And many, as their frame grows old,
Wou'd hardly purchase it with gold.
But women with precedence ever;
'Tis their whole life's fupreme endeavour;
It fires their youth with jealous rage,
And strongly animates their age.
Perhaps they would not fell out-right,
Or maim a limb-that was in fight;
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,
Befide my title fays, a tale.
Where Avon rolls her winding stream,
AVON, the Mufe's fav'rite theme!
Avon, that fills the farmer's purses,
And decks with flow'rs both farms, and verfes,
She vifits 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 bleft
Was by young CORYDON poffeft.
His youth alone I lay before ye,
As most material to my story:
For strength and vigour too, he had 'em, And 'twere not much amiss, to add 'em.
Thrice happy lout! whofe wide domain Now green with grass, now gilt with grain, In ruffet robes of clover deep,
Or thinly veil'd, 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 fight
The shameful havoc of the night;
Traces of this they left behind 'em,
But no inftructions 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 faid 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.
He rofe 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 fown 'em.
'Tis worth a fage's obfervation
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 o' door;
And claim'd the debt withheld before.
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 exprefs'd his mind
And none would deem them much unkind.
The am'rous youth, for their offence,
Demanded inftant recompence:
That recompence from each, which shame
Forbids a bafhful mufe to name.
Yet, more this fentence to discover,
'Tis what BETT * * grants her lover,
When he, to make the ftrumpet willing,
Has spent his fortune-to a fhilling.
Each stood awhile, as 'twere fufpended,
And loth to do, what-each intended.
At length with soft pathetic fighs,
The matron, bent with age, replies.
'Tis vain to strive-juftice, I know,
And our ill ftars will have it fo-
But let my tears your wrath affuage,
And fhew fome deference for age!
I from a distant village came,
Am old, G― knows, and fomething lame;
And if we yield, as yield we must,
Dispatch my crazy body first.
Our fhepherd, like the Phrygian fwain,
When circled round on IDA's plain,
With goddeffes he stood fufpended,
And PALLAS's grave speech was ended,
Own'd what she ask'd might be his duty;
But paid the compliment to beauty.
To be performed by Dr. BRETTLE, and a Chorus of HALES-OWEN CITIZENS.
The Inftrumental Part, a Viol d' Amour.
WAKE! I fay, awake good people!
And be for once alive and gay;
Come let's be merry; ftir the tipple;
How can you fleep,
Whilft I do play? how can you fleep, &c.
Pardon, O! pardon, great musician!
On drowsy fouls fome pity take!
For wond'rous hard is our condition,
To drink thy beer,
Thy ftrains to hear;
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