Through the clear stream the fishes rise,
And nimbly catch th' incautious flies;
The glowworms, numerous and bright,
Illumed the dewy dell last night.
At dusk the squalid toad was seen,
Hopping and crawling o'er the green;
The whirling wind the dust obeys,
And in the rapid eddy plays;
The frog has changed his yellow vest,
And in a russet coat is drest.
Though June, the air is cold and still;
The yellow blackbird's voice is shrill.
My dog, so alter'd in his taste,
Quits mutton bones, on grass to feast;
And see, yon rooks, how odd their flight,
They imitate the gliding kite,
And seem precipitate to fall—
As if they felt the piercing ball.
'Twill surely rain, I see with sorrow;
Our jaunt must be put off to-morrow.
I own I like not Johnson's turgid style,
That gives an inch th' importance of a mile;
Casts of manure a waggon-load around
To raise a simple daisy from the ground;
Uplifts the club of Hercules-for what?—
To crush a butterfly or brain a gnat ;
Creatures a whirlwind from the earth to draw
A goose's feather or exalt a straw;
Sets wheels on wheels in motion-such a clatter:
To force up one poor nipperkin of water;
Bids ocean labour with tremendous roar,
To heave a cockle-shell upon the shore..
Alike in every theme his pompous art,
Heaven's awful thunder, or a rumbling cart!
MISS MOLLY, a famed Toast, was fair and young,
Had wealth and charms-but then she had a tongue,
From morn to night th' eternal larum run,
Which often lost those hearts her eyes had won.
Sir John was smitten, and confess'd his flame,
Sigh'd out the usual time, then wed the dame;
Possess'd, he thought, of every joy of life:
But his dear Molly proved a very wife.
Excess of fondness did in time decline;
Madam loved money, and the knight loved wine;
From whence some petty discord would arise,
As 'You're a fool!' and, 'You are mighty wise!'
Though he, and all the world, allow'd her wit,
Her voice was shrill, and rather loud than sweet;
When she began, for hat and sword he'd call,
Then, after a faint kiss, cry, 'B'ye dear Moll:
Supper and friends expect me at the Rose.'
'And what, Sir John, you'll get your usual dose!
Go, stink of smoke, and guzzle nasty wine :
Sure, never virtuous love was used like mine!'
Oft as the watchful bellman march'd his round,
At a fresh bottle, gay Sir John he found.
By four the knight would get his business done,
And only then reel'd off-because alone.
Full well he knew the dreadful storm to come;
But arm'd with Bordeaux, he durst venture home.
My lady with her tongue was still prepared,
She rattled loud, and he, impatient, heard :
"'Tis a fine hour! in a sweet pickle made!
And this, Sir John, is every day the trade.
Here I sit moping all the live-long night,
Devour'd with spleen, and stranger to delight';
Till morn sends staggering home a drunken beast,
Resolved to break my heart as well as rest.'
'Hey! hoop! d'ye hear my cursed obstreperous spouse? What, can't ye find one bed about the house?
Will that perpetual clack lie never still?
That rival to the softness of a mill?
Some couch and distant room must be my choice,
Where I may sleep uncursed with wife and noise.'
Long this uncomfortable life they led,
With snarling meals, and each a separate bed.
To an old uncle oft she would complain,
Beg his advice, and scarce from tears refrain.
Old Wisewood smoked the matter as it was;
'Cheer up,' cried he, and I'll remove the cause.
A wond'rous spring within my garden flows,
Of sovereign virtue, chiefly to compose
Domestic jars, and matrimonial strife ;
The best elixir t' appease man and wife :
Strange are th' effects; the qualities divine;
'Tis water call'd, but worth its weight in wine.
If in his sullen airs Sir John should come,
Three spoonfuls take, hold in your mouth-then mum ;
Smile, and look pleased, when he shall rage and scold;
Still in your mouth the healing cordial hold!
One month this sympathetic med'cine tried,
He'll grow a lover; you a happy bride.
But, dearest niece, keep this grand secret close,
Or every prattling hussy 'll beg a dose.'
A water bottle's brought for her relief;
Not Nantz could sooner ease the lady's grief.
Her busy thoughts are on the trial bent,
And female like, impatient for th' event.
The bonny knight reels home exceeding clear, Prepared for clamour and domestic war;
Entering, he cries, 'Hey! where's our thunderer fled! No hurricane! Betty, 's your lady dead?'
Madam, aside, an ample mouthful takes,
Curt'sies, looks kind, but not a word she speaks :
Wondering, he stares, scarcely his eyes believed,
But found his ears agreeably deceived.
'Why how now, Molly, what's the crotchet now?' She smiles, and answers only with a bow.
Then, clasping her about, 'Why, let me die!
These night clothes, Moll, become thee mightily!'
With that he sigh'd, her hand began to press,
And Betty calls her lady to undress.
For many days these fond endearments past,
The reconciling bottle fails at last ;
'Twas used and gone. Then midnight storms arose,
And looks and words the union discompose.
Her coach is order'd, and post-haste she flies,
To beg her uncle for some fresh supplies;
Transported does the strange effects relate,
Her knight's conversion, and her happy state.
'Why niece,' says he, 'I pr'ythee apprehend,
The water's water-be thyself the friend.
Such beauty would the coldest husband warm;
But your provoking tongue undoes the charm:
Be silent, and complying; you'll soon find,
Sir John without a med'cine will be kind.'
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