The three kind fifters broke the chain,
She dy'd, I mourn'd, and woo'd again.
T. Let.me with jufter grief deplore
My dear Columbo, now no more;
Let me with conftant tears bewail-
S. Your forrow does but spoil my tale.
My FIFTH, fhe prov'd a jealous wife,
Lord fhield us all from fuch a life;
'Twas doubt, complaint, reply, chit-chat,
'Twas THIS, to day; to-morrow, THAT.
Sometimes, forfooth, upon the brook
I kept a Mifs; an honeft Rook
Told it a Snipe, who told a Steer,
Who told it THOSE who told it HER.
One day a Linnet and a Lark
Had met me strolling in the dark;
The next a Woodcock and an Owl,
Quick-fighted, grave, and sober fowl,
Would on their corporal oath alledge,
A kifs'd a Hen behind the hedge.
Well; madam Turtle, to be brief,
(Repeating but renews our grief.)
As once the watch'd me from a rail,
(Poor foul!) her footing chanc'd to fail,
And down the fell, and broke her hip;
The FEVER came, and then the PIP:
Death did the only cure apply;
She was at quiet, fo was I.
T. Could Love unmov'd thefe changes view! His forrows, as his joys, are true.
S. My dearest Dove, one wife man fays, Alluding to our prefent cafe,
"We're here to-day, and gone to-morrow:"
Then what avails fuperfluous forrow!
Another, full as wife as he,
Adds; that "a marry'd man may fee
"Two happy hours;" and which are they?
The FIRST and LAST, perhaps you 'Il fay.
'Tis true, when blithe fhe goes to bed,
And when the peaceably lies dead,
"Women 'twix fheets are belt, 'tis faid,
"Be they of holland, or of lead."
Now, cur'd of Hymen's hopes and fears,
And fliding down the vale of years,
I hop'd to fix my future reft,
And took a widow to my neft,
(Ah, Turtle! had the been like thee,
Sober, yet gentle; wife, yet free!)
But he was peevish, noify, bold,
A witch ingrafted on a scold.
Jove in Pandora's box confin'd
A hundred ills, to vex mankind :
To vex one bird, in her bandore,
He had at least a hundred more.
And, foon as Time that veil withdrew,
The plagues o'er all the parish flew;
Her ftock of borrow'd tears grew dry,
And native tempefts arm'd her eye;
Black clouds around her forehead hung,
And thunder rattled on her tongue.
We, young or old, or Cock or Hen,
All liv'd in Eolus's den;
The nearest her, the more accurft,
Ill far'd her friends, her husband worst.
But Jove amidst his anger fpares,
Remarks our faults, but hears our prayers.
Why then she's dead,
Quoth I, and once again I'll wed.
Would heaven, this mourning year were paft!
One may have better luck at laft.
Matters at worft are fure to mend,
The devils wife was but a fiend.
T. Thy tale has rais'd a Turtle's spleen,
Uxorious inmate! bird obscene !
Dar'ft thou defile thefe facred groves,
Thefe filent feats of faithful loves?
Be gone, with flagging wings fit down
On fome old pent-house near the town;
In brewers' ftables peck thy grain,
Then wash it down with puddled rain;
And hear thy dirty offspring fquall
From bottles on a fuburb-wall.
Where thou haft been, return again,
Vile Bird! thou haft convers'd with Men;
Notions like these from Men are given,
Thofe vileft creatures under Heaven.
To Cities and to Courts repair,
Flattery and Falsehood flourish there;
There all thy wretched arts employ,
Where riches triumph over joy;
Where paffion does with interest barter,
And Hymen holds by Mammon's charter ;
Where Truth by point of Law is parry'd,
And Knaves and Prudes are fix times marry'd.
WRITTEN LONG AFTER THE TALE.
Dearest Daughter of two dearest Friends, To thee my Mufe this little Tale commends. Loving and lov'd, regard thy future mate, Long love his perfon, though deplore his fate; Scem young when old in thy dear husband's arms, For conftant virtue has immortal charms. And, when I lie low fepulchred in earth,
And the glad year returns thy day of birth, Vouchsafe to fay, "Ere I could write or fpell. "The bard, who from my cradle wish'd me well, "Told me I should the prating Sparrow blame, "And bad me imitate the Turtle's flame."
Lady Margaret Cavendish Harley.
To kiss the fair Maids, and poffefs the rich Fleece; Nor fing I Æneas, who, led by his mother,
Got rid of one Wife, and went far for another.
Derry down, down, hey derry down.
* Down-Hall is in the county of Effex. It is three miles fouth-east from Hatfield Broad Oak Church, molt beautifully feated on a rifing ground, above a stream which
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