Thofe Fowl, who feem alive to fit,
Affembled by Dan Chaucer's Wit,
In Profe have flept three hundred Years,
Exempt from worldly Hopes and Fears,
And, laid in State upon their Hearse,
Are truly but embalm'd in Verfe.
As fure as Lefbia's Sparrow, I,
Thou, fure as Prior's Dove, must die;
And ne'er again, from Lethe's Streams,
Return to Adda, or to Thames.
T. I therefore weep Columbo dead,
My Hopes bereav'd, my Pleasures fled;
I therefore must for ever moan
My dear Columbo, dead and gone.
S. Columbo never fees your Tears,
Your Cries Columbo never hears;
A Wall of Brafs, and one of Lead,
Divide the Living from the Dead.
Repell'd by this, the gather'd Rain
Of Tears beats back to Earth again;
In t'other, the collected Sound
Of Groans, when once receiv'd, is drown'd. 'Tis therefore vain one Hour to grieve
What Time itself can ne'er retrieve.
By Nature foft, I know, a Dove
Can never live without her Love:
Then quit this Flame, and light another;
Dame, I advise you like a Brother.
T. What! I to make a fecond Choice? In other Nuptials to rejoice?
S. Why not, my Bird? T. No, Sparrow,
No;
Let me indulge my pleasing Woe:
Thus fighing, cooing, ease my Pain,
But never wish, nor love again :
Diftrefs'd for ever, let me moan
My dear Columbo, dead and gone.
S. Our winged Friends, thro' all the Grove, Contemn thy mad Excefs of Love:
I tell thee, Dame, the other Day,
I met a Parrot and a Jay,
Who mock'd thee in their mimic Tone,
And wept Columbo, dead and gone.
T. Whate'er the Jay or Parrot said,
My Hopes are loft, my Joys are fled;;
And I for ever must deplore
Columbo dead and gone.
For Shame forfake this Bion Stile,
We'll talk an Hour, and walk a Mile.
Does it with Senfe or Health agree,
To fit thus moping on a Tree"?
To throw away a Widow's Life,
When you again may be a Wife?
Come on, I'll tell you my Amours;
Who knows, but they may infl'ence yours:
Example draws, where Precept fails,
And Sermons are lefs read than Tales.
T. Sparrow, I take thee for my Friend, As fuch will hear thee; I defcend :
Hop on, and talk; but, honeft Bird,
Take Care that no immodeft Word
May venture to offend my Ear.
S. Too Saint-like Turtle, never fear,
By Method, Things are best discuss'd,
Begin we then with Wife the firft:
A handfome, fenfelefs, aukward Fool,
Who wou'd not yield, and cou'd not rule.
Her Actions did her Charms disgrace,
And ftill her Tongue talk'd off her Face:
Count me the Leaves on yonder Tree,
So many diff'rent Wills had fhe;
And, like the Leaves, as Chance inclin❜d,
Those Wills were chang'd with ev'ry Wind:
She courted the Beau-Monde To-night,
L'Affemblée, her fupreme Delight;
The next fhe fat immur'd, unseen,
And, in full Health, enjoy'd the Spleen.
She cenfur'd that, fhe alter'd this,
And, with great Care, fet all amifs :
She now cou'd chide, now laugh, now cry,
Now fing, now pout, all God knows why:
Short was her Reign, fhe cough'd and dy'd.--
Proceed we to my fecond Bride:
Well born fhe was, genteely bred,
And buxom both at Board and Bed;
Glad to oblige, and pleas'd to please,
And, as Tom Southern wifely says,
No other Fault had fhe in Life,
But only that he was my Wife.
Widow Turtle! ev'ry She,
(So Nature's Pleasure does decree)
Appears a Goddess till enjoy'd,
But Birds, and Men, and Gods are cloy'd.
Was Hercules one Woman's Man?
Or Jove for ever Leda's Swan?
Ah! Madam, cease to be mistaken,
Few marry'd Fowl peck Dunmow Bacon.
Variety alone gives Joy,
The sweetest Meats the fooneft cloy:
What Sparrow, Dame, what Dove alive,
Tho' Venus fhou'd the Char'ot drive,
But wou'd accufe the Harness Weight,
If always coupled to one Mate ?
And often wish the Fetter broke?
"Tis Freedom but to change the Yoke.
T. Impious, to wish to wed again,
E'er Death diffolv'd the former Chain.
S. Spare your Remark, and hear the reft,
She brought me Sons, but Jove be blest,
She dy'd in Child-bed on the Neft.
Well, reft her Bones, quoth I, fhe's gone;
But muft I therefore lie alone?
What am I to her Mem'ry ty'd ?
Muft I not live, because fhe dy'd ?
And thus I logically faid,
('Tis good to have a reas'ning Head)
Is this my Wife? Probatur, not;
For Death diffolv'd the Marriage-Knot:
She was, Concedo, during Life;
But, is a Piece of Clay a Wife?
Again, if not a Wife, d'ye fee,
Why then no Kin at all to me.
And he who gen'ral Tears can fhed
For Folks that happen to be dead,
May e'en with equal Justice mourn
For thofe, who never yet were born.
T. Those Points indeed you quaintly prove,
But Logic is no Friend to Love.
S: My Children then were juft pen-feather'd';
Some little Corn for them I gather'd ;-
And fent them to my Spouse's Mother,
So left that Brood to get another.
And as old Harry, whilome, faid,
Reflecting on Anne Boleyn dead,
Cockfbones, I now again do stand,
The jolly'ft Batchelor i' th' Land.
T. Ah me! my Joys, my Hopes are fled;
My firft, my only Love is dead.
With endless Grief let me bemoan
Columbo's Lofs. S. Let me go on.
As yet my Fortune was but narrow,
I woo'd my Coufin Philly Sparrow,
O' th' elder House of Chirping-End,
From whence the younger Branch descend;
Well feated in a Field of Pease
She liv'd, extremely at her Ease:.
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