Nothing can fave him but divorce,
And here the wife complains of courfe.
When, fays the Boy, had I to do
With either your affairs or you?
I never idly fpend my darts;
You trade in mercenary hearts:
For fettlements the lawyer's feed,
Is my hand witnefs to the deed?
If they like cat and dog agree,
Go rail at Plutus, not at me.

Plutus appear'd, and faid: 'Tis true,
In marriage, gold is all their view;
They feek not beauty, wit, or sense,
And love is feldom the pretence.
All offer incense at my fhrine,
And I alone the bargain fign.
How can Belinda blame her fate?
She only afk'd a great eftate.
Doris was rich enough, 'tis true,
Her Lord muft give her title too :
And every man, or rich or poor,
A fortune afks, and afks no more.
Av'rice, whatever fhape it bears,
Muft ftill be coupled with its cares.

XIV. The TAME STAG.

Sa young Stag a thicket pafs'd,
The branches held his antlers faft;
A clown, who faw the captive hung,
Across the horns his halter flung.

Now, fafely hamper'd in the cord,
He bore the prefent to his lord:
His lord was pleas'd; as was the clown,
When he was tipt with half-a-crown.
The Stag was brought before his wife,
The tender lady begg'd his life.

How

How fleek's the skin, how speck'd like ermine!
Sure never creature was fo charming!

At first within the yard confin'd,
He flies and hides from all mankind;
Now bolder grown, with fixt amaze,
And diftant awe, prefumes to gaze;
Munches the linen on the lines,
And on a hood or apron dines;
He fteals my little mafter's bread,
Follows the fervants to be fed;
Nearer and nearer now he ftands,
To feel the praife of patting hands;
Examines every fift for meat,
And tho' repuls'd, difdains retreat;
Attacks again with levell'd horns,
And man, that was his terror, fcorns.
Such is the country maiden's fright,
When first a red-coat is in fight,
Behind the door the hides her face,
Next time at diftance eyes the lace;
She now can all his terrors ftand,
Nor from his fqueeze withdraws her hand:
She plays familiar in his arms,
And every foldier hath his charms;
From tent to tent she spreads her flame,
For custom conquers fear and fhame.

XV. The MONKEY who had feen the World.

A Monkey, to reform the times,

Refolv'd to vifit foreign climes;
For men in diftant regions roam,
To bring politer manners home.
So forth he fares, all toil defies;
Misfortunes ferve to make us wife.
At length the treach'rous fnare was laid,
Poor Pug was caught, to town convey'd,

There

There fold: (How envy'd was his doom)
Made captive in a lady's room!
Proud as a lover of his chains,
He day by day her favour gains.
Whene'er the duty of the day
The toilette calls, with mimic play
He twirls her knots, he cracks her fan,
Like any other gentleman.

In vifits too his parts and wit,
When jefts grow dull, were fure to hit.
Proud with applaufe, he thought his mind
In every courtly art refin'd,

Like Orpheus burnt with public zeal,
To civilize the Monkey-weal;

So watch'd occafion, broke his chain,
And fought his native woods again.

The hairy fylvans round him prefs,
Aftonifh'd at his ftrut and dress;
Some praife his fleeve, and others glote
Upon his rich embroider'd coat;
His dapper perriwig commending,
With the black tail behind depending;
Mis powder'd back,-above, below,
Like hoary frofts, or fleecy fnow;
But all, with envy and defire,
His flutt'ring fhoulder-knot admire.

Hear and improve, he pertly cries,

I come to make a nation wife:

Weigh your own worth,-support your place,
The next in rank to human race.

In cities long I pafs'd my days,
Convers'd with men, and learnt their ways
Their drefs, their courtly manners fee,
Reform your ftate, and copy me.
Seek ye to thrive? In flatt'ry deal,
Your fcorn, your hate, with that conceal;
Seem only to regard your friends,
But ufe them for your private ends;

Stint not to truth your flow of wit,
Be prompt to lie, whene'er 'tis fit;
Bend all your force to fpatter merit;
Scandal is converfation's fpirit;
Boldly to every thing pretend,

And men your talents fhall commend;
I knew the Great. Obferve me right,
So fhall you grow like man polite.

He spoke, and bow'd. With mutt'ring jaws,
The wond'ring circle grinn'd applaufe.
Now, warm with malice, envy, fpite,
Their moft obliging friends they bite;
And fond to copy human ways,
Practife new mifchiefs all their days.
Thus the dull lad, too tall for fchool,
With travel finishes the fool;

Studious of every coxcomb's airs,

He drinks, games, dreffes, whores, and fwears;
O'erlooks with fcorn all virtuous arts,

For vice is fitted to his parts.

XVI. The PHILOSOPHER and the PHEASANTS.

HE Sage, awak'd at early day,

TH

Thro' the deep foreft took his way;
Drawn by the mufic of the groves,
Along the winding gloom he roves;
From tree to tree, the warbling throats
Prolong the fweet alternate notes.
But where he paft he terror threw,
The fong broke fhort, the warblers flew ;
The thrushes chatter'd with affright,
And nightingales abhorr'd his fight;
All animals before him ran,
To fhun the hateful fight of man.
Whence is this dread of every creature?
Fly they our figure or our nature?

As

As thus he walk'd in mufing thought,
His ear imperfect accents caught;
With cautious ftep he nearer drew,
By the thick fhade conceal'd from view:
High on the branch a Pheasant stood,
Around her all her lift'ning brood;
Proud of the bleflings of her neft,
She thus a mother's care exprefs'd:-
No dangers here fhall circumvent,
Within the woods enjoy content.
Sooner the hawk or vulture truft
Than man,-of animals the worst;
In him ingratitude you find,
A vice peculiar to the kind.

The fheep, whofe annual fleece is dy'd
To guard his health, and ferve his pride;
Forc'd from his fold and native plain,
Is in the cruel fhambles flain.

The fwarms, who, with induftrious skill,
His hives with wax and honey fill;
In vain whole fummer days employ'd,
Their ftores are fold, the race destroy'd.
What tribute from the goofe is paid!
Does not her wing all fcience aid?
Does it not lovers' hearts explain,
And drudge to raife the merchant's gain?
What now rewards this gen'ral ufe?
He takes the quills, and eats the goofe.
Man then avoid, deteft his ways,
So fafety fhall prolong your days.
When fervices are thus acquitted,
Be fure we Pheasants must be spitted.

XVII. The