20

Thy tarts to tarts, cheese-cakes to cheese-cakes join,
To spoil the relish of the flowing wine.
But to the fading palate bring relief,

By thy Weftphalian-ham, or Belgick-beef;
And, to complete thy bleffings in a word,
May still thy foil be generous as its lord!

II.

26

Oh! Peggy, Peggy, when thou go'st to brew,
Confider well what you're about to do;
Be very wife, very fedately think

That what you're going now to make is drink :
Confider who muft drink that drink, and then,
What 'tis to have the praise of honest men:
For furely, Peggy, while that drink does last,
'Tis Peggy will be toafted or disgrac'd.
Then, if thy ale in glass thou would'st confine,
To make its sparkling rays in beauty shine,
Let thy clean bottle be entirely dry,

30

Left a white fubftance to the furface fly,
And, floating there, difturb the curious eye.
But this great maxim must be understood,
Be fure, nay, very fure, thy cork is good!
Then future ages fhall of Peggy tell,
That nymph that brew'd and bottled ale fo well.

III.

}

40

How fleet is air! how many things have breath Which in a moment they refign to death; Depriv'd of light, and all their happiest state, Not by their fault but fome o'er-ruling fate.

45

Altho' fair flowers, that juftly might invite,
Are crop'd, nay, torn away, for man's delight;
Yet ftill thofe flowers, alas! can make no moan,
Nor has Narciffus now a power to groan.
But all those things which breath in different frame,
By tie of common breath, man's pity claim.
A gentle lamb has rhetorick to plead,

And, when she fees the butcher's knife decreed,
Her voice intreats him not to make her bleed.
But cruel gain, and luxury of taste,

51

55

With pride, ftill lays man's fellow-mortals waste : What earth and waters breed, or air inspires, Man for his palate fits by torturing fires.

Mully, a cow, fprung from a beauteous race, With spreading front, did Mountown's pastures

grace.

Gentle she was, and, with a gentle stream,

60

Each morn and night gave milk that equal'd cream. Offending none, of none she stood in dread,

Much less of persons which the daily fed:

But innocence cannot itself defend

65

'Gainft treacherous arts, veil'd with the name of

friend.

Robin of Darby-fhire, whofe temper fhocks
The conftitution of his native rocks;
Born in a * place, which, if it once be nam'd,
Wou'd make a blushing modesty asham'd :

* The Devil's Arfe of Peak.

70

He with indulgence kindly did appear
To make poor Mully his peculiar care,
But inwardly this fullen churlish thief
Had all his mind plac'd upon Mully's beef;
His fancy fed on her, and thus he'd cry,
Mully, as fure as I'm alive, you die :

75

'Tis a brave cow; O, Sirs, when Christmas

comes,

These fhins fhall make the porridge grac'd with

plums ;

Then, midft our cups, whilft we profusely dine, This blade shall enter deep in Mully's chine; What ribs, what rumps, what bak'd, boil'd, ftew'd, and roaft!

There shan't one fingle tripe of her be loft!

When Peggy, nymph of Mountown, heard these founds,

86

She griev'd to hear of Mully's future wounds.
What crime, fays fhe, has gentle Mully done?
Witness the rifing and the fetting fun,
That knows what milk fhe constantly would give!
Let that quench Robin's rage, and Mully live.

Daniel, a sprightly fwain, that us'd to flash The vigorous fteeds that drew his lord's calash, To Peggy's fide inclin'd, for 'twas well known How well he lov'd thofe cattel of his own.

Then Terence spoke, oraculous and sly,

He'd neither grant the queftion nor deny ; Pleading for milk, his thoughts were on mince

pye:

But all his arguments fo dubious were,

That Mully thence had neither hope nor fear.

ΙΟΙ

You've spoke, fays Robin; but now let me tell ye, "Tis not fair-spoken words that fill the belly; Pudding and beef I love, and cannot stoop To recommend your bonnyclapper foop. You fay she's innocent; but what of that? "Tis more than crime fufficient that she's fat: And that which is prevailing in this cafe Is, there's another cow to fill her place. And granting Mully to have milk in store, Yet ftill this other cow will give us more. She dies.-Stop here, my mufe; forbear the reft; And veil that grief which cannot be exprest.

105

THOU, to whofe eyes I bend; at whose command
(Tho' low my voice, tho' artless be my hand)
I take the sprightly reed, and fing, and play;
Careless of what the cenf'ring world may fay:
Bright Cloe, object of my constant vow,
Wilt thou a while unbend thy serious brow?

Wilt thou with pleasure hear thy lover's strains,
And with one heav'nly fmile o'erpay his pains?
No longer shall the Nut-brown Maid be old;

5

Tho' fince her youth three hundred years have roll'd.

At thy defire, fhe fhall again be rais'd;

II

And her reviving charms in lafting verse be prais'd.

See the "POEMS BY UNCERTAIN AUTHORS."

+ Born 1664; dyed 1721.