Ah, Witherington! more years thy life had crown'd,
If thou hadst never heard the horn or hound!
Yet shall the 'squire, who fought on bloody stumps,
By future bards be wail'd in doleful dumps.

109

All in the land of Essex next he chants,
How to sleek mares starch quakers turn gallants:
How the grave brother stood on bank so green-
Happy for him if mares had never been!

Then he was seiz'd with a religious qualm,
And on a sudden sung the hundredth psalm.
He sung of
Taffey Welch, and Sawney Scot,
Lilly-bullero, and the Irish Trot.

Why should I tell of Bateman, or of Shore,
Or Wantley's Dragon, slain by valiant Moor,
The Bower of Rosamond, or Robin Hood,

And how the grass now grows where Troy town

His carols ceas'd: the listening maids and swains Seem still to hear some soft imperfect strains.

Sudden he rose; and, as he reels along,
Swears kisses sweet should well reward his song.
The damsels laughing fly: the giddy clown
Again upon a wheat-sheaf drops adown;

The power that guards the drunk, his sleep attends,
Till ruddy, like his face, the Sun descends.

Ver. 109. A song of Sir J. Denham's. See his poems.

Ver. 112.

Et fortunatam, si nunquam armenta fuissent,
Pasiphaen.

VIRG.

Ver. 117. Quid loquar aut Scyllam Nisi, &c.

Ver. 117-120. Old English ballads.

FABLE.

THE FARMER'S WIFE AND THE RAVEN.

"WHY are those tears? why droops your head? Is then your other husband dead?

Or does a worse disgrace betide ?
Hath no one since his death apply'd ?"
"Alas! you know the cause too well;

The salt is spilt, to me it fell;
Then, to contribute to my loss,
My knife and fork were laid across;
On Friday too! the day I dread!
Would I were safe at home in bed!
Last night (I vow to Heaven 'tis true)
Bounce from the fire a coffin flew.

Next post some fatal news shall tell :
God send my Cornish friends be well!"
"Unhappy Widow, cease thy tears,
Nor feel affliction in thy fears;
Let not thy stomach be suspended;
Eat now, and weep when dinner's ended;
And, when the butler clears the table,
For thy desert I'll read my Fable."

Betwixt her swagging panniers' load
A Farmer's Wife to market rode,
And, jogging on, with thoughtful care,
Summ'd up the profits of her ware;
When, starting from her silver dream,
Thus far and wide was heard her scream.

"That Raven on yon left-hand oak (Curse on his ill-betiding croak!)

302

Bodes me no good." No more she said,
When poor blind Ball, with stumbling tread,
Fell prone; o'erturn'd the pannier lay,
And her mash'd eggs bestrow'd the way.
She, sprawling in the yellow road,
Rail'd, swore, and curs'd: "Thou croaking toad,
A murrain take thy whoreson throat!

I knew misfortune in the note."

"Dame," quoth the Raven, "spare your oaths,
Unclench your fist, and wipe your clothes.
But why on me those curses thrown?
Goody, the fault was all your own;
For, had you laid this brittle ware
On Dun, the old sure-footed mare,
Though all the Ravens of the hundred
With croaking had your tongue out-thundered,
Sure-footed Dun had kept her legs,
And you, good woman, sav'd your eggs."

FABLE.

THE TURKEY AND THE ANT.

In other men we faults can spy,
And blame the mote that dims their eye,
Each little speck and blemish find;
To our own stronger errours blind.

A Turkey, tir'd of common food,
Forsook the barn, and sought the wood;
Behind her ran an infant train,
Collecting here and there a grain.

"Draw near, my birds! the mother cries, This hill delicious fare supplies;

Behold the busy negro race,

See millions blacken all the place!
Fear not; like me, with freedom eat;
An Ant is most delightful meat.
How bless'd, how envy'd, were our life,
Could we but 'scape the poulterer's knife,
But man, curs'd man, on Turkeys preys,
And Christmas shortens all our days.
Sometimes with oysters we combine,
Sometimes assist the savoury chine;
From the low peasant to the lord,
The Turkey smokes on every board,
Sure men for gluttony are curs'd,
Of the seven deadly sins the worst."

An Ant, who climb'd beyond his reach, Thus answer'd from the neighbouring beech:

"Ere you remark another's sin,

Bid thy own conscience look within ;

Control thy more voracious bill,
Nor for a breakfast nations kill."

MATTHEW GREEN.

MATTHEW

ATTHEW GREEN, a truly original poet, was born, probably at London, in 1696. His parents were respectable Dissenters, who brought him up within the limits of the sect. His learning was confined to a little Latin; but, from the frequency of his classical allusions, it may be concluded that what he read when young, he did not forget. The austerity in which he was educated had the effect of inspiring him with settled disgust; and he fled from the gloom of dissenting worship when he was no longer compelled to attend it. Thus set loose from the opinions of his youth, he speculated very freely on religious topics, and at length adopted the system of outward compliance with established forms and inward laxity of belief. He seems at one time to have been much inclined to the principles of Quakerism; but he found that its practice would not agree with one who lived " by pulling off the hat." We find that he had obtained a place in the Custom-house, the duties of which he is said to have discharged with great diligence and fidelity. It is further attested, that he was a man of great