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My treafure now they seize, the golden fpoil.
They bury deep beneath the grass-grown foil,
Far in the common field. Be bold, arise,
My steps shall lead thee to the fecret prize ;
There dig and find ; let that thy care reward:..
Call loud on justice, bid her not retard
To punish murder ; lay my ghost at reit:
So fhall with peace fecure thy nights be bleft;
And, when beneath these boards my bones are found,
Decent inter them in some facred ground.

Here ceas’d the ghost. The stranger springs from bed,
And boldly follows where the phantom led :
'The half-worn ftony stairs they now defcend,
Where paffages obscure their arches bend.
Silent they walk; and now through groves they pass,
Now through wet meads their steps imprint the grass.
At length amidit a spacious field they came :
There stops the spectre, and afcends in flame.
Amaz'd he stood, no bush or brier was found,
To teach his morning search to find the ground.
What could he do? the night was hideous dark,
Fear shook his joints, and nature dropt the mark:
With that he starting wak’d, and rais’d his head,
But found the golden mark was left in bed.

What is the statesman's vait ambitious fchemę,
But a short vision and a golden dream?
Power, wealth, and title, elevate his hope ;
He wakes : but, for a garter, finds a rope.

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A PRUDE, at morn and evening prayers

Had worn her velvet-cushion bare ;
Upward the taught her eyes to roll,
As if the watch'd her foaring foul;
And, when devotion warm'd the croud,
None fung, or smote their breast fo loud :
Pale Penitence had mark'd her face
With all the meagre signs of grace.
Her mass-book was compleatly lin'd
With painted Saints of various kind:
But, when in every page she view'd
Fine Ladies who the flesh fubdu’d,
As quick her beads the counted o'er,
She cry'd Such wonders are no more!
She chose not to delay confeffion,
To bear at once a year's transgression ;
But
every

week set all things even,
And balanc'd her accounts with Heaven.

Behold her now in humble guise, Upon her knees with down-cast eyes C 2

Before

Before the Priest: she thus begins,
And, fobbing, blubbers-forth her fins :
• Who could that tempting man relift;
“ My virtue languish'd, as he kiss'd;
" I strove till I could strive no longer :
“ How can the weak subdue the stronger ?”

The Father ask'd her where and when?
How many ? and what sort of men ?
By what degrees her blood was heated ?
How oft the frailty was repeated ?
Thus have I seen a pregnant wench
All flush'd with guilt before the bench :
The Judges (wak'd by wanton thought)
Dive to the bottom of her fault;
They leer, they fimper at her shame,
And make her call all things by name.

And now to sentence he proceeds,
Prescribes how oft to tell her beads;
Shews her what Saints could do her good,
Doubles her fasts, to cool her blood.
Eas’d of her fins, and light as air,
Away she trips, perhaps to prayer.
'Twas no such thing. Why then this haite ?
The clock has struck, the hour is part ;
And, on the spur of inclination,
She scorn'd to bilk her aslignation.

Whate'er she did, next week the came,
And piously confeft the same.

The

The Priest, who female frailties pity'd,
First chid her, then her fins remitted.

But did she now her crime bemoan
In penitential sheets alone ?
And was no bold, no beastly fellow
The nightly partner of her pillow ?
No, none : for next time in the grove:
A bank was conscious of her love..

Confession-day was come about, And now again it all must out. She seems to wipe her twinkling eyes : “ What now, my child ?" the Father cries. “ Again !” says she.-With threatening looks, He thus the proftrate dame rebukes :

“ Madam, I grant there's something in it, " That virtue has th' unguarded minute ; “ But pray now tell me what are whores, “ But women of unguarded hours ? “ Then you must sure have lost all shame.. “ What! every day, and still the same, “ And no fault else! 'tis strange to find " A woman to one fin confin'd! “ Pride is this day her darling paflion, “ The next day Slander is in fashion ;

Gaming succeeds ; if Fortune crosses, “ Then Virtue 's mortgag'd' for her losses

By use her favourite vice she loaths, « And loves new follies like new. cloaths : “ But you, beyond all thought unchafte, “ Have all sin center'd near your waist !

C 3

~ Whence

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“ Whence is this appetite fo Atrong?
“ Say, Madam, did your mother long?
“ Or is it luxury and high diet
“ That won't let virtue sleep in quiet?"
She tells him now, with meekeft voice,
That she had never err’d by choice ;
Nor was there known a virgin chafter,
Till ruin’d by a fad disaster.

That she a favourite lap-dog had,
Which (as the stroak'd and kiss’d) grew mad;
And on her lip a wound indenting,
First fet her youthful blood fermenting,

The Priest reply'd, with zealous fury, You should have fought the means to cure ye. Doctors by various ways, we find, “ Treat these distempers of the mind.

“ Let gaudy ribbands be deny'd To her who raves with scornful pride; “ And, if religion crack her notions,

Lock-up her volumes of devotions ; • But, if for man her rage prevail, Bar her the sight of creatures male. “ Or else, to cure such venom'd bites, “ And set the shatter'd thoughts arights ;

They send you to the ocean's shore, “ And plunge the patient o'er and o'er."

The dame reply'd, “ Alas ! in vain

My kindred forc'd me to the main ; “ Naked, and in the face of day : Look not, ye fishermen, this way!

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