A widow fomewhat old, and very poor: Deep in a cell her cottage lonely ftood, The cattle in her homestead were three fows, A maple-dreffer in her hall fhe had, On which full many a slender meal she made; Brown bread, and milk, (but first she skim'd her bowls) And rashers of fing'd bacon on the coals. On holy days an egg, or two at most; A yard she had with pales enclos'd about, Some high, fome low, and a dry ditch without. Within this homeftead, liv'd, without a peer, For crowing loud, the noble Chanticleer ; So hight her cock, whose finging did surpass The merry notes of organs at the mass. More certain was the crowing of the cock To number hours, than is an abbey-clock; And fooner than the mattin-bell was rung, He clap'd his wings upon his rooft, and fung: For when degrees fifteen afcended right, By sure instinct he knew 'twas one at night. High was his comb, and coral-red withal, In dents embattell'd like a castle wall; His bill was raven-black, and fhone like jet; Blue were his legs, and orient were his feet: White were his nails, like filver to behold, His body glitt'ring like the burnifh'd gold. This gentle cock, for folace of his life Six miffes had, besides his lawful wife; Scandal that fpares no king, tho ne'er fo good, Says, they were all of his own flesh and blood, His fifters both by fire and mother's fide; And fure their likenefs fhow'd them near ally'd. But make the worst, the monarch did no more, Than all the Ptolemys had done before: When inceft is for intereft of a nation, 'Tis made no fin by holy difpenfation. Some lines have been maintain'd by this alone, Which by their common uglinefs are known. But paffing this as from our tale apart, Dame Partlet was the fovereign of his heart: Ardent in love, outrageous in his play, He feather'd her a hundred times a day! And she that was not only paffing fair, But was withal difcreet, and debonair, Refolv'd the paffive doctrine to fulfil, Tho loth; and let him work his wicked will: At board and bed was affable and kind, According as their marriage-vow did bind, And as the church's precept had injoin'd. Ev'n fince she was a fennight old, they say, Was chafte and humble to her dying day, Nor chick nor hen was known to disobey. By this her husband's heart fhe did obtain ; What cannot beauty, join'd with virtue, gain! She was his only joy, and he her pride, She, when he walk'd, went pecking by his fide; But oh! what joy it was to hear him fing For in the days of yore, the birds of parts It happ'd that perching on the parlour-beam Amidst his wives, he had a deadly dream, Juft at the dawn; and figh'd, and groan'd fo faft, Heard all his piteous moan, and how he cry'd My princely fenfes not recover'd yet. |