W' have store of fuch, and all our own;

Bred up and tutor'd, by our teachers.

The ableft of confcience-stretchers.

That's well, quoth he, but I fhould guess,

By weighing all advantages,

740

Your fureft way is first to pitch

On Bongey, for a water-witch;

And when y' have hang'd the conjurer,

Y' have time enough to deal with her.

In th' int'rim, fpare for no trepans

745

To draw her neck into the banes :

Ply her with love-letters, and billets,

And bait 'em well, for quirks and quillets,

With trains t' inveigle, and furprize

Her heedlefs answers, and replies :

750

They'll ferve for other by-defigns;

And if the mifs the moufe-trap lines,

And make an artist understand
To copy out her feal, or hand;

Or find void places in the paper

755

To steal in fomething to intrap her;

Till with her worldly goods, and body,

Spight of her heart, she has indow'd ye :
Retain all forts of witnesses,

That ply i' th' Temples, under trees;

Or walk the round, with knights o' th' pofts,
About the cross-legg'd knights, their hofts;
Or wait for cuftomers, between

The pillar-rows in Lincoln's-inn :

760.

And when y' are furnish'd with all purveys,

I shall be ready at your fervice.

I would not give, quoth Hudibras,

A ftraw to understand a case,

775

Without the admirable skill

To wind, and manage it at will;
To vere, and tack, and steer a cause,
Against the weather-gage of laws;
And ring the changes upon cafes,
As plain as nofes upon faces,

As you have well inftructed me,

For which you've earn'd (here 'tis) your fee;

I long to practise your advice,

And try the fubtle artifice;

780

To bait a letter, as you bid.

As not long after, thus he did:
For having pump'd up all his wit,

And hum'd upon it, thus he writ.

785

"THE

COMPLAINT.”

BY EDWARD YOUNG, D. D.

"NIGHT THE FIRST.

ON

LIFE, DEATH, and IMMORTALITY.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

ARTHUR ONSLOW, ESQ.

SPEAKER OF THE HOUSE OF COMMONS."

TIR'D nature's fweet restorer, balmy Sleep,

He, like the world, his ready vifit pays
Where fortune fmiles; the wretched he forfakes;
Swift on his downy pinion flies from woe,
And lights on lids unfully'd with a tear.

From fhort (as ufual) and difturb'd repose,
I wake how happy they who wake no more!
Yet that were vain, if dreams infest the grave.
I wake, emerging from a fea of dreams
Tumultuous; where my wreck'd defponding thought,

* Born 1631; dyed 1765.

From wave to wave of fanfyd misery,

At random drove, her helm of reason loft. Tho' now reftor'd, 'tis only change of pain, (A bitter change!) feverer for severe.

The day too fhort for my diftrefs; and night, 15 Ev'n in the zenith of her dark domain,

Is funfhine to the colour of my fate.

Night, fable goddefs! from her ebon throne,

In rayless majesty, now ftretches forth

20

Her leaden fceptre o'er a flumbring world.
Silence, how dead! and darkness, how profound!
Nor eye, nor lift'ning ear, an object finds ;
Creation fleeps. 'Tis as the gen'ral pulfe
Of life ftood ftill, and nature made a pause;
An aweful paufe! prophetic of her end.
And let her prophesy be soon fulfill'd;

25

Fate! drop the curtain; I can lose no more.
Silence, and Darkness! folemn fifters! twins
From antient Night, who nurse the tender thought
To reafon, and on reafon build refolve,
(That column of true majefty in man)

Affift me: I will thank you in the grave;

30

The grave, your kingdom; there this frame fhall

fall

A victim facred to your dreary shrine.

But what are ye?

Thou who didft put to flight

Primæval filence, when the morning ftars,

35