Such were our couple, man and wife;
Such were their means and ways of life.
Once on a time, the feafon fair For exercise and chearful air,
It happen'd in his morning's roam,
He kill'd his birds, and brought them home.
-Here, CICELY, take away my gun-
How shall we have these starlings done?
Done! what my love? Your wits are wild;
Starlings, my dear; they're thrushes child.
Nay now but look, confider, wife,
They're ftarlings-No-upon my life:
Sure I can judge as well as you,
I know a thrush and starling too.
Who was it shot them, you or I?
They're ftarlings-thrushes - zounds you lie.
Pray, Sir, take back your dirty word,
I fcorn your language as your bird;
It ought to make a husband blush,
To treat a wife fo 'bout a thrush.
Thrufh, Cicely!-Yes-a ftarling-No,
The lie again, and then a blow.
Blows carry ftrong and quick conviction,
And mar the pow'rs of contradiction.
Peace foon enfued, and all was well: It were imprudence to rebel,
Or keep the ball up of debate
Against these arguments of weight.
A year roll'd on in perfect ease,
'Twas as you like, and what you please,
'Till in its courfe and order due,
Came March the twentieth, fifty two,
Quoth Cicely, this is charming life,
No tumults now, no blow, no ftrife.
What fools we were this day last year
Lord, how you beat me then, my dear!
-Sure it was idle and abfurd
To wrangle fo about a bird;
A bird not worth a fingle rufh-
A ftarling-no, my love, a thrush,
That I'll maintain that I'll deny.
-You're wrong, good husband
Again the felf-fame wrangle rofe,
Again the lye, again the blows.
Thus every year (true man and wife)
Enfues the fame domeftic ftrife.
Thus every year their quarrel ends,
They argue, fight, and bufs, and friends;
'Tis ftarling, thrush, and thrush and starling;
You dog, you b-; my dear, my darling.
A FAMILIAR EPISTLE TO ******.
WHAT, three months gone, and never send
A fingle letter to a friend?
In that time, fure, we might have known
Whether you fat or lean was grown;
Whether your hoft was short or tall,
Had manners good, or none at all ;
Whether the neighb'ring fquire you found
As mere a brute as fox or hound;
Or if the parfon of the place
(With all due rev'rence to his grace)
Took much more pains himself to keep,
Than to inftruct and feed his sheep;
At what hour of the day you dine;
Whether you drink beer, punch, or wine;
Whether you hunt, or fhoot, or ride;
Or, by fome muddy ditch's fide,
Which you, in vifionary dream,
Call bubbling rill, or purling ftream,
Sigh for fome aukward country lafs,
Who must of consequence furpass
All that is beautiful and bright,
As much as day surpasses night;
Whether the people eat and drink,
Or ever talk, or ever think;
If, to the honour of their parts,
The men have heads, the women hearts;
If the moon rifes and goes down,
And changes as fhe does in town;
If you've returns of night and day,
And seasons varying roll away;
mind exalted wooes
Th' embraces of a ferious mufe;
Or if you write, as I do now,
The L-d knows what, the L-d knows how.These, and a thousand things like these,
The friendly heart are fure to please.
Now will my friend turn up his eyes,
And look fuperlatively wife;
Wonder what all this ftuff's about,
And how the plague I found him out!
When he had taken fo much pains,
In order to regale his brains
With privacy and country air,
To go, no foul alive knew where !
Befides, 'tis folly to suppose
That any perfon breathing goes
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