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And many, as their frame grows old,
Wou'd hardly purchase it with gold.

But women with precedence ever;
'Tis their whole life's supreme endeavour ;
It fires their youth with jealous rage,
And strongly animates their age.
Perhaps they would not sell out-right,
Or maim a limb—that was in sight;
Yet, on worse terms, they sometimes chuse it ;
Nor, ev’n in punishments, refuse it.

Preeminence in pain, you cry!
All fierce and pregnant with reply.
But lend your patience, and your ear,
An argument shall make it clear.
But hold, an argument may fail,
Beside my title says, a tale.

Where Avon rolls her winding stream,
Avon, the Muse's fav'rite theme !
Avon, that fills the farmer's purses,
And decks with Aow'rs both farms, and verses,
She visits many a fertile vale-
Such was the scene of this

my

tale.
For 'tis in Ev'sham's vale, or near it,
That folks with laughter tell, and hear it.

The foil with annual plenty blest
Was by young Corydon poffeft.
His youth alone I lay before ye,
As most material to my story:

For

For strength and vigour too, he had 'em,
And 'twere not much amiss, to add 'em.

Thrice happy lout! whose wide domain
Now green with grass, now gilt with grain,
In rullet robes of clover deep,
Or thinly veild, and white with sheep;
Now fragrant with the bean's perfume,
Now purpled with the pulse's bloom,
Might well with bright allusion store me;
-But happier bards have been before me!

Amongst the various year's increase,
The stripling own'd a field of pease ;
Which, when at night he ceas'd his labours,
Were haunted by some female neighbours.
Each morn discover'd to his sight
The shameful havoc of the night ;
Traces of this they left behind 'em,
But no instructions where to find 'em.
The devil's works are plain and evil,
But few or none have seen the devil.
Old Noll, indeed, if we may

credit
The words of Echard, who has said it,
Contriv'd with SATAN how to fool us;
And bargain'd face to face to rule us ;
But then old Noll was one in ten,
And fought him more then other men,
Our shepherd too, with like attention,
May meet the female fiends we mention.
3

He

He rose one morn at break of day,
And near the field in ambush lay:
When lo! a brace of girls appears,
The third, a matron much in years.
Smiling, amidst the pease, the finners
Sate down to cull their future dinners;
And, caring little who might own 'em,
Made free as tho’ themselves had sown 'em.

'Tis worth a sage's observation
How love can make a jest of passion.
Anger had forc'd the swain from bed,
His early dues to love unpaid !
And love, a god that keeps a pother,
And will be paid one time or other,
Now banish'd anger out odoor ;
And claim'd the debt withheld before.
If anger bid our youth revile,
Love form'd his features to a smile :
And knowing well 'twas all grimace,
To threaten with a smiling face,
He in few words express’d his mind-
And none would deem them much unkind.

The am'rous youth, for their offence,
Demanded instant recompence:
That recompence from each, which shame
Forbids a bashful muse to name.
Yet, more this sentence to discover,
'Tis what BETT *
grants her lover,

When

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When he, to make the strumpet willing,
Has spent his fortune-to a shilling.

Each stood awhile, as 'twere suspended,
And loth to do, what-each intended.

At length with soft pathetic sighs,
The matron, bent with age, replies.

'Tis vain to strive-justice, I know,
And our ill stars will have it for
But let my tears your wrath assuage,
And shew fome deference for age!
I from a distant village came,
Am old, G- knows, and something lame;
And if we yield, as yield we must,
Dispatch my crazy body first.

Our shepherd, like the Phrygian swain,
When circled round on Ida's plain,
With goddesses he stood suspended,
And Pallas's grave ipeech was ended,
Own'd what she ask'd might be his duty;
But paid the compliment to beauty.

ODE

O DE

To be performed by Dr. BRETTLE, and a

Chorus of HALES-OWEN CITIZENS.

The Instrumental Part, a Viol d'Amour.

AIR by the Doctor.

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WAKE! I say, awake good people !

And be for once alive and gay;
Come let's be merry; stir the tipple;

How can you neep,
Whilft I do play? how can you sleep, &c.

CHORUS of Citizens.

Pardon, O! pardon, great musician!

On drowsy souls some pity take !
For wond'rous hard is our condition,

To drink thy beer,
Thy strains to hear;

To drink,

To hear,
And keep awake!

SOLO

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