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Such is the virgin, in my eyes,

That lives, loves, marries, ere she dies. Like a call without anon, sir, Or a question and no answer; Like a ship was never rigg'd, Or a mine was never digg’d; Like a wound without a tent, Or civet box without a scent;

Just such as these may she be said

That lives, ne'er loves, but dies a maid. The anon, sir, doth obey the call, The question answer'd pleaseth all; Who rigs a ship sails with the wind, Who digs a mine doth treasure find; The wound by wholesome tent hath ease, The box perfumed the senses please:

Such is the virgin, in my eyes,

That lives, loves, marries, ere she dies. Like marrowbone was never broken, Or commendations and no token; Like a fort and none to win it, Or like the moon and no man in it; Like a school without a teacher, Or like a pulpit and no preacher :

Just such as these may she be said

That lives, ne'er loves, but dies a maid. The broken marrowbone is sweet, The token doth adorn the greet; There's triumph in the fort, being won, The man rides glorious in the moon; The school is by the teacher still’d, The pulpit by the preacher fill’d:

Such is the virgin, in my eyes,

That lives, loves, marries, ere she dies.
Like a cage without a bird,
Or a thing too long deferr’d;
Like the gold was never tried,
Or the ground unoccupied ;
Like a house that's not possess'd,
Or the book was never press'd :

Just such as these may she be said

That lives, ne'er loves, but dies a maid.
The bird in cage doth sweetly sing,
Due season prefers every thing;
The gold that's tried from dross is pured,
There's profit in the ground manured;
The house is by possession graced,
The book when press'd is then embraced :

Such is the virgin, in my eyes,
That lives, loves, marries, ere she dies.

F. BEAUMONT.

THE PROGRESS OF POETRY.

1720.

THE farmer's goose, who in the stubble
Has fed without restraint or trouble,
Grown fat with corn, and sitting still,
Can scarce get o'er the barn-door sill,
And hardly waddles forth to cool
Her belly in the neighbouring pool,
Nor loudly cackles at the door,
For cackling shows the goose is poor.

But when she must be turn'd to graze, And round the barren common strays, Hard exercise and harder fare Soon make my dame grow lank and spare ; Her body light, she tries her wings, And scorns the ground, and upward springs, While all the parish, as she flies, Hears sounds harmonious from the skies.

Such is the poet, fresh in pay
(The third night's profits of his play),
His morning draughts till noon can swill
Among his brethren of the quill;
With good roast beef his belly full,
Grown lazy, foggy, fat, and dull,
Deep sunk in plenty and delight,
What poet e'er could take his flight ?
Or, stuff’d with phlegm up to the throat,
What poet e’er could sing a note ?
Nor Pegasus could bear the load
Along the high celestial road;
The steed, oppress'd, would break his girth
To raise the lumber from the earth.

But view him in another scene,
When all his drink is Hippocrene,
His money spent, his patrons fail,
His credit out for cheese and ale,
His two-years' coat so smooth and bare,
Through every thread it lets in air,
With hungry meals his body pined,
His guts and belly full of wind,
And, like a jockey for a race,
His flesh brought down to flying case;
Now his exalted spirit loathes
Incumbrances of food and clothes,

And up he rises like a vapour
Supported high on wings of paper;
He singing flies, and flying sings,
While from below all Grub-street rings.

SWIFT.

THE

GRAND QUESTION DEBATED,

1

WHETHER HAMILTON'S BAWN* SHOULD BE TURNED

INTO A BARRACK OR A MALTHOUSE ?

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1

THUS spoke to my lady the knight t, full of care;

Let me have your advice in a weighty affair.
This Hamilton's Bawnt, while it sticks on my hand,
I lose by the house what I get by the land;
But how to dispose of it to the best bidder,
For a Barrack 9 or Malthouse, we now must con-

sider.
. First, let me suppose I make it a malthouse,
Here I have computed the profit will fall to us ;
There's nine hundred pounds for labour and grain,
I increase it to twelve, so three hundred remain;
A handsome addition for wine and good cheer,
Three dishes a day, and three hogsheads a year.

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A bawn was a place near the house, enclosed with mud or stone walls, to keep the cattle from being stolen in the night. They are now little used.

+ Sir Arthar Acheson, at whose seat it was written.

| A large old house, two miles from Sir Arthur Acheson's seat.

The army in Ireland is lodged in strong buildings over the whole kingdom, called barracks.

With a dozen large vessels my vault shall be stored,
No little scrub joint shall come on my board;
And you and the Dean no more shall combine
To stint me at night to one bottle of wine ;
Nor shall I, for his humour, permit you to purloin
A stone and a quarter of beef from my sirloin.
If I make it a Barrack, the crown is my tenant;
My dear! I have ponder'd again and again on't;
In poundage and drawbacks I lose half my rent;
Whatever they give me, I must be content,
Or join with the court in every debate,
And rather than that I would lose my estate.'
Thus ended the knight; thus began his meek

wife :
• It must, and it shall be a Barrack, my life!
I'm grown a mere mopus; no company comes
But a rabble of tenants and rusty dull rums*.
With parsons what lady can keep herself clean?
I'm all overdaub'd when I sit by the Dean.
But if you will give us a Barrack, my dear!
The captain, I'm sure, will always come here:
I then shall not value his deanship a straw,
For the captain, I warrant, will keep him in awe;
Or should he pretend to be brisk and alert,
Will tell him that chaplains should not be so pert;
That men of his coat should be minding their

prayers, And not among ladies to give themselves airs,'

Thus argued my lady, but argued in vain ; The knight his opinion resolved to maintain. But Hannah t, who listen’d to all that was pass’d, And could not endure so vulgar a taste, * A cant word in Ireland for a poor country clergy man, + My lady's waiting woman.

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