I bore these loffes with a christian mind,

And no mishaps could feel, while thou wert kind.
But fince, alas! I grew my Collin's scorn,
I've known no pleasure, night, or noon, or morn.
Help me, ye gypfies, bring him home again,
And, to a conftant lafs, give back her fwain.
Have I not fat with thee full many a night,
When dying embers were our only light,
When ev'ry creature did in flumbers lie,
Befides our cat, my Collin Clout, and I?
No troublous thoughts the cat or Collin move,
While I alone am kept awake by love.

Remember, Collin, when at last year's wake,
I bought the coftly prefent for thy fake;
Couldst thou spell o'er the pofie on thy knife,
And with another change thy ftate of life?
If thou forget'ft, I wot, I can repeat ;
My memory can tell the verfe fo sweet.
"As this is grav'd upon this knife of thine,
"So is thy image on this heart of mine."
But woe is me! Such prefents luckless prove;
For knives, they tell me, always fever love.

Thus Marian wail'd, her eyes with tears brimfull,
When goody Debbins brought her cow to bull.
With apron blue to dry her tears fhe fought,
Then faw the cow well ferv'd, and took a groat.

WEDNESDAY;

WEDNESDAY;

O R,

THE DU M P S.

SPARABELLA.

HE wailings of a maiden I recite,

TH

A maiden fair, that Sparabella hight.

Such ftrains ne'er warble in the linnet's throat,
Nor the gay goldfinch chaunts fo fweet a note.
No magpye chatter'd, nor the painted jay,
No ox was heard to low, nor afs to bray;
No rufling breezes play'd the leaves among,
While thus her madrigal the damfel fung.
Awhile, O D'Urfey, lend an ear or twain,
Nor, though in homely guife, my verfe difdain;
Whether thou feek'ft new kingdoms in the fun,
Whether thy mufe does at Newmarket run,
Or does with goffips at a feaft regale,

And heighten her conceits with fack and ale;
Or else, at wakes, with Joan and Hodge rejoice,
Where D'Urfey's lyrics fwell in ev'ry voice;
Yet fuffer me, thou bard of wond'rous meed,
Amid thy bays to weave this rural weed.

Now the fun drove adown the western road,
And oxen laid at rest forget the goad;

The

The clown fatigu'd trudg'd homeward with his spade,
Across the meadows ftretch'd the lengthen'd fhade:
When Sparabella, penfive and forlorn,

Alike with yearning love and labour worn,
Lean'd on her rake, and, ftrait, with doleful guife,
Did this fad plaint in mournful notes devife.
Come night, as dark as pitch, furround my head,
From Sparabella Bumkinet is fled;

The ribbon that his val'rous cudgel won,
Laft Sunday happier Clumfilis put on.

Sure, if he'd eyes (but love, they say, has none)
I whilom by that ribbon had been known.
Ah, well a-day, I'm fhent with baneful fmart,
For with that ribbon he bestow'd his heart.

My plaint, ye laffes, with this burthen aid, "Tis hard fo true a damfel dies a maid.

Shall heavy Clumfilis with me compare?
View this, ye lovers, and like me despair.
Her blubber'd lip by fmutty pipes is worn,
And in her breath tobacco whiffs are born;
The cleanly cheese-prefs fhe could never turn,
Her aukward fift did ne'er employ the churn;
If e'er the brew'd, the drink wou'd ftrait go four,
Before it ever felt the thunder's power:

No hufwifry the dowdy creature knew;
To fum up all, her tongue confefs'd the fhrew.
My plaint, ye laffes, with this burthen aid,
'Tis hard fo true a damfel dies a maid.
I've often feen my vifage in yon lake.
Nor are my features of the homelieft make.

VOL. I.

H

Though

Though Clumfilis may boast a whiter dye,
Yet the black floe turns in my rolling eye;
And faireft bloffoms drop with ev'ry blast;
But the brown beauty will like hollies laft.
Her wan complexion's like the wither'd leek,
While Katherine pears adorn my ruddy cheek.
Yet the, alas! the witless lout hath won ;
And, by her gain, poor Sparabell's undone !
Let hares and hounds in coupling straps unite,
The clocking hen make friendship with the kite;
Let the fox fimply wear the nuptial noofe,
And join in wedlock with the waddling goofe;
For love hath brought a stranger thing to pass,
The fairest fhepherd weds the fouleft lass.

My plaint, ye laffes, with this burthen aid, "Tis hard fo true a damfel dies a maid.

Sooner fhall cats difport in waters clear, And fpeckled mackrels graze the meadows fair, Sooner fhall fcreech-owls bask in funny day, And the flow afs on trees, like squirrels, play; Sooner fhall fnails on infect pinions rove, Than I forget my fhepherd's wonted love. My plaint, ye laffes, with this burthen aid, 'Tis hard fo true a damfel dies a maid.

Ah! didft thou know what proffers I withftood, When late I met the fquire in yonder wood! To me he sped, regardless of his game,

While all my cheek was glowing red with shame; My lip he kiss'd, and prais'd my healthful look, Then from his purse of filk a guinea took,

Into my hand he forc'd the tempting gold,
While I with modest struggling broke his hold.
He swore that Dick, in liv'ry strip'd with lace,
Should wed me foon, to keep me from difgrace;
But I nor footman priz'd, nor golden fee;
For what is lace, or gold, compar'd to thee?
My plaint, ye laffes, with this burthen aid,
"Tis hard fo true a damfel dies a maid.

Now plain I ken whence Love his rife begun.
Sure he was born fome bloody butcher's fon,
Bred up in fhambles, where our younglings flain,
Erft taught him mifchief, and to fport with pain.
The father only filly fheep annoys,

The fon the fillier shepherdess destroys.'
Does fon or father greater mischief do?
The fire is cruel, fo the fon is too.

My plaint, ye laffes, with this burthen aid, 'Tis hard fo true a damfel dies a maid.

Farewel, ye woods, ye meads, ye ftreams that flow; A fudden death fhall rid me of my woe.

This penknife, keen, my windpipe shall divide.
What, shall I fall as fqueaking pigs have dy'd!
No-To fome tree this carcafe I'll fufpend.
But worrying curs find fuch untimely end!
I'll speed me to the pond, where the high stool
On the long plank hangs o'er the muddy pool,
That ftool, the dread of every scolding quean;
Yet, fure a lover fhould not dye fo mean?
There plac'd aloft, I'll rave and rail by fits,
Though all the parish say I've lost my wits;