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The Fiend, (who never wants Address
To succour Damsels in Distress)
Appearing, told her he perceiv'd
The fatal Cause for which she griev'd;
But promis'd her en Cavalier,
She shou'd be freed from all her Fear;
And with her Thyrsis lead a Life
Devoid of all Domestick Strife,
If she wou'd sign a certain Scrawl-
Ay, that she wou'd, if that was all.
She Sign'd, and he ingag’d to do
Whate’er she pleas'd to set him to.

The Criticks must excuse me now; They both were freed, no matter how: For when we Epic Writers use Machines, to disengage the Muse,

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We're clean acquit of all Demands,
The Matter's left in abler Hands;
And if they cannot loose the Knot,
Shou'd we be censurd? I think not.

The Scene thus alter'd, both were gay,
For Pomp and Pleasures who but they,
Who might do ev'ry thing but pray?
Madam in her gilt Chariot flaunted,
And Pug brought ev'ry thing she wanted;
A Slave devoted to her Will:
But Women will be wav'ring still.
Ev’n Vice without Variety
Their fqueamish Appetites will cloy.
And having stol’n from Lady Abbess
One of our merry modern Rabbies,
She found a Trick she thought wou'd pass,
And prove the Devil but an Ass.

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His next Attendance happen'd right Amidst a Moonless stormy Night, When Madam and her Spouse together, Guess’d at his coming by the Weather. He came: To-night, says he, I drudge To fetch a Heriot for a Judge; A gouty nine-i'th’-hundred Knave: But, Madam, do you want your Slave? I need not presently be gone, Because the Doctors have not done. A rosie Vicar and a Quack. Repuls'd me in my last Attack, But all in vain, for mine he is; A Fig for both the Faculties!

The Dame produc'd a single Hair, But whence it came I cannot fwear;

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Yet this I will affirm is true,
It curl'd like any Bottle-Scrue.
Sir Nic; quóth she, you know us all,
We Ladies are fantastical :
You see this Hair - Yes, Madam-Pray
In presence of my Husband stay,
And make it strait: or else you grant
Our solemn League and Covenant
Is void in Law. It is, I own it:
And so he sets to work upon it.

He tries, not dreaming of a Cheat,
If wetting wou'd not do the feat:
And 'twas, in truth, a proper Notion;
But still it kept thê Elastic Motion.
Well! more ways may be found than one,
To kill a Witch that will not drown.

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If I, quoth he, conceive its nature,
This Hair has flourish'd nigh the Water.
'Tis crisp'd with Cold, perhaps, and then
The Fire will make it strait again.
In haste he to the Fire applies it,
And turns it round and round, and eyes it.
Heigh jingo, worse than 'twas before!
The more it warms it twirls the more.
He stamp'd his cloven Foot, and chaf'd;
The Husband and the Lady laugh’d.

Howe'er he fancy'd fure enough He shou'd not find it Hammer-proof. No Cyclops e’er at work was warmer, At forging Thunder-bolts or Armour, Than Satan was: but all in vain ; Again he beats.

It curls again!

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