Spa waters for that end were got:
If they pass'd easily or not,
What matters it? the lady's fever
Continued violent as ever.

For a distemper of this kind,
(Blackmore1 and Hans 2 are of my mind,)
If once it youthful blood infects,
And chiefly of the female sex,
Is scarce remov'd by pill or potion;
Whate'er might be our doctor's notion.
One luckless night then, as in bed
The doctor and the dame were laid;
Again this cruel fever came,

High pulse, short breath, and blood in flame.
What measures shall poor Paulo keep

With madam in this piteous taking?

She, like Macbeth, has murder'd sleep,
And won't allow him rest though waking.
Sad state of matters! when we dare
Nor ask for peace, nor offer war ;
Nor Livy nor Comines have shown,
What in this juncture may be done.
Grotius might own, that Paulo's case is
Harder than any which he places
Amongst his Belli and his Pacis.

He strove, alas! but strove in vain,
By dint of logic to maintain,
That all the sex was born to grieve,
Down to her ladyship from Eve.

1 Sir Richard Blackmore.

2 Sir Edward Hannes.

He rang'd his tropes, and preach'd up patience;
Back'd his opinion with quotations,

Divines and moralists; and run ye on
Quite through from Seneca to Bunyan.1
As much in vain he bid her try

To fold her arms, and close her eye;
Telling her, rest would do her good,
If any thing in nature could:

So held the Greeks quite down from Galen,
Masters and princes of their calling:
So all our modern friends maintain
(Though no great Greeks) in Warwick-lane.
Reduce, my Muse, the wandering song:
A tale should never be too long.

The more he talk'd, the more she burn'd,
And sigh'd, and toss'd, and groan'd, and turn'd:
At last, I wish, said she, my dear-
(And whisper'd something in his ear.)
You wish! wish on, the doctor cries :
Lord! when will womankind be wise?
What, in your waters? are you mad?
Why poison is not half so bad.
I'll do it but I give you warning:
You'll die before to-morrow morning.-
'Tis kind, my dear, what you advise;
The lady with a sigh replies !
But life, you know, at best is pain;
And death is what we should disdain.

1 John Bunyan, author of the Pilgrim's Progress.

So do it, therefore, and adieu:

For I will die for love of you.—
Let wanton wives by death be scar'd:
But, to my comfort, I'm prepar'd.

THE LADLE.

THE sceptics think, 'twas long ago,
Since gods came down incognito:
To see who were their friends or foes,
And how our actions fell or rose:

That since they gave things their beginning,
And set this whirligig a spinning;
Supine they in their Heaven remain,
Exempt from passion, and from pain.
And frankly leave us human elves,
To cut and shuffle for ourselves:
To stand or walk, to rise or tumble,
As matter, and as motion jumble.
The poets now, and painters hold
This thesis both absurd and bold:
And your good-natur'd gods, they say,
Descend some twice or thrice a-day:
Else all these things we toil so hard in,
Would not avail one single farthing:
For, when the hero we rehearse,
To grace his actions and our verse;

'Tis not by dint of human thought,
That to his Latium he is brought;
Iris descends by Fate's commands,
To guide his steps through foreign lands:
And Amphitrite clears the way
From rocks and quicksands in the sea.
And if you see him in a sketch
(Though drawn by Paulo or Carache),
He shews not half his force and strength,
Strutting in armour, and at length:
That he may take his proper figure,
The piece must yet be four yards bigger:
The nymphs conduct him to the field;
One holds his sword, and one his shield:
Mars, standing by, asserts his quarrel;
And Fame flies after with a laurel.

These points, I say, of speculation
(As 'twere to save or sink the nation)
Men idly-learned will dispute,
Assert, object, confirm, refute:

Each mighty angry, mighty right,
With equal arms sustains the fight;
Till now no umpire can agree 'em :
So both draw off and sing Te Deum.
Is it in equilibrio,

If deities descend or no?

Then let the affirmative prevail,
As requisite to form my tale:
For by all parties 'tis confest,
That those opinions are the best,

Which in their nature most conduce
To present ends, and private use.

Two gods came therefore from above,
One Mercury, the other Jove:
The humour was (it seems) to know,
If all the favours they bestow,

Could from our own perverseness ease us;
And if our wish enjoy'd would please us.
Discoursing largely on this theme,
O'er hills and dales their godships came;
Till, wellnigh tir'd and almost night,
They thought it proper to alight.

Note here, that it as true as odd is,
That in disguise a god or goddess
Exerts no supernatural powers;
But acts on maxims much like ours.

They spied at last a country farm,
Where all was snug, and clean, and warm;
For woods before and hills behind

Secur'd it both from rain and wind:

Large oxen in the fields were lowing:

Good grain was sow'd; good fruit was growing:

Of last year's corn in barns great store;

Fat turkeys gobbling at the door :

And wealth (in short) with peace consented
That people here should live contented:
But did they in effect do so?

Have patience, friend, and thou shalt know.
The honest farmer and his wife,

To years declin'd from prime of life,