So, when I went to put up my purse, as luck would have it, my smock was unript,

And instead of putting it into my pocket, down it slipt: Then the bell rung, and I went down to put my lady to bed: And, God knows, I thought my money was as safe as my stupid head!

So, when I came up again, I found my pocket feel very light: But when I search'd, and miss'd my purse, law! I thought I should have sunk outright.

"Lawk, madam," says Mary, "how d'ye do?" "Indeed," says I, "never worse.

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But pray, Mary, can you tell what I've done with my purse? Lawk, help me!" said Mary, “I never stirr'd out of this place:

"Nay," said I, “I had it in Lady Betty's chamber, that's a plain case.'

So Mary got me to bed, and cover'd me up warm :

However, she stole away my garters, that I might do myself no harm.

So I tumbled and toss'd all night, as you may very well think,
But hardly ever set my eyes together, or slept a wink.
So I was a-dreamed, methought, that I went and search'd
the folks round,

And in a corner of Mrs. Duke's box, tied in a rag the money was found,

So next morning we told Whittle, and he fell a-swearing : Then my dame Wadger came: and she, you know, is thick

of hearing:

"Dame," said I, as loud as I could bawl, "do you know what a loss I have had?"

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"Nay," said she, "my Lord Colway's folks are all very sad; For my Lord Dromedary comes a Tuesday without fail." Pugh!" said I, "but that's not the business that I ail." Says Cary, says he, "I've been a servant this five-andtwenty years come spring,

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And in all the places I lived I never heard of such a thing." Yes," says the Steward, "I remember, when I was at my Lady Shrewsbury's,

Such a thing as this happened, just about the time of gooseberries."

So I went to the party suspected, and I found her full of

grief,

(Now, you must know, of all things in the world I hate a

thief,)

However, I was resolved to bring the discourse slily about: "Mrs. Dukes," said I, "here's an ugly accident has happen'd

out:

'Tis not that I value the money three skips of a mouse; But the thing I stand upon is the credit of the house. 'Tis true, seven pounds, four shillings, and sixpence, makes a great hole in my wages:

Besides, as they say, service is no inheritance in these ages. Now, Mrs. Dukes, you know, and everybody understands, That tho' 'tis hard to judge, yet money can't go without hands."

"The devil take me," said she (blessing herself), "if ever I saw't!"

So she roar'd like a Bedlam, as tho' I had call'd her all to naught.

So you know, what could I say to her any more?

I e'en left her, and came away as wise as I was before. but then they would have had me gone to the cunning

Well;

man:

"No," said I, "'Tis the

here anon." So the chaplain came in. sweetheart,

Because he's always in my part.

same thing, the chaplain will be

Now the servants say he is my

chamber, and I always take his

So, as the devil would have it, before I was aware, out I blunder'd,

"Parson," said I, can you cast a nativity when a body's plunder'd?"

(Now you must know, he hates to be called parson, like the devil.)

"Truly," says he, "Mrs. Nab, it might become you to be more civil;

If your money be gone, as a learned divine says, d'ye see;
You are no text for my handling; so take that from me:
I was never taken for a conjuror before, I'd have you to
know."

“Law!” said I, "don't be angry, I am sure I never thought you so :

You know I honor the cloth; I design to be a parson's wife, I never took one in your coat for a conjuror in all my life." With that, he twisted his girdle at me like a rope, as who

should say,

"Now you may go hang yourself for me!" and so went away.

Well: I thought I should have swoon'd, "Law!" said I, "what shall I do?

I have lost my money, and shall lose my true love too!" Then my Lord called me: "Harry," said my Lord, "don't

cry,

I'll give you something towards your loss;" and, says my Lady, so will I."

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"O, but," said I, "what if, after all, the chaplain won't come to?"

For that, he said, (an't please your Excellencies,) I must peti

tion you.

The premises tenderly consider'd, I desire your Excellencies'

protection,

And that I may have a share in next Sunday's collection; And, over and above, that I may have your Excellencies'

letter,

With an order for the chaplain aforesaid, or, instead of him, a better:

And then your poor petitioner both night and day,

Or the chaplain (for 'tis his trade,) as in duty bound, shall ever pray.

Jonathan Swift.

CVIII.

WHEN thy beauty appears

In its graces and airs,

All bright as an angel new dropt from the sky; At distance I gaze, and am awed by my fears,

So strangely you dazzle my eye!

But when, without art,

Your kind thought you impart,

When your love runs in blushes thro' every vein,

When it darts from your eyes, when it pants in your heart, Then I know you're a woman again.

There's a passion and pride

In our sex, she replied,

And this, might I gratify both, I would do: Still an angel appear to each lover beside, But still be a woman to you.

Thomas Parnell.

CIX.

STELLA'S BIRTH-DAY, 1718.

STELLA this day is thirty-four,
(We shan't dispute a year or more :)
However, Stella, be not troubled;
Altho' thy size and years are doubled
Since first I saw thee at sixteen,
The brightest virgin on the green;
So little is thy form declined;
Made up so largely in thy mind.

O, would it please the gods to split
Thy beauty, size, and years, and wit!
No age could furnish out a pair

Of nymphs so graceful, wise, and fair;
With half the lustre of your eyes,

With half your wit, your years, and size.
And then, before it grew too late,
How should I beg of gentle fate

(That either nymph might have her swain)
To split my worship too in twain.

Jonathan Swift.

CX.

STELLA'S BIRTH-DAY, 1720.

ALL travellers at first incline
Where'er they see the fairest sign;
And, if they find the chamber neat,
And like the liquor and the meat,
Will call again, and recommend
The Angel Inn to every friend.
What though the painting grows decay'd,
The House will never lose its trade:
Nay, tho' the treacherous tapster, Thomas,
Hangs a new angel two doors from us,
As fine as dauber's hands can make it,
In hopes that strangers may mistake it,
We think it both a shame and sin
To quit the true old Angel Inn.

Now this is Stella's case in fact;
An angel's face, a little crack'd;
(Could poets, or could painters fix.
How angels look at thirty-six :)
This drew us in at first to find
In such a form an angel's mind;
And every virtue now supplies
The fainting rays of Stella's eyes.
See at her levee crowding swains,
Whom Stella freely entertains
With breeding, humour, wit, and sense,
And puts them but to small expense;
Their mind so plentifully fills,
And makes such reasonable bills,
So little gets for what she gives,
We really wonder how she lives!
And had her stock been less, no doubt
She must have long ago run out.

Then who can think we'll quit the place,
When Doll hangs out a newer face;
Or stop and light at Chloe's head,
With scraps and leavings to be fed?
Then, Chloe, still go on to prate
Of thirty-six, and thirty-eight;
Pursue your trade of scandal-picking,
Your hints, that Stella is no chicken;
Your innuendos, when you tell us
That Stella loves to talk with fellows :
And let me warn you to believe

A truth, for which your soul should grieve;
That should you live to see the day
When Stella's locks must all be grey,
When age must print a furrow'd trace
On every feature of her face;
That you, and all your senseless tribe,
Could art, or time, or nature bribe
To make you look like beauty's queen,
And hold for ever at fifteen;
No bloom of youth can ever blind
The cracks and wrinkles of your mind;
All men of sense will pass your door,
And crowd to Stella's at fourscore.

Jonathan Swift.