Thus, POPE! in vain, you boast your wit! You had not writ a line! Of SHERLOCK thus, for preaching famed, MARY THE COOK-MAID'S LETTER TO [THE REV.] DOCTOR SHERIDAN. Written in the year 1723. WELL! if ever I saw such another man, since my mother bound my head! You, a Gentleman! Marry, come up! I wonder, where you were bred? I am sure, such words do not become a Man of your Cloth! I would not give such language to a dog! faith and troth! Yes! You called my Master' a Knave!' Fie! Mr. SHERIDAN ! 'tis a shame For a Parson, who should know better things, to come out with such a name! 'Knave' in your teeth, Mr. SHERIDAN! 'Tis both a shame and a sin; And the Dean, my Master, is an honester man than you and all your kin! He has more goodness in his little finger, than you have in your whole body! My Master is a parsonable man; and not a spindle-shanked hoddydoddy! And now whereby I find you would fain make an excuse, Because my Master, one day, in anger, called you 'Goose!' Which, and I am sure I have been his servant four years since October, And he never called me worse than 'Sweet-heart!', drunk or sober. Not that I know that his Reverence was ever concerned, to my know ledge; Though you and your come-rogues keep him out so late, in your wicked College. You say, 'You will eat grass on his grave!' A Christian eat grass! But that's as much as to say, That my Master should die before ye! Well! Well! That 's as God pleases! and I don't believe that 's a true story! And so say, I told you so! and you may go tell my Master! What care I! Everybody knows that I love to tell truth, and shame the Devil! Besides, you found fault with our vittels, one day that you were here; I remember it was upon a Tuesday, of all days in the year! And SAUNDERS, the Man, says, You are always jesting and mocking. 'MARY,' said he, one day, as I was mending my Master's stocking, 'My Master is so fond of that Minister, that keeps the School! I thought my Master was a wise man; but that man makes him a fool!' 'SAUNDERS,' says I, 'I would rather than a quart of ale, He would come into our kitchen; and I would pin a dish-clout to his tail !' And now, I must go, and get SAUNDERS to direct this letter! For I write but a sad scrawl! but my sister MARGET, she writes better. Well! but I must run, and make the bed, before my Master comes from Prayers. And see now, it strikes ten! and I hear him coming upstairs. Whereof I could say more to your Verses, if I could write written hand: And so I remain, in a civil way, Your servant to command, MARY. A SONG FOR THE LUTE. GENTLY, my Lute! move ev'ry string! Of slighted vows, and cold disdain. In vain, her Airs! in vain, her art! And see, She smiles! Through all the groves Clap all your wings, ye little Loves! Ye list'ning oaks, bend to my Song! Ye rocks, and harder hearts, obey! She comes! She comes! relenting Fair! What faithful Lover can despair, Who thus with Verse and Music charms! A HUNTING SONG. BEHOLD, my friend! the rosy-fingered Morn, Pearls from each bush distil! Arise! Arise! and hail the light new-born! 6 Hark! Hark! The merry horn calls, Come away!' Quit, quit thy downy bed! Break from AMYNTA's arms! O, let it ne'er be said That all, that all her charms (Though she's as VENUS fair!) can tempt thy stay! Perplex thy soul no more with cares below! For what will pelf avail? Thy courser paws the ground, Each beagle cocks his tail, They spend their months around; While health and pleasure smile on every brow! Try, Huntsmen! all the brakes! spread all the plain! Strip! Strip! with speed pursue! Who fain our sport would view, See! See! he flogs his fiery steeds in vain! Pour down, like a flood from the hills, brave Boys! On the wings of the wind, The merry beagles fly! Ye shrill echoes, reply! Catch each flying sound; and double our joys! Ye rocks, woods, and caves, our music repeat! A gay refulgent Train, O'er yon celestial plain, Like us, whirl along in concert so sweet! Now Puss threads the brakes, and heavily flies! At the head of the pack Old Fidler bears the bell! Every foil he hunts back, Till forced into view, she pants, and she dies! |