He strove to lengthen the campaign,
And save his forces by chicane.
Fabius, the Roman chief, who thus
By fair retreat grew Maximus,
Shows us, that all the warrior can do
With force inferior, is cunctando.
One day, then, as the foe drew near,
With love, and joy, and life, and dear;
Our Don, who knew this tittle-tattle
Did, sure as trumpet, call to battle;
Thought it extremely à propos,
To ward against the coming blow:
To ward; but how? Aye, there's the question,
Fierce the assault, unarm'd the bastion.
The Doctor feign'd a strange surprise;
He felt her pulse, he view'd her eyes:
That beat too fast, these roll❜d too quick;
She was, he said, or would be sick:
He judg'd it absolutely good
That she should purge and cleanse her blood.
Spaw waters for that end were got:
If they past easily or not
What matters it? the lady's fever
Continued violent as ever.
For a distemper of this kind,
(Blackmore and Hans* are of my mind)
If once it youthful blood infects,
And chiefly of the female sex,
Is scarce remov'd by pill or potion,
Whate'er might be our Doctor's notion
One luckless night, then, as in bed
The Doctor and the dame were laid,
* Sir Richard Blackmore, and Sir Edward Hans, physicians.
Again this cruel fever came,
High pulse, short breath, and blood in flame.
What measures shall poor Paulo keep
With madam in this piteous taking?
She, like Macbeth, has murder'd sleep,
And won't allow him rest, though waking.
Sad state of matters! when we dare
Nor ask for peace, nor offer war;
Nor Livy nor Comines have shown
What in this juncture may be done.
Grotius might own that Paulo's case is
Harder than any, which he places
Amongst his Belli and his Pacis.
He strove, alas! but strove in vain,
By dint of logic, to maintain
That all the sex was born to grieve,
Down to her ladyship from Eve.
He rang'd his tropes, and preach'd up patience;
Back'd his opinion with quotations,
Divines and moralists, and run ye on
Quite through from Seneca to Bunyan.*
As much in vain he bid her try
To fold her arms, to close her eye,
Telling her rest would do her good,
If any thing in nature cou'd;
So held the Greeks, quite down from Galen,
Masters and princes of the calling:
So all our modern friends maintain
(Though no great Greeks) in Warwick Lane.
Reduce, my Muse, the wandering song
A Tale should never be too long.
The more he talk'd, the more she burn'd, And sigh'd, and toss'd, and groan’d, and turn'd :
* Author of the Pilgrim's Progress.
At last, 'I wish,' said she, 'my dear'
(And whisper'd something in his ear.)
"You wish! wish on,' the Doctor cries,
'Lord! when will womankind be wise?
What, in your waters, are you mad?
Why, poison is not half so bad.
I'll do it but, I give you warning,
You'll die before to-morrow morning.'-
"'Tis kind, my dear, what you advise,
(The lady with a sigh replies)
But life, you know, at best is pain,
And death is what we should disdain:
So do it, therefore, and adieu,
For I will die for love of you.—
Let wanton wives by death be scar'd;
But, to my comfort, I'm prepar'd.'
WHEN poets wrote and painters drew,
As Nature pointed out the view;
Ere Gothic forms were known in Greece,
To spoil the well-proportion'd piece;
And in our verse ere Monkish rhymes
Had jangled their fantastic chimes;
Ere on the flowery lands of Rhodes
Those knights had fix'd their dull abodes,
Who knew not much to paint or write,
Nor car'd to pray, nor dar'd to fight;
Protogenes, historians note,
Liv'd there, a burgess, scot and lot;
And, as old Pliny's writings show,
Apelles did the same at Co.
Agreed these points of time and place,
Proceed we in the present case.
Piqued by Protogenes's fame,
From Co to Rhodes Apelles came,
To see a rival and a friend,
Prepar'd to censure, or commend;
Here to absolve, and there object,
As art with candour might direct.
He sails, he lands, he comes, he rings;
His servants follow with the things:
Appears the governante o' th' house,
For such in Greece were much in use;
If young or handsome, yea or no,
Concerns not me or thee to know.
'Does 'Squire Protogenes live here ?—
'Yes, sir, (says she, with gracious air,
And curt'sy low) but just call'd out
By lords peculiarly devout,
Who came on purpose, sir, to borrow
Our Venus, for the feast to-morrow,
To grace the church: 'tis Venus' day:
I hope, sir, you intend to stay
To see our Venus: 'tis the piece
The most renown'd throughout all Greece;
So like the' original, they say;
But I have no great skill that way.
But, sir, at six, ('tis now past three)
Dromo must make my master's tea:
At six, sir, if you please to come,
You'll find my master, sir, at home.'
Tea, says a critic, big with laughter,
Was found some twenty ages after:
Authors, before they write, should read. 'Tis very true; but we'll proceed.
And, sir, at present would you please To leave your name'-' Fair maiden, yes: Reach me that board.' No sooner spoke But done. With one judicious stroke On the plain ground Apelles drew A circle regularly true.
And will you please, Sweetheart,' said he,
To shew your master this from me?
By it he presently will know
How painters write their names at Co.'
He gave the pannel to the maid:
Smiling, and curt'sying, 'Sir,' she said,
'I shall not fail to tell my master:
And, sir, for fear of all disaster,
I'll keep it my own self: Safe bind,
Says the old proverb, and safe find.
So, sir, as sure as key or lock-
Your servant, sir-at six a clock.'
Again at six Apelles came,
Found the same prating civil dame :
'Sir, that my master has been here,
Will by the board itself appear:
If from the perfect line he found,
He has presum❜d to swell the round,
Or colours on the draught to lay,
'Tis thus (he ordered me to say)
Thus write the painters of this isle ;
Let those of Co remark the style.'
She said and to his hand restor'd
The rival pledge, the missive board.
Upon theappy line were laid
Such obvious light and
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