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“ Nor soul nor body ever more
" Shall serve the nymph whom you adoré ;
“ But both be laid at Satan's feet,
“ To be dispos'd as he thinks meet.”

At once the lover all approves ;
For who can hesitate that loves ?
And thus he argues in his thought:

Why, after all, I venture nought;
“ What mystery is in commanding?
“Does that require much understanding ?
“ Indeed, wert my part to obey,
“ He'd go the better of the lay :
“ But he must do what I think fit---
“ Píhaw, pihaw, young Belzebub is bit.”

Thus pleas'd in mind, he calls a chair,
Adjusts, and combs, and courts the fair :
The spell takes place, and all goes right,
And happy he employs the night
In fweet embraces balmy kifles,
And riots in the bliss of blisses.

O joy,” cried he, “ that has no equal!"
But hold---no raptures---mark the sequel.
For now, when near the morning's dawn,
The youth began as 'twere to yawn;
His eyes a filky slumber seiz’d,
Or would have done, if Pug had pleas'd:
But that officious Dæmon near,
Now buzz'd for business in his ear;
In haste, he names a thousand things :
The goblin plies his wicker wings,

And

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And in a trice returns to ask
Another and another task.
Now palaces are built and towers,
The work of ages in few hours.
Then storms are in an instant rais'd,
Which the next moment are appeas’d.
Now showers of gold and gems are rain'd,
As if each India had been drain'd :
And he, in one astonish'd view,
Sees both Goloonda and Peru.
These things, and stranger things than these,
Were done with equal speed and ease.
And now to Rome poor Pug he 'll send ;
And Pug soon reach'd his journey's end,
And soon return'd with such a pack
Of bulls and pardons at his back,
That now, the Squire (who had some hope
In holy water and the pope)
Was out of heart, and at a stand
What next to wish, and what command;
Invention flags, his brain grows muddy,
And black despair succeeds brown study.
In this distress the woeful youth
Acquaints the nymph with all the truth,
Begging her counsel, for whose fake
Both foul and body were at stake,
“ And is this all ?" replies the fair:
“ Let me alone to cure this care.
• When next your Dæmon shall appear,

Pray give him-.-look, what I hold here,

" And

" And bid him labour, foon or late, * To lay these ringlets lank and strait." Then, something scarcely to be seen, Her finger and her thumb between She held, and sweetly smiling, cry'd, “ Your Goblin's skill shall now be try'd.”

She said ; and gave---what shall I call That thing so thining, crisp, and small, Which round his finger strove to twine? A tendril of the Cyprian vine ? Or sprig from Cytherea's grove ; Shade of the labyrinth of love? With awe, he now takes from her hand That fleece-like flower of fairy land : Less precious, whilom, was the fleece Which drew the Argonauts from Greece ? Or that, which modern ages see The fpur and prize of chivalry, Whose curls of kindred texture grace Heroes and kings of Spanish race.

The spark prepar'd, and Pug at hand, He issues, thus, his strict command : “ This line, thus curve and thus orbicular, “ Render direct, and perpendicular ; “ But fo direct, that in no sort “ It ever may in rings retort. “ See me no more till this be done : “ Hence, to thy talk---avaunt, be gone."

Away the fiend like lightning flies, And all his wit to work applies :

Anvils and presses he employs,
And dins whole hell with hammering noise.
In vain : he to no terms can bring
One twirl of that reluctant thing;
Th’ elastic fibre mocks his pains,
And its first spiral form retains.
New stratagems the sprite contrives,
And down the depths of sea he dives :
“ This sprunt its pertness sure will lose
“ When laid (said he) to soak in ooze.”
Poor foolish fiend! he little knew
Whence Venus and her garden grew.
Old Ocean, with paternal waves
The child of his own bed receives ;
Which oft as dipt new force exerts,
And in more vigorous curls reverts.
So when to earth Alcides flung
The huge Antæus, whence he sprung,
From

every fall fresh strength he gain’d,
And with new life the fight maintain'd.
The baffled Goblin grows perplex’d,
Now knows what flight to practise next :
The more he tries, the more he fails;
Nor charm, nor art, nor force avails.
But all concur his shame to show,
And more exafperate the foe.

And now he pensive turns and fad,
And looks like melancholic mad.
He rolls his eyes now off, now on
That wonderful phænomenon.

Same

Sometimes he twists and twirls it round,
Then, pausing, meditates profound :
No end he fees of his surprize,
Nor what it should be can devise :
For never yet was wool or feather,
That could stand buff against all weather ;
And unrelax'd, like this, resist
Both wind and rain, and snow and mist.
What stuff, or whence, or how 'twas made,
What spinster which could spin such thread,
He nothing knew; but, to his cost,
Knew all his fame and labour lost.
Subdued, abash’d, he gave it o'er ;
'Tis said, he blush’d; 'tis sure, he swore
Not all the wiles that hell could hatch
Could conquer that Superb Mustach.
Defeated thus, thus discontent,
Back to the man the Dæmon went :

I grant," quoth he, our contract null,

And give you a discharge in full, “But tell me now, in name of wonder,

(Since I so candidly knock under) “What is this thing? Where could it grow?

Pray take it---'tis in statu quo. “Much good may't do you ; for my part, “ I wash my hands of 't from my

heart.” In truth, Sir Goblin or Sir Fairy,Replies the lad,“ you 're too soon weary. “ What, leave this trifling task undone ! “And think'st thou this the only one ?

* Alas!

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