Twelve deities she frames with stately mien,
And in the midst superior Jove is seen;
A glowing warmth the blended colours give,
The figures in the picture seem to live.
Heaven's thundering monarch sits with awful grace,
And dread omnipotence imprints his face :
There Neptune stood, disdainfully be frown'd,
And with his trident smote the trembling ground;
The parting rocks a spacious chasin disclose,
From whence a tiery, prancing steed arose ;
And on that useful gift he founds his claim,
To grace the city with his honour'd name.
See her own figure next with martial air,
A shining helmet deeks her flowing hair;
Her thoughtful breast her well-pois'd shield defends,
And her bare arm a glittering spear extends,
With which she wounds the plain; from thence

arose

A spreading tree; green olives load the boughs. The powers her gift behold with wondering eyes, And to the goddess give the rightful prize.

Such mercy checks her wrath, that, to dissuade By others' fate the too presumptuous maid, With miniatures she fills each corner space, To curb her pride, and save her from disgrace. Hamus and Rhodopé in this she wrought, The beauteous colours spoke her lively thought; With arrogance and fierce ambition fir'd, They to the sacred names of gods aspir'd ; To mountains chang'd, their lofty heads arise, And lose their lessening summits in the skies.

In that, in all the strength of art, was seen The wretched fate of the Pygmæran queen; Juno, enrag'd, resents th' audacious aim, And to a crane transforms the vanquish'd dame; In that voracious shape she still appears, And plagues her people with perpetual wars. In this, Antigoné for beauty strove With the bright consort of imperial Jove: Juno, incens'd, her royal power display'd, And to a bird converts the haughty maid. Laomedon his daughter's fate bewails, Nor his, nor Ilion's, fervent prayer prevails, But on her lovely skin white feathers rise; Chang'd to a clamorous stork, she mounts the skies.

In the remaining orb, the heavenly maid
The tale of childless Cynaras display'd;
A settled anguish in his look appears,
And from his bloodshot eyes flow streams of tears;
On the cold ground, no more a father, thrown,
He for his daughters clasp'd the polish'd stone.
And, when he sought to hold their wonted charms,
The temple's steps deceiv'd his eager arms.
Wreaths of green olive round the border twine,
And her own tree encloses the design.

Arachne paints th' amours of mighty Jove,
How in a bull the god disguis'd his love;
A real bull seems in the piece to roar,
And real billows breaking on the shore:
In fair Europa's face appears surprise,
To the retreating land she turns her eyes,

And seems to call her maids, who wondering stood,
And with her tears increase the briny flood;
Her trembling feet she by contraction saves
From the rude insult of the rising waves.

Here amorous Jove dissolving Leda trod,
And in the vigorous swan conceal'd the god.
Love lends him now an eagle's new disguise,
Beneath his fluttering wings Asteria lies,

Th' enlivening colours here with force express'd
How Jove the fair Antiope caress'd. ·
In a strong satyr's muscled form he came,
Instilling love transports the glowing dame,
And lusty twins reward his nervous flame.
Here how he sooth'd the bright Alcmena's love,
Who for Amphitryon took th' impostor Jove;
And how the god in golden shower allur'd
The guarded nymph, in brazen walls immur'd:
How, in a swain, Mnemosyne be charms ;
How lambent flame the fair Egina warms:
And how, with various glittering hues inlaid,
In serpent's form Deois he betray'd.
Here you, great Neptune, with a shortliv'd flame,
In a young bull enjoy th' Folian dame,
Then in Enipeus' shape intrigues pursue:
'Tis thus th' Aloids boast descent from you.
Here to Bisaltis was thy love convey'd,
When a rough ram deceiv'd the yielding maid.
Ceres, kind mother of the bounteous year,
Whose golden locks a sheafy garland bear;
And the dread dame, with hissing serpents hung,
(From whom the Pegasaan courser sprung)
Thee in a snuffling stallion's form enjoy,
Exhaust thy strength, and every nerve employ;
Melantho as a dolphin you betray,

And sport in pleasures on the rolling sea:
Such just proportion graces every part,
Nature herself appears improv'd by art.
Here in disguise was mighty Phœbus seen,
With clownish aspect, and a rustic mien;
Again transform'd, he's dress'd in falcon's plumes,
And now the lion's noble shape assumes;
Now, in a shepherd's form, with treacherous smiles,
He Macareian Isse's heart beguiles.
Here his plump shape enamour'd Bacchus leaves,
And in the grape Erigone deceives

There Saturn, in a neighing horse, she wove,
And Chiron's double form rewards his love.
Festoons of flowers, enwove with ivy, shine, [twine.
Border the wondrous piece, and round the texture
Not Pallas, nor ev'n spleen itself, could blame
The wondrous work of the Mæonian dame;
With grief her vast success the goddess bore,
And of celestial crimes the story tore.
Her boxen shuttle now, enrag'd, she took,
And thrice the proud Idmonian artist struck:
Th' unhappy maid, to see her labours vain,
Grew resolute with pride, and-shame, and pain :
Around her neck a fatal noose she ty'd,
And sought by sudden death her guilt to hide.
Pallas with pity saw the desperate deed,
And thus the virgin's milder fate decreed:
Live, impious rival, mindful of thy crime,
Suspended thus to waste thy future time!
Thy punishment involves thy numerous race,
Who, for thy fault, shall share in thy disgrace."
Her incantation magic juices aid,

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With sprinkling drops she bath'd the pendent maid,
And thus the charm its noxious power display'd.
Like leaves in autumn drop her falling hairs,
With these her nose, and next ber rising ears.
Her head to the minutest substance shrunk,
The potent juice contracts her changing trunk ;
Close to her sides her slender fingers clung,
There, chang'd to nimble feet, in order hung;
Her bloated belly swells to larger size,
Which now with smallest threads her work supplies;
The virgin in the Spider still remains ;
And in that shape her former art retains.

TALES.

AN ANSWER TO THE

SOMPNER'S PROLOGUE OF CHAUCER.

IN IMITATION OF CHAUCER'S STYLE.

THE Sompner leudly hath his prologue told,
And saine on the Freers his tale japing and bold;
How that in Hell they searchen near and wide,
And ne one freer in all thilke place espyde:
But lo! the Devil turn'd his erse about,
And twenty thousand freers wend in and out.
By which in Jeoffry's rhyming it appears,
The Devil's belly is the hive of freers.
Now listneth lordings! forthwith ye shall hear,
What happen'd at a house in Lancashire.
A misere that had londs and tenement,
Who raketh from his villaines taxes and rent,
Owned a house which emptye long ystood,
Full deeply sited in a derkuing wood;
Murmring a shallow brook runneth along,
Mong the round stones it maken doleful song.
Now there spreaden a rumour that everich night
The rooms yhaunted been by many a sprite;
The miller avoucheth, and all thereabout,
That they full oft bearen the hellish rout;
Some saine they hear the jingling of chains,
And some bath yheard the psautries straines;
At midnight some the heedless horse ymeet,
And some espien a corse in a white sheet,
And oother things, ye, fin, and elfe,
And shapes that fear createn to itselfe.

[pass.

Now it so hapt, there was not ferre away, Of grey freers a fair and rich abbaye, Where liven a freer ycloped Pere Thomas, Who daren alone in derke through church-yerds This freer would lye in thilke house all night, In hope he might espyen a dreadful sprite. He taketh candle, beades, and holy watere, And legends eke of saintes, and bookes of prayere. He entereth the room, and looketh round about, And haspen the door, to haspen the goblin out. The candle bath he put close by the bed, And in low tone his ave marye said. With water now besprinkled hath the floore, And maken cross on key hole of the doore. Ne was there not a mouse-hole in thilke place, But he ycrossed hath by God his grace: He crossed hath this, and eke he crossed that, With benedicite and God knows what.

Now he goeth to bed and lieth adown, When the clock had just stricken the twelfth soun. Bethinketh him now what the cause had ybeen, Why many sprites by mortals have been seen. Hem remembreth how Dan Plutarch hath ysed That Cæsar's sprite caine to Brute his bed; Of chains that frighten erst Artemidore, The tales of Pline, Valere, and many more.

Hem thinketh that some murdere here been done, And he mought see some bloodye ghost anone, Or that some orphlines writings here be stor'd, Or pot of golde laine deep beneath a board: Or thinketh hem, if he might see no sprite, The abbaye mought buy this house cheap outright. As hem thus thinketh, anode asleep he lies, Up starten Sathanas with saueer eyes.

He turned the freer upon his face downright,
Displaying his nether cheeks full broad and white.
Than quoth Dan Sathanas as he thwacked him sore,
"Thou didst forget to guard thy postern-dore.
There is an hole which hath not crossed been:
Farewell, from whence I came, I creepen in."
Now plain it is ytellen in my verse,

If Devils in Hell hear freers in their erse,
On Earth the Devil in freers doth ydwell; [Hell
Were there no freers, the Devil mought keep in

WORK FOR A COOPER.

A TALE.

A MAN may lead a happy life, Without that needful thing a wife: This long have lusty abbots known, Who ne'er knew spouses-of their own.

What though your house be clean and neat,
With couches, chairs, and beds complete;
Though you each day invite a friend,
Though he should every dish commend;
On Bagshot-heath your mutton fed,
Your fowls at Brentford born and bred;
Though purest wine your cellars boast,
Wine worthy of the fairest toast;
Yet there are other things requir'd:
Ring, and let's see the maid you hir'd.—
Bless me! those hands might hold a broom,
Twirl round a mop, and wash a room:
A batchelor his maid should keep,
Not for that servile use to sweep;
Let her his humour understand,
And turn to every thing her hand.
Get you a lass that 's young and tight,
Whose arms are, like her apron, white.
What-though her shift be seldom seen,
Let that, though coarse, be always clean;
She might each morn your tea attend,
And on your wrist your ruffle mend;
Then, if you break a roguish jest,
Or squeeze her hand, or pat her breast,
She cries, "Oh, dear sir, don't be naught!"
And blushes speak her last night's fault.
To her your household cares confide,
Let your keys jingle at her side.

A footman's blunders teaze and fret ye;
Ev'n while you chide, you smile on Betty.
Discharge him then, if he's too spruce;
For Betty's for his master's use.

Will you your amorous fancy baulk,
For fear some prudish neighbour talk?
But you'll object, that you're afraid`
Of the pert freedoms of a maid.
Besides, your wiser heads will say,
That she who turns her hand this way,
From one vice to another drawn,
Will lodge your silver-spoons in pawn.
Has not the homely wrinkled jade
More need to learn the pilfering trade?
For love all Betty's wants supplies,
Laces her shoes, her manteau dyes,
All her stuff-suits she flings away,
And wears thread-sattin every day.

Who then a dirty drab would hire,、、
Brown as the hearth of kitchen-fire;
When all must own, were Betty put
To the black duties of the slut,

As well she scours or scrubs a floor,
And still is good for something more?
Thus, to avoid the greater vice,
I knew a priest, of conscience nice,
To quell his lust for neighbour's spouse,
Keep fornication in his house.

But you 're impatient all this time,
Fret at my counsel, curse my rhyme.
Be satisfy'd: I'll talk no more,
For thus my tale begins-Of yore
There dwelt at Blois a priest full fair,
With rolling eye and crisped hair;
His chin hung low, his brow was sleek,
Plenty lay basking on his cheek;
Whole days at cloyster-grates he sate,
Ogled and talk'd of this and that
So feelingly, the nuns lamented
That double bars were e'er invented.
If he the wanton wife confest,

With downcast eye, and heaving breast,
He stroak'd her cheek to still her fear,
And talk'd of sins en cavalier;
Each time enjoin'd her penance mild,
And fondled on her like his child.
At every jovial gossip's feast

Pere Bernard was a welcome guest;
Mirth suffer'd not the least restraint,
He could at will shake off the saint;
Nor frown'd he when they freely spoke,
But shook his sides, and took the joke;
Nor fail'd he to promote the jest,
And shar'd the sins which they confest.
Yet, that he might not always roam,
He kept conveniencies at horne.

His maid was in the bloom of beauty,
Well-limb'd for every social duty;
He meddled with no household cares,
To her consigu'd his whole affairs:
She of his study kept the keys,
For he was studious-of his case:
She had the power of all his locks,
Could rummage-every chest and box;
Her honesty such credit gain'd,
Not ev'n the cellar was restrain'd.

In troth it was a goodly show,
Lin'd with full hogsheads all a-row.
One vessel, from the rank remov'd,
Far dearer than the rest he lov'd;
Pour la bonne Louche 'twas set aside,
To all but choicest friends deny'd.
He now and then would send a quart,
To warm some wife's retentive heart,
Against confession's sullen hour:
Wine has all secrets in its power.
At common feasts it had been waste,
Nor was it fit for layman's taste.
If monk or friar were his guest,
They drank it; for they know the best.
Nay, he at length so fond was grown,
He always drank it when-alone.

Who shall recount his civil labours, In pious visits to his neighbours? Whene'er weak husbands went astray, He guess'd their wives were in the way: 'Twas then his charity was shown, He chose to see them when alone.

Now was he bent on cuckoldom :

He knew friend Jennis was from home: His wife (a poor neglected bauty, Defrauded of a husband's duty)

Had often told him at confession,

How hard she struggled 'gainst transgression.
He now resolves, in heat of blood,

To try how firm her virtue stood,
He knew that wine (to love best aid)

Has oft made bold the shame-fac'd maid,
Taught her to romp, and take more freedoms,
Than nymphs train'd up at Smith's or Needham's
A mighty bottle straight he chose,
Such as might give two friars their dose.
Nannette he call'd: the cellar door
She straight unlocks, descends before;
He follow'd close. But when he spies
His favourite cask; with lifted eyes
And lifted hands aloud he cries,
"Heigh-day! my darling wine astoop!
It must, alas! have sprung a hoop."
"That there's a leak is past all doubt,"
(Reply'd the maid)—“ I'll find it out."
She sets the candle down in haste,
Tucks her white apron round her waist.
The hogshead's mouldy side ascends;
She straddles wide, and downward bends
So low she stoops to seek the flaw,
Her coats rose up, her master saw—
"I see" he cries-(then claspt her fast)
"The leak through which my wine has past."
Then all in haste the maid descended,
And in a trice the leak was mended.
He found in Nannette all he wanted,
So Dennis' brows remain'd unplanted.

Ere since this time, all lusty friars
(Warm'd with predominant desires,
Whene'er the flesh with spirit quarrels)
Look on the sex as leaky barrels.
Beware of these, ye jealous spouses!
From such-like coopers guard your houses;
For, if they find not work at home,
For jobbs through all the town they roam.

THE EQUIVOCATION.

A TALE.

AN abbot rich (whose taste was good Alike in science and in food)

Ilis bishop had resolv'd to treat;
The bishop came, the bishop eat.
'Twas silence, till their stomachs fail'd;
And now at heretics they rail'd.
"What heresy," (the prelate said)
"Is in that church where priests may wed!
Do not we take the Church for life?
But those divorce her for a wife;
Like laymen, keep her in their houses,
And own the children of their spouses."
"Vile practices!" the abbot cry'd,

For pious use we 're set aside!
Shall we take wives? Marriage, at best,
Is but carnality profest!"

Now, as the bishop took his glass,

He spy'd our abbot's buxom lass,

Who cross'd the room; he mark'd her eye,

That glow'd with love; his pulse beat high.

Fye, father, fye!" (the prelate cries)

"A maid so young! for shame, be wise. These indiscretions lend a handle

To lewd lay-tongues, to give us scandal. For your vow's sake, this rule I give t' ye; Let all your maids be turu'd of fifty."

The priest reply'd, "I have not swerv'd, But your chaste precept well observ'd : That lass full twenty-five has told; I've yet another who 's as old; Into one sum their ages cast; So both my maids have fifty past.”

The prelate smil'd, but durst not blame ; For why his lordship did the same.

Let those who reprimand their brothers, First mend the faults they find in others.

A TRUE STORY OF AN APPARITION. SCEPTICS (whose strength of argument makes out, That Wisdom's deep inquiries end in doubt) Hold this assertion positive and clear, That sprites are pure delusions, rais'd by fear. Not that fam'd ghost, which in presaging sound Call'd Brutus to Philippi's fatal ground, Nor can Tiberius Gracchus, gory shade, These ever-doubting disputants persuade. Straight they with smiles reply, "Those tales of By visionary priests were made and told.” [dd Oh, might soune ghost, at dead of night, appear, And make you own conviction by your fear! I know your sneers my easy faith accuse, Which with such idle legends scares the Muse: But think not that I tell those vulgar sprites, Which frighted boys relate on winter nights, How cleanly milk-inaids meet the fairy trai, How heedless horses drag the clinking chain, Night-roaming ghosts, by saucer eye-balls known, The common spectres of each country-town. No, I such fables can like you despise, And laugh to hear these nurse-invented lies. Yet has not oft the fraudful guardian's fright Compell'd him to restore an orphan's right? And can we doubt that horrid ghosts ascend, Which on the conscious murderer's steps attend? Hear then, and let attested truth prevail; From faithful lips I learnt the dreadful tale.

Where Arden's forest spreads its limits wide, Whose branching paths the doubtful road divide, A traveller took his solitary way,

When low beneath the hills was sunk the day.
And now the skies with gathering darkness lour,
The branches rustle with the threaten'd shower;
With sudden blasts the forest murmurs loud,
Indented lightnings cleave the sable cloud,
Thunder on thunder breaks, the tempest roars,
And Heaven discharges all its watery stores.
The wandering traveller shelter secks in vain,
And shrinks and shivers with the beating rain:
On his steed's neck the slacken'd bridle lay,
Who chose with cautious step th' uncertain way;
And now he checks the rein, and halts to hear
If any noise foretold a village near.
At length from far a stream of light he sees
Extends its level ray between the trees ;
Thither he speeds, and, as he nearer came,
Joyful he knew the lamp's domestic flame

That trembled through the window; cross the way
Darts forth the barking cur, and stands at bay.
It was an ancient lonely house, that stood
Upon the borders of the spacious wood ;
Here towers and antique battlements arise,
And there in heaps the moulder'd ruin lies.
Some lord this mansion held in days of yore,
To chase the wolf, and pierce the foaming boar :

Straight he dismounts, repeats his loud comSwift at the gate the ready landlord stands; With frequent cringe he bows, and begs excuse, His house was full, and every bed in use. "What not a garret, and no straw, to spare? Why then the kitchen-fire and elbow-chair Shall serve for once to nod away the night.” The kitchen ever is the servant's right,” Replies the host; "there, all the fire around, The count's tir'd footmen snore upon the ground.” The maid, who listen'd to this whole debate, With pity learnt the weary stranger's fate. [guest; Be brave," she cries, you still may be our Our baunted room was ever held the best : If then your valour can the fright sustain Of rattling curtains and the clinking chain; If your courageous tongue have power to talk, When round your bed the horrid ghost shall walk; If you dare ask it, why it leaves its tomb; I'll see your sheets well air'd, and show the room." Soon as the frighted maid her tale had told, The stranger enter'd, for his heart was bold.

64

The damsel led him through a spacious hall, Where ivy hung the half-demolish'd wal! : She frequent look'd behind, and chang’d her hue, While fancy tipt the candle's flame with blue. And now they gain'd the winding stairs' ascent, And to the lonesome room of terrours went. When all was ready, swift retir'd the maid, The watch-lights burn, tuck'd warm in bed was laid The hardy stranger, and attends the Sprite Till his accustoni'd walk at dead of night.

At first he hears the wind with hollow roar Shake the loose lock, and swing the creaking door; Nearer and nearer draws the dreadful sound Of rattling chains, that dragg'd upon the ground: When, lo! the spectre came with horrid stride, Approach'd the bed, and drew the curtains wide! In human form the ghastful phantom stood, Expos'd his mangled bosom dy'd with blood. Then, silent pointing to his wounded breast, Thrice way'd his hand. Beneath the frighted guest The bed-cords trembled, and with shuddering fear, Sweat chill'd his limbs, high rose his bristled hair; Then muttering hasty prayers, he mann'd his heart, And cry'd aloud, “Say, whence, and who thou art?" The stalking ghost with hollow voice replies, "Three years are counted, since with mortal eyes I saw the Sun, and vital air respir'd. Like thee benighted, and with travel tir'd, Within these walls I slept. Othirst of gain! See, still the planks the bloody mark retain. Stretch'd on this very bed, from sleep I start, And see the steel impending o'er my heart; The barbarous hostess held the lifted knife, The floor ran purple with my gushing life. My treasure now they seize, the golden spoil They bury deep beneath the grass-grown soil, Far in the common field. Be bold, arise, My steps shall lead thee to the secret prize ; There dig and find; let that thy care reward: Call loud on Justice, bid her not retard To punish murder; lay my ghost at rest : So shall with peace secure thy nights be blest; And, when beneath these boards my bones are found, Decent inter them in some sacred ground."

Here ceas'd the ghost. The stranger springs from And boldly follows where the phantom led: [bed,

The half-worn stony stairs they now descend,
Where passages obscure their arches bond.
Silent they walk; and now thro' groves they pass,
Now thro' wet meads their steps imprint the grass.
At length amidst a spacious field they came:
There stops the spectre, and ascends in flame,
Amaz'd he stood, no bush or brier was found,
To teach his morning search to find the ground.
What could he do? the night was hideous dark,
Fear shook his joints, and nature dropt the mark:
With that he starting wak'd, and rais'd his head,
But found the golden mark was left in bed.

What is the statesman's vast ambitions scheme,
But a short vision and a golden dream?
Power, wealth, and title, elevate his hope;
He wakes: but, for a garter, finds a rope.

THE MAD DOG.

A TALE.

grace.

A PRUDE, at morn and evening prayer, Had worn her velvet cushion bare; Upward she taught her eyes to roll, As if she watch'd her soaring soul; And, when devotion warm'd the crowd, None sung, or smote their breast, so loud: Pale penitence had mark'd her face With all the meagre signs of Her mass-book was completely lin'd With painted saints of various kind: But, when in every page she view'd Fine ladies who the flesh subdu'd, As quick her beads she counted o'er, She cry'd-" Such wonders are no more!" She chose not to delay confession, To bear at once a year's transgression; But every week set all things even, And balanc'd her accounts with Heaven. Behold her now, in humble guise, Upon her knees, with downeast eyes, Before the priest : she thus begins, And, sobbing, blubbers forth her sins: "Who could that tempting man resist ? My virtue languish'd, as he kiss'd; I strove till I could strive no longer : How can the weak subdue the stronger?"

The father ask'd her where, and when? How many? and what sort of men? By what degrees her blood was heated? How oft the frailty was repeated? Thus have I seen a pregnant wench, All flush'd with guilt, before the bench: „The judges (wak'd by wanton thought) Dive to the bottom of her fault; They leer, they simper, at her shame, And make her call all things by name. And now to sentence he proceeds, Prescribes how oft to tell her beads; Shows her what saints could do her good, Doubles her fasts, to cool her blood. Eas'd of her sins, and light as air, Away she trips, perhaps to prayer. 'Twas no such thing. Why then this haste? The clock has struck, the hour is past; And, on the spur of inclination, She scorn'd to bilk her assignation. Whate'er she did, next week she came, And piously confest the same.

The priest, who female frailties pity'd, First chid her, then her sins remitted.

"But did she now her crime bemoan In penitential sheets alone? And was no bold, no beastly fellow The nightly partner of her pillow ?” No, none for next time in the grove A bank was conscious of her love." Confession-day was come about, And now again it all must out.

She seems to wipe her twinkling eyes:
"What now, my child?" the father cries.
"Again!" says she. With threatening looks,
He thus the prostrate dame rebukes:

"Madam, I grant there's something in it,
That virtue has th' unguarded minute;
But pray now tell me what are whores,
But women of unguarded hours?
Then you must sure have lost all shame.
What every day, and still the same,
And no fault else! 'tis strange to find
A woman to one sin confin'd!
Pride is this day her darling passion,
The next day Slander is in fashion;
Gaming succeeds; if Fortune crosses,
Then Virtue's mortgag'd for her losses;
By use her favourite vice she loaths,
And loves new follies like new clothes:
But you, beyond all thought unchaste,
Have all sin center'd near your waist!
Whence is this appetite so strong?
Say, madam, did your mother long?
Or is it luxury and high diet
That won't let Virtue sleep in quiet?”
She tells him now, with meckest voice,
That she had never err'd by choice;
Nor was there known a virgin chaster,
Till ruin'd by a sad disaster.

That she a favourite lap-dog had,
Which (as she stroak'd and kiss'd) grew mad;
And on her lip a wound indenting,

First set her youthful blood fermenting.

The priest reply'd, with zealous fury,

"You should have sought the means to cure ye,
Doctors by various ways, we find,
Treat these distempers of the mind.

"Let gaudy ribbands be deny'd
To her who raves with scornful pride;
And, if religion crack her notions,
Lock up her volumes of devotions;
But, if for man her rage prevail,
Bar her the sight of creatures male.
Or else, to cure such venom❜d bites,
And set the shatter'd thoughts arights;
They send you to the ocean's shore,
And plunge the patient o'er and o'er."

The dame reply'd, "Alas! in vain
My kindred fore'd me to the main;
Naked, and in the face of day:
Look not, ye fishermen, this way!
What virgin had not done as I did?
My modest hand, by Nature guided,
Debarr'd at once from human eyes
The seat where female honour lies;
And, though thrice dipt from top to toe,
I still secur'd the post below,
And guarded it with grasp so fast,
Not one drop through my fingers past.
Thus owe I to my bashful care,
That all the rage is settled there."