And, what exalts the Wonder more,

The Number made the Motion slow'r.
The Flyer, tho't had Leaden Feet,

Turn'd round so quick, you scarce could see't;
But slacken'd by some secret Power,
Now hardly moves an Inch an Hour.
The Jack and Chimney near ally'd,
Had never left each other's Side;
The Chimney to a Steeple grown,
The Jack would not be left alone,
But up against the Steeple rear'd,
Became a Clock, and still adher'd:
And still its Love to Houshold Cares
By a shrill Voice at Noon declares,
Warning the Cook-maid, not to burn
That Roast-meat which it cannot turn.

The groaning Chair began to crawl
Like an huge Snail along the Wall;
There stuck aloft, in publick View,
And with small change, a Pulpit grew.
The Porringers, that in a Row
Hung high, and made a glittʼring Show,
To a less noble Substance chang'd,
Were now but Leathern Buckets rang'd.
The Ballads pasted on the Wall,
Of Joan of France, and English Moll,
Fair Rosamond, and Robin Hood,
The Little Children in the Wood,
Now seem'd to look abundance better,
Improv'd in Picture, Size, and Letter
And high in Order plac'd, describe
The Heraldry of ev'ry Tribe.

3202

A Bedstead of the Antique Mode,
Compact of Timber many a Load,
Such as our Ancestors did use,
Was Metamorphos'd into Pews;
Which still their ancient Nature keep,
By lodging Folks dispos'd to Sleep.

The Cottage, by such Feats as these,
Grown to a Church by just Degrees,
The Hermits then desir'd their Host
To ask for what he fancy'd most.
Philemon, having paus'd awhile,
Return'd 'em Thanks in homely Style;
Then said, My House is grown so fine,
Methinks I still would call it mine:
I'm old, and fain would live at Ease,
Make me the Parson, if you please.
He spoke, and presently he feels
His Grazier's Coat fall down his Heels;
He sees, yet hardly can believe,
About each Arm a Pudding-sleeve;
His Wastcoat to a Cassock grew,
And both assum'd a sable Hue;
But being Old, continu'd just
As Thread-bare, and as full of Dust.
His Talk was now of Tythes and Dues;
He smok'd his Pipe, and read the News;
Knew how to preach old Sermons next,
Vamp'd in the Preface and the Text;
At Christ'nings well could act his Part,
And had the Service all by Heart;
Wish'd Women might have Children fast,
And thought whose Sow had farrow'd last:

Against Dissenters would repine,

And stood up firm for Right Divine:
Found his Head fill'd with many a System,
But Classick Authors,-he ne'er miss'd 'em.
Thus having furbish'd up a Parson,
Dame Baucis next they play'd their Farce on:
Instead of Home-spun Coifs were seen
Good Pinners edg'd with Colberteen:
Her Petticoat transform'd apace,

Became black Sattin flounc'd with Lace.
Plain Goody would no longer down,
'Twas Madam, in her Grogram Gown.
Philemon was in great Surprize,
And hardly could believe his Eyes,
Amaz'd to see her look so prim;
And she admir'd as much as Him.

Thus, happy in their Change of Life,
Were several Years this Man and Wife:
When on a Day, which prov'd their last,
Discoursing o'er old Stories past,
They went by chance, amidst their Talk,
To the Church-yard to take a Walk;
When Baucis hastily cry'd out,

My Dear, I see your Forehead sprout!

Sprout, quoth the Man, What's this you tell us?

I hope you don't believe me Jealous:

But yet, methinks, I feel it true;
And really, Yours is budding too-
Nay, now I cannot stir my Foot:
It feels as if 'twere taking Root.

Description would but tire my Muse:
In short, they both were turn'd to Yews.

43

Old Goodman Dobson of the Green
Remembers he the Trees has seen;
He'll talk of them from Noon to Night,
And goes with Folks to shew the Sight:
On Sundays, after Evening Prayer,
He gathers all the Parish there;
Points out the Place of either Yew;
Here Baucis, there Philemon grew :
Till once, a Parson of our Town,
To mend his Barn, cut Baucis down;
At which, 'tis hard to be believ'd,
How much the other Tree was griev'd,
Grew scrubby, dy'd a-top, was stunted:
So, the next Parson stubb'd and burnt it.

Written 1706; Poetical Miscellanies, vi, 1709

In Sickness

Written soon after the Author's coming to live in Ireland, upon the Queen's Death, October 1714

IS true, then why should I repine,

TTo see my

Life so fast decline?

But, why obscurely here alone?

Where I am neither lov'd nor known.
My State of Health none care to learn;
My Life is here no Soul's Concern.
And those with whom I now converse,
Without a Tear will tend my Herse.
Remov'd from kind Arbuthnot's Aid,
Who knows his Art, but not the Trade;
Preferring his Regard for me
Before his Credit, or his Fee.

44

Some formal Visits, Looks, and Words,
What meer Humanity affords,

I meet perhaps from three or four,
From whom I once expected more:
Which those who tend the Sick for Pay
Can act as decently as they :
But no obliging tender Friend
To help at my approaching End.
My Life is now a Burden grown
To others, e'er it be my own.

Ye formal Weepers for the Sick,
In your last Offices be quick :
And spare my absent Friends the Grief
To hear, yet give me no Relief;
Expir'd To-day, entomb'd To-morrow,
When known, will save a double Sorrow.

T

Stella's Birth-Day

March 13. 1726/7

Miscellanies, v, 1735

"HIS Day, whate'er the Fates decree,
Shall still be kept with Joy by me:

This Day then, let us not be told,
That you are sick, and I grown old,
Nor think on our approaching Ills,
And talk of Spectacles and Pills;
To morrow will be Time enough
To hear such mortifying Stuff.

Yet, since from Reason may be brought
A better and more pleasing Thought,
Which can, in spite of all Decays,

Support a few remaining Days: