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My goodly Stock, e'er yet they tafted Food, By cross-grain'd Hinds were driv'n from their Abode,

Tho' left bad Neighbours might have ow'd me


I fore-hand taid a Houfe to give me Right,
With bonny Sufan where I hop'd to dwell,
But now I prove that Proverb on mysell *,
Which fays, that one Grief brings another on,
Too fure, alas! and mine will ne'er have done,
For Sufan, whom I thought my Sweetheart true,
When as my Croffes came 'gan look askue;
And what than all befide my Heart most pains,
For landed Roger, now my Love difdains,

Roger not to be nam'd with me, I trow,
More than Muckmidden † vile, with Barley


But Roger has a House in yonder Lane,
And my fad Lofs proves ev'ry Way his Gain;
Yet wilt thou, Sufan? wilt thou, selfish Lass!
For Sake of fordid Wealth, thy Love debase?
No, do not think Content is in mich Store,
But be to Robin kind, as heretofore,
And we'll in Love be blefs'd, tho' Snaith
Marsh be no more.

Alas! will Roger e'er his Sleep forego? Afore Larks fing, or early Cock 'gin crow, As I've for thee, ungrateful Maiden, done, To help thee milking, e'er Day-wark begun,

* Self.

+ Dunghill,


And when thy well-ftript Kye would yield

no more,

Still on my Head the reeking + Kit I bore.
And, oh! bethink thee, then, what lovesome

We've held together ganging down the Balk‡,
Maundring at Time which wou'd na|| for us

But now, I ween, mais ¶ no fuch Haste away.
Yet, O! return eftfoon**, and ease my Woe,
And to fome diftant Parish let us go,

And there again them leetfome ++ Days re-

Where unaffail'd by meety ‡‡ Folk in Pow'r, Our Cattle yet may feed, tho' Snaith Marsh be no more.

But wae is me, I wot, I fand §§ am grown,
Forgetting Sufan is already gone,

And Roger aims || e'er Lady-day to wed,
The Bands laft Sunday in the Church were bid;
But let me, let me, first i'th' Churchyard lig¶¶,
For foon I there must gang, my Grief's so big.
All others in their Lofs fome Comfort find,
Tho' Ned's like me reduc'd, yet Jenny's kind,

* Cow.

+ Pail.

Paths and Carriages.

A Land in the Field for Foot§ Finding Fault.

Makes. ** An old Word for very foon.

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Mighty Men.

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¶¶ Be laid.

Not. tt Light§§ Foolish or

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And tho' his Fleece no more our Parfon takes, And roaft Goose dainty Food, his Table lacks, Yet he for Tythes ill-paid, gets better Land, While I am ev'ry Way o'th' lofing Hand:


My Adlings war'd, and yet my Rent to pay, My Geefe, like Sufan's Faith, flown far away, My Cattle, like their Mafter, lank and poor, My Heart with hopeless Love to Pieces tore, And all these Sorrows came, fyne Snaith Marsh was no more.

* Earnings.




ROM a fine Lady to her Maid,
A Gown defcended of Brocade,
French? Yes from Paris-that's enough,
That wou'd give Dignity to Stuff.
By Accident, or by Defign,


Or from fome Caufe, I can't divine,
A Linen Rag (fad Source of Wrangling!)
On a contiguous Peg was dangling,
Vilely befmear'd-for late its Master
It ferv'd in Quality of Plaister.


The Gown, contemptuous Beholder,

Gave a French Shrug from either Shoulder,
And rustling with Emotion furious,
Bespoke the Rag in Terms injurious:

Unfit for Tinder, Lint, or Fodder, "Thou Thing of Filth, and (what is odder) "Discarded from thy Owner's Iflue, "Dare you approach Brocade and Tissue ? or in this Place

"Instant away

"Be gar me give you Coup de Grace."

To this reply'd the honeft Rag, Who likes a Jeft, and was a Wag,

Tho' thy glib Tongue without an Halt run, Thou fhabby, fecond-hand, Subaltern, • At once fo antient and so easy, At once fo gorgeous and fo greasy, • I value not your gafconading, Nor all your A-la-mode parading. But to abstain from Words imperious, And to be fober, grave, and serious, (Tho', fays Friend Horace, 'tis no Treafon At once to giggle, and to Reason)

. When me you leffen, Friend, you dream,
For know I am not what I feem.
Soon by the Mill's refining Motion,
The sweetest Daughter of the Ocean,
Fair Medway fhall with fnowy Hue,
My Virgin Purity renew,
And give me re-inform'd Existence,
A good Retention and Subfiftence.

< Then


• Then shall the Sons of Genius join
To make my fecond Life divine.
O Murray, let me then dispense,
Some Portion of thy Eloquence;
For Greek and Roman Rhetoric shine,
< United and improv'd in thine.
The fpirit-ftirring Sage alarms,
• And Ciceronian Sweetness charms.-
• Th' Athenian Akenfide may deign,
To ftamp me deathless with his Pen,
While flows, approv'd by all the Nine,
• Th' immortal Soul of ev'ry Line.
Perhaps, ev'n all-accomplish'd Gray,
May grace me with a Doric Lay,
• With sweet, with manly Words of Woe,
That nervously pathetic flow.

• What, Mason, may I owe to you,
Learning's first Pride, and Nature's too:
On thee fhe caft her sweetest Smile,
‹ And gave thee Art's correcting file e;
That File, which with affiduous Pain,
The Viper Envy bites in vain.

Such Glories my mean Lot betide;
Hear, tawdry Fool, and check thy Pride.
Thou, after fcouring, dying, turning,
(If haply you escape a Burning)
From Gown to Petticoat defcending,
• And in a Beggar's Mantle ending,


⚫ Shalt

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