show'r'd on the bed the whole Idalian grove.
All of a tenor was their after-life,

No day difcolour'd with domeftic ftrife;
No jealoufy, but mutual truth believ'd,
Secure repofe, and kindness undeceiv'd.
Thus Heav'n, beyond the compafs of his thought,
Sent him the bleffing he fo dearly bought.

So may the Queen of love long duty blefs,
And all true lovers find the fame fuccefs.

THE

THE

COCK and and the FOX:

OR, THE

TALE of the NUN's PRIEST.

HERE liv'd, as authors tell, in days of yore,

Deep in a cell her cottage lonely ftood,
Well thatch'd, and under covert of a wood.
This dowager, on whom my tale I found,
Since last she laid her husband in the ground,
A fimple sober life, in patience, led,
And had but juft enough to buy her bread:
But hufwifing the little Heav'n had lent,
She duly paid a groat for quarter rent;
And pinch'd her belly, with her daughters two,
To bring the year about with much ado.

The cattle in her homestead were three fows,
An ewe call'd Mally, and three brinded cows.
Her parlour-window ftuck with herbs around,
Of fav'ry fmell; and rushes ftrew'd the ground.
A maple-dreffer in her hall fhe had,

On which full many a flender meal fhe made;
For no delicious morfel pass'd her throat;
According to her cloth fhe cut her coat :
No poynant fauce she knew, nor coftly treat,
Her hunger gave a relish to her meat:
A fparing diet did her health affure ;
Or fick, a pepper poffet was her cure.

Before

Before the day was done, her work she sped,
And never went by candle light to bed:
With exercise fhe fweat ill humours out,
Her dancing was not hinder'd by the gout.
Her poverty was glad; her heart content,
Nor knew the what the spleen or vapours meant.
Of wine fhe never tafted through the year,
But white and black was all her homely chear:
Brown bread, and milk, (but first she skim'd her bowls)
And rashers of fing'd bacon on the coals.
On holy days an egg, or two at most ;
But her ambition never reach'd to roast.

A yard fhe had with pales enclos'd about,
Some high, fome low, and a dry ditch without.
Within this homestead, liv'd, without a peer,
For crowing loud, the noble Chanticleer;
So hight her cock, whofe finging did surpass
The merry notes of organs at the mafs.
More certain was the crowing of the cock
To number hours, than is an abbey-clock;
And fooner than the mattin-bell was rung,
He clap'd his wings upon his rooft, and fung:
For when degrees fifteen afcended right,
By fure instinct he knew 'twas one at night.
High was his comb, and coral-red withal,
In dents embattell'd like a castle wall;
His bill was raven-black, and fhone like jet;
Blue were his legs, and orient were his feet:
White were his nails, like filver to behold,
His body glitt❜ring like the burnish'd gold.
This gentle cock, for folace of his life
Six miffes had, befides his lawful wife;
Scandal that spares no king, tho' ne'er fo good,
Says, they were all of his own flesh and blood,
His fifters both by fire and mother's fide;
And fure their likeness fhow'd them near ally'd.

But

But make the worst, the monarch did no more,
Than all the Ptolemys had done before:
When inceft is for intereft of a nation,
'Tis made no fin by holy difpenfation.
Some lines have been maintain'd by this alone,
Which by their common uglinefs are known.
But paffing this as from our tale apart,
Dame Partlet was the fovereign of his heart:
Ardent in love, outrageous in his play,
He feather'd her a hundred times a day:
And the that was not only paffing fair,
But was withal discreet, and debonair,
Refolv'd the paffive doctrine to fulfil,
Tho' loth; and let him work his wicked will:
At board and bed was affable and kind,
According as their marriage-vow did bind,
And as the church's precept had injoin'd.
Ev'n fince she was a fennight old, they fay,
Was chaste and humble to her dying day,
Nor chick nor hen was known to disobey.

By this her husband's heart she did obtain;
What cannot beauty, join'd with virtue, gain!
She was his only joy, and he her pride,

She, when he walk'd, went pecking by his fide;
If fpurning up the ground, he sprung a corn,
The tribute in his bill to her was born.

But oh! what joy it was to hear him fing
In fummer, when the day began to spring,
Stretching his neck, and warbling in his throat,
Solus cum fola, then was all his note.

For in the days of yore, the birds of parts

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Were bred to speak, and fing, and learn the lib'ral arts.
It happ'd that perching on the parlour-beam

Amidst his wives, he had a deadly dream,
Juft at the dawn; and figh'd, and groan'd fo faft,
As ev'ry breath he drew would be his last.

VOL. III.

G

Dame

Dame Partlet, ever nearest to his fide,
Heard all his piteous moan, and how he cry'd
For help from Gods and men and fore aghait
She peck'd and pull'd, and waken'd him at laft.
Dear heart, faid fhe, for love of Heav'n declare
Your pain, and make me partner in your care.
You groan, Sir, ever fince the morning-light,
As fomething had difturb'd your noble fpright.
And madam, well I might, faid Chanticleer,
Never was shrovetide-cock in fuch a fear.
Ev'n ftill I run all over in a sweat,

My princely fenfes not recover'd yet.
For fuch a dream I had of dire portent,
That much I fear my body will be shent:
It bodes I fhall have wars and woful strife,
Or in a loathfome dungeon end my life.
Know, dame, I dreamt within my troubled breaft,
That in our yard I saw a murd❜rous beast,
That on my body would have made arrest.
With waking eyes I ne'er beheld his fellow;
His colour was betwixt a red and yellow :
Tipp'd was his tail, and both his pricking ears
Were black; and much unlike his other hairs:
The reft in fhape a beagle's whelp throughout,
With broader forehead, and a sharper fnout:
Deep in his front were funk his glowing eyes,
That yet methinks I see him with surprize.
Reach out your hand, I drop with clammy sweat,
And lay it to my heart, and feel it beat.
Now fy for fhame, quoth fhe, by Heav'n above,
Thou haft for ever loft thy lady's love;
No woman can endure a recreant knight,
He must be bold by day, and free by night:
Our fex defires a husband or a friend,
Who can our honour and his own defend;
Wife, hardy, fecret, lib'ral of his purse:
A fool is naufeous, but a coward worse :

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