The Fiend, (who never wants Addrefs
To fuccour Damsels in Distress)

Appearing, told her he perceiv'd

The fatal Caufe for which she griev'd;
But promis'd her en Cavalier,

She fhou'd be freed from all her Fear;

And with her Thyrfis lead a Life
Devoid of all Domestick Strife,
If she wou'd fign a certain Scrawl-
Ay, that she wou'd, if that was all.
She Sign'd, and he ingag'd to do
Whate'er the pleas'd to fet him to.

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

Machines, to difengage the Muse,

We're

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 cenfur'd? 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 fhe wanted;
A Slave devoted to her Will:

But Women will be wav'ring ftill.
Ev'n Vice without Variety

Their fqueamish Appetites will cloy.

And having ftol'n from Lady Abbefs

One of our merry modern Rabbies,

She found a Trick fhe thought wou'd pass, And prove the Devil but an Afs.

His next Attendance happen'd right
Amidst a Moonless stormy Night,
When Madam and her Spouse together,
Guefs'd at his coming by the Weather.
He came: To-night, fays 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 rofie Vicar and a Quack.

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

Yet

Yet this I will affirm is true,

It curl'd like any Bottle-Scrue.

Sir Nic, quoth fhe, you know us all,
We Ladies are fantastical :

You fee this Hair-Tes, Madam-Pray

In presence of my Husband stay,

And make it ftrait: or elfe you grant

Our folemn League and Covenant

Is void in Law.

It is, I own it:

And fo he fets 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 the Elaftic Motion.

Well! more ways may be found than one,

To kill a Witch that will not drown.

If I, quoth he, conceive its nature, This Hair has flourish'd nigh the Water.

'Tis crifp'd with Cold, perhaps, and then The Fire will make it strait again.

In hafte 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 fhou'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!

At