Thou art too bountiful, I vow,
Thy Love is too abounding now.
Lord fanctify this Cordial Juice,
And make it wholfome for our use.
Well!--'tis a comfortable Creature,
In truth I think I ne'er drank better.
I can but thank ye for your Love,
'Tis now, I doubt, high time to move.

Wife..

Nay, Sir, I hope you'll stay and dine,
Befides, here's almost half the Wine:
Pray, Sir, accept before you go,
Of t'other Glass, and don't say no.
And if you're not engag'd elsewhere,
You're welcome to our homely fare.

Preacher.

Thou art fo kind, I needs muft fay,
I fcarce know how to go or ftay.
What Dinner haft thou, friendly Crea
Alas! I'm but a pidling Eater. (ture?

Wife.

I must confefs we have not drefs'd
What's worthy of fo good a Gueft;
Yet 'tis a Dish that we may say
Is fuited to the present Day:

'Tis a Calf's Head, to tell you truth,
I wish such Fare may fit your Tooth.

Preacher.

Bless me, the best and only Dish, Upon this Day, that I could wish. No Food befides could fo delight My Eyes, and eke my Appetite. Good pious Saints, that you should join Your Hearts fo mutually with mine. Well, give me now the other Glafs, I fee that you abound in Grace, The L-d of Mercy and of Pow'r Hath Bleffings for such Saints in store. I cannot bid ye now farewel, Thy Invitation must prevail..

Methinks

Methinks from Heav'n I hear a Voice, That bids me tarry and rejoice.

Husband.

None can more truly welcome be;
Therefore I hope, Sir, you'll be free.
This is a Day of Joy and Mirth
Among the Saints that dwell on Earth.
This and the Fifth Day of November
We're always careful to remember.
Both which deferve the utmoft rev'rence
For our remarkable Deliverance.

Preacher.

'Tis very true, we ought to praise The Lord upon these bleffed Days,

And typify the Fall of him

That caus'd the Land in Blood to fwim,

So good a Dish, on fuch a Day!

What Christian can refuse to stay.

But tho' I tarry here to dine,

Pray do not fend for any Wine.

Hus

Husband.

A little, Sir,---Wife fend the Maid For two of Palm and two of Red: This Day we always drink, you know, To th Pious Hand that gave the Blow.

Preacher.

The Lord direct thee! Prithee do What thy own, Mind inclines thee to But I must crave thy leave to light One Pipe to whet my Appetite.

When that is done we'll fhut the Door, And praise the L--d for half an Hour.

TWO

TWO

LETTERS.

By SAMUEL BUTLER, Author of HUDIBRASS.

John Audland's LETTER

ΤΟ

WILLIAM PRYNNE.

William Prynne,

T

HOU perpetual Scribe, Pharifee and Hypocrite, born to the deftruction of Paper, and most unchriftian effufion of Ink; thou Egyptian Taskmaster of the Prefs, and unmerci

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