The devil take me, faid fhe, (bleffing herfelf) if ever I faw't!

So fhe roar'd like a Bedlam, as though I had call'd her all to naught.

So you know, what cou'd I say to her any more?

I e'en left her, and came away as wife as I was before.

Well; but then they would have had me gone to the cunning man:

No, faid I, 'tis the fame thing, the chaplain will be

here anon.

So the chaplain

*

came in. Now the fervants 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,

Parfon, faid I, can you cast a nativity, when a body's plunder'd?

(Now you must know, he hates to be call'd parfon like the devil)

Truly, fays he, mrs. Nab, it might become you to be more civil:

If your money be gone, as a learned divine says, d'ye fee,

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! faid I, don't be angry, I am fure I never thought

you fo;

The author.

You

You know, I honour the cloth; I defign to be a parJon's wife

;

I never took one in your coat for à conjurer in all my life.

With that, he twisted his girdle at me like à rope, as who should say,

Now you may go hang yourself for me, and fo went away.

:

Well I thought I fhould have fwoon'd, Lord! faid I, what fhall I do?

I have loft my money, and shall lose my true love too. Then my lord call'd me: Harry*, *. faid my lord, don't

cry,

I'll give you fomething towards thy loss; and fays my lady, fo will I.

Oh! but, faid I, what if, after all, my chaplain won't come to ?

For that, he faid, (an't please your excellencies,) I muft petition you.

The premises tenderly confider'd, I defire your excellencies protection,

And that I may have a share in next Sunday's collec

tion;

And, over and above, that I may have your excellenciés 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, fhall ever pray.

* A cant word of my lord and lady to mrs. Harris.

Lady BETTY BERKELEY, finding in the author's room fome verfes* unfinished, underwrit a ftanza of her own with raillery upon him, which gave occafion to this Ballad, written by the author in a counterfeit hand, as if a third perfon had done it.

Ο

Written in the Year 1703.

To the tune of The Cutpurfe.

I.

NCE on a time, as old stories rehearse,

A friar would needs fhew his talent in Latin;

But was forely put to't in the midst of a verse,
Because he could find no word to come pat in:
Then all in the place

He left a void space,

And fo went to bed in a desperate case : When behold the next morning a wonderful riddle! He found it was ftrangely fill'd up in the middle. Chorus. Let cenfuring criticks then think what they lift on't;

Who wou'd not write verfes with fuch an

affiftant?

*Thefe verfes are called A and may be found among the ballad on the game of traffic, posthumous poetry. Vol. VII.

II.

II.

This put me the friar into an amazement:
For he wifely confider'd it must be a sprite,

That came thro' the key-hole, or in at the cafement; And it needs must be one that could both read and write:

Yet he did not know

If it were friend or foe,

Or whether it came from above or below:

Howe'er, it was civil in angel or elf,

For he ne'er could have fill'd it fo well of himself.

Cho. Let cenfuring, etc.

III.

Even fo mafter doctor had puzzled his brains
In making a ballad, but was at a stand:
He had mix'd little wit with a great deal of pains;
When he found a new help from invisible hand.
Then good doctor Swift,

Pay thanks for the gift,

For you freely muft own you were at a dead lift: And, though fome malicious young spirit did do't, may know by the hand it had no cloven foot. Cho. Let cenfuring, etc.

You

Built from the ruins of Whitehall that was burnt.

N times of old, when time was young,

IN

And poets their own verses sung,

A verfe could draw a ftone or beam,
That now would over-load a team;
Lead them a dance of many a mile,
Then rear them to a goodly pile.
Each number had its diff'rent pow'r :
Heroick ftrains could build a tow'r;
Sonnets, or elegies to Chloris,
Might raise a house about two ftories:
A lyrick ode wou'd flate; a catch
Wou'd tile; an epigram wou'd thatch.
But, to their own, or landlord's cost,
Now poets feel this art is loft.
Not one of all our tuneful throng
Can raise a lodging for a fong:
For Jove confider'd well the cafe,
Obferv'd they grew a num'rous race;
And shou'd they build as fast as write,
"Twould ruin undertakers quite.
This evil therefore to prevent,
He wifely chang'd their element:
On earth the God of wealth was made
Sole patron of the building trade;
Leaving the wits the spacious air,
With licence to build caftles there :
And 'tis conceiv'd, their old pretence
To lodge in garrets comes from thence.

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