For better fruit did never orchard bear:

Give me some slip of this most blissful tree,
And in my garden planted it shall be.'

Then how two wives their lords' destruction

prove,

Thro' hatred one, and one thro' too much love;
That for her husband mix'd a poisonous draught,
And this for lust an amorous philtre bought :
The nimble juice soon seiz'd his giddy head,
Frantic at night, and in the morning dead.
How some with swords their sleeping lords

have slain,

And some have hammer'd nails into their brain,
And some have drench'd them with a deadly potion:
All this he read, and read with great devotion.
Long time I heard, and swell'd, and blush'd,
and frown'd;

But when no end of these vile tales I found,
When still he read, and laugh'd, and read again,
And half the night was thus consum❜d in vain,
Provok'd to vengeance, three large leaves I tore,
And with one buffet fell'd him on the floor.
With that my husband in a fury rose,
And down he settled me with hearty blows.
I groan'd, and lay extended on my side;
'Oh! thou hast slain me for my wealth,' I cried!
'Yet I forgive thee-take my last embrace-'
He wept, kind soul! and stoop'd to kiss my face:
I took him such a box as turn'd him blue,
Then sigh'd and cried, Adieu, my dear, adieu!'

296

THE POEMS OF POPE.

But after many a hearty struggle past, I condescended to be pleas'd at last.

6

Soon as he said, My mistress and my wife!
Do what you list the term of all your life;'
I took to heart the merits of the cause,
And stood content to rule by wholesome laws;
Receiv'd the reins of absolute command,
With all the government of house and land,
And empire o'er his tongue and o'er his hand.
As for the volume that revil'd the dames,
'Twas torn to fragments, and condemn'd to flames.

Now Heaven on all my husbands gone bestow Pleasures above for tortures felt below:

That rest they wish'd for grant them in the grave, And bless those souls my conduct help'd to save!

IMITATIONS OF ENGLISH POETS.

IMITATIONS OF ENGLISH POETS.

CHAUCER.

WOMEN ben full of ragerie,

Yet swinken nat sans secresie.
Thilke moral shall ye understond,

From schoole-boy's tale of fayre Irelond;
Which to the fennes hath him betake,
To filche the grey ducke fro the lake.
Right then there passen by the way
His aunt, and eke her daughters tway.
Ducke in his trowses hath he hent,
Not to be spy'd of ladies gent.
"But ho! our nephew," crieth one;
"Ho!" quoth another, " Cozen John;"
And stoppen, and lough, and callen out-
This sely clerke full low doth lout:
They asken that, and talken this,
"Lo, here is coz, and here is miss."
But, as he glozeth with speeches soote,
The ducke sore tickleth his erse roote:
Fore-piece and buttons all-to-brest
Forth thrust a white neck and red crest.