Now, Mrs. Dukes, you know, and every Body underftands,

That tho' 'tis hard to judge, yet Money can't go without Hands.

The Devil take me, faid fhe (bleffing her felf) if I ever faw't!

So fhe roar'd like a Bedlam, as tho' I had call'd her all to naught;

So, you know, what could I fay to her any

more,

I e'en left her, and came away as wife as I was before.

Well: But then they would have had me gone to the Cunning Man;

No, faid I, 'tis the fame Thing, the Chaplain, will be here anon.

"

So the Chaplain came in ; now the Servants fay, he is my Sweet-heart,

Because he's always in my Chamber, and I always take his Part;

So, as the Devil would have it, before I was aware, out I blunder'd,

Parfon, faid I, can you caft a Nativity, when a Body's plunder'd?

(Now you must know, he hates to be call'd Parfon, like the Devil.).

A

Truly, fays he, Mrs. Nab, it might become you to be more civil:

If your Money be gone, as a Learned Divine fays, d'ye lee,

.

You are no Text for my Handling, fo take that from më:

I was never taken for a Conjurer before, I'd have you to know.

Lord, faid I, don't be angry, I am fure, I never thought you fo;

You

You know, I honour the Cloth, I defign to be a Parfon's Wife.

I never took one in Your Coat for a Conjurer in all my Life.

With that, he twifted his Girdle at me like a Rope, as who fhould fay,

Now you may go hang your felf for me, and fo

went away.

Well, I thought, I fhould have fwoon'd; Lord, faid I, what fhall I do?

I have loft my Money, and fhall lofe my True

Love too.

Then my Lord call'd me; Harry, faid my Lord, don't cry,

I'll give fomething towards thy Lofs; and fays my Lady, fo will I.

Oh but, faid I, what if after all my Chaplain won't come to?

For that, he faid (an't please your Excellencies)
I muft Petition You. Tou

The Premiffes tenderly confider'd, I defire
Excellencies Protection, si

&

your

And that I may have a fhare in next Sunday's
Collection
And over and above, that I may have your Ex-
cellencies Letter,

With an Order for the Chaplain aforefaid; or inftead of him, a Better;

And then your poor Petitioner, both Night and
Day,
Or the Chaplain (for 'tis his Trade) as in Duty
bound, hall ever Pray

Lady BB-finding in the Author's Room Some Ver fes unfinished, under-writ a Stanza of her own, with

Raillery upon him, which gave Occafion to this Ballad.

August, 1702.

To the Tune of the Cutpurse.

O

Ι

NCE on a time, as old Stories rehearse, A Friar would needs fhew his Talent in Latin;

But was forely put to't in the

midst of a Merle,

Because he could find no word to come pat in.

Then all the Place

He left a void Space,

And fo went to Bed in a defperate Cafe.

O 3

When

When behold the next Morning, a wonderful Riddle,

He found it was ftrangely fill'd in the Middle. Cho. Let Cenfuring Criticks then think what they lift on't,

Who would not write Verfes with such an Affiant.

II.

This put me the Friar into an Amazement,
For he wifely confider'd it must be a Spirit,
That came through the Key-Hole, or in at the
Cafement,

And it needs must be one that could both
Read and Write:

Yet he did not know

If it were Friend or Foe,

Or, whether it came from Above or Below. Howe'er it was civil in Angel or Elf,

For he ne'er could have fill'd it fo well of himself. Cho. Let Cenfuring, &c.

III.

Even fo Mafter Doctor had puzzled his Brains
In making a Ballad, but was at a Stand,
He had mixt little Wit with a great deal of
Pains,

When he found a new Help from Invifible
Hand.

Then good Dr. S

Pay Thanks for the Gift,

For you freely must own you were at a dead Lift;

And tho' fome malicious young Spirit did do't, You may know by the Hand, it had no Cloven Foot.

Cho. Let Cenfuring Criticks then think what they lift

on't,

N! Who would not write Vorfes with Juch an Af-
Fftant.

V

's

V'S HOUSE

Built from the RUINS of WHITE-HALL that was Burnt.

Written, 1703.

N Times of Old, when Time was Young,
And Poets their own Verfes fung,

I

A Verfe could draw a Stone or Beam,
That now would overload a Team;
Lead 'em a Dance of many a Mile,
Then rear 'em to a goodly Pile.
Each Number had its diff'rent Pow'r;
Heroick Strains could build a Tow'r;
Sonnets, or Elogies to Chloris

Might raife a Houle about two Stories;
A Lyrick Ode would Slate; a Catch
Would Tile; an Epigram would Thatch.
BUT to their own, or Landlord's Coft,
Now Poets feel this Art is loft;
Not one of all our tuneful Throng
Can raife a Lodging for a Song.
For, Jove confider'd well the Cafe,
Obferv'd, they grew a num'rons Race.
And fhould they Build as fast as Write
'Twould ruin Undertakers quite. 'mo
This Evil, therefore to prevent,
He wifely chang'd their Element:

04

On