Pagina-afbeeldingen
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No hurt fhall come to you or yours; • But for that pack of churlish boors, • Not fit to live on Chriftian ground, They and their houfes fhall be drown'd, Whilft you shall fee your cottage rife, And grow a church before your eyes.'

They scarce had fspoke, when (fair and foft) The roof began to mount aloft:

Aloft rose ev'ry beam and rafter;

The heavy wall climb'd flowly after.

The chimney, widen'd and grew high'r,

Became a steeple with a spire.

The kettle to the top was hoift,

And there ftood faften'd to a joift,
But with the upfide down, to fhow
It's inclination for below;
In vain, for a fuperior force,
Apply'd at bottom, ftops it's course :
Doom'd ever in fufpenfe to dwell,
'Tis now no kettle, but a bell.

A wooden jack, which had almost
Loft, by difufe, the art to roast,
A fudden alteration feels,

Increas'd by new inteftine wheels;
And, what exalts the wonder more,

The number made the motion flow'r.

The flier, tho' it had leaden feet,

Turn'd round fo quick you scarce could fee't;
But, flacken'd by fome fecret pow'r,
Now hardly moves an inch an hour.
The jack and chimney, near ally'd,
Had never left each other's fide:
The chimney to a steeple grown,
The jack would not be left alone;
But, up against the fteeple rear'd,
Became a clock, and ftill adher'd.

And

And still it's love to houfhold cares,
By a fhrill voice, at noon declares;
Warning the cook-maid not to burn
That roaft-meat which it cannot turn.
The groaning-chair began to crawl,
Like a huge fnail, along the wall;
There stuck aloft in publick view,
And, with small change, a pulpit grew.
The porringers, that in a row,
Hung high, and made a glitt'ring fhow;
To a lefs noble fubftance chang'd,
Were now but leathern buckets rang'd.
The ballads pafted on the wall,
Of Joan of France and English Moll;
Fair Rofamond and Robin Hood,
The Little Children in the Wood;
Now feem'd to look abundance better,
Improv'd in picture, fize, and letter;
And, high in order plac'd, defcribe
The heraldry of ev'ry tribe.

A bedstead of the antique mode
Compact of timber many a load,
Such as our ancestors did use,
Was metamorphos'd into pews;
Which ftill their ancient nature keep,
By lodging folks difpos'd to fleep.

The cottage, by fuch feats as these
Grown to a church by juft degrees,
The hermits then defir'd their hoft
To ask for what he fancy'd most.
Philemon, having paus'd a while,
Return'd them thanks in homely style,
Then faid, My houfe is grown fo fine,
• Methinks I ftill would call it mine:
I'm old, and fain would live at eafe;
• Make me the parfon, if you please.'

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He spoke; and prefently he feels
His grazier's coat fall down his heels;
He fees, yet hardly can believe,
About each arm a pudding-sleeve:
His waiftcoat to a caffock grew my
And both affum'd a fable hue;
But, being old, continu'd just
As threadbare, and as full of duft.
His talk was now of tythes and dues
He fmok'd his pipe, and read the news;<
Knew how to preach old fermons next,
Vamp'd in the preface and the text:
At chrift'nings well could act his part,
And had the fervice all by heart.
Wish'd women might have children fast,
And thought whofe fow had farrow'd last. '
Against Diffenters would repine,

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And ftood up firm for right divine.
Found his head fill'd with many a fyftem;
But claffick authors-he ne'er mifs'd 'em.
Thus having furbifa'd up a parfon,
Dame Baucis next they play'd their farce on.
Inftead of home-fpun coifs, were seen
Good pinners edg'd with Colberteen;
Her petticoat, transform'd apace,
Became black fattin flounc'd with lace.
Plain Goody would no longer down;
'Twas Madam, in her grogram gown.
Philemon was in great furprize,
And hardly could believe his eyes,
Amaz'd to fee her look fo prim,
And the admir'd as much at him.

Thus happy in their change of life,
Were fev'ral years this man and wife ::
When, on a day, which prov'd their laft,
Difcourfing o'er old ftories paft,

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*

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They went by chance, amidst their talk,
To the church-yard, to take a walk,
When Baucis haftily cry'd out,

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My dear, I fee your forehead fprout!'

Sprout!' quoth the man; what's this you tell us?

I hope you don't believe me jealous!

But yet, methinks, I feel it true;

And, really, yours is budding too!-
Nay-now I cannot stir my foot;
It feels as if 'twere taking root!'

Description would but tire my Mufe:
In fhort, they both were turn'd to yews.

Old Goodman Dobfon of the Green,
Remembers he the trees has feen ;
He'll talk of them from noon till night,
And goes with folks to flew the fight.
On Sundays, after ev'ning pray'r,
He gathers all the parish there;
Points out the place of either yew-

Here Baucis, there Philemon, grew:

Till once a parfon of our town,” ›

‹ To mend-his barn, cut Baucis down;
At which is hard to be believ'd
How much the other tree was griev'd,
Grew fcrubby, dy'd a-top, was stunted,
So the next parson stubb'd and burnt it.'

I'

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F Heav'n the grateful liberty would give,

That I might chufe my method how to live, And all thofe hours propitious Fate fhould lend, In blifsful eafe and fatisfaction spend

"

Near

Near fome fair town I'd have a private feat, y
Built uniform; not little, nor too great:
Better if on a rifing ground it stood;

On this fide fields, on that a neighb'ring wood.
It should within no other things contain
But what are useful, neceffary, plain;
Methinks 'tis naufeous, and I'd ne'er endure
The needless pomp of gaudy furniture.
A little garden, grateful to the eye,
And a cool rivulet run murm'ring by,..
On whofe delicious banks a stately row
Of fhady limes or fycamores fhould grow;
At th' end of which a filent study plac'd,
Should be with all the nobleft authors gracid;
Horace and Virgil, in whofe mighty lines
Immortal wit and folid learning fhines;
Sharp Juvenal, and am'rous Ovid too,
Who all the turns of love's foft paffion knew ;-
He that with judgment reads his charming lines,
In which strong art with stronger nature joins,
Muft grant his fancy does the best excel,
His thoughts fo tender, and exprefs'd fo well;
With all thofe moderns, men of steady sense,
Efteem'd for learning and for eloquence.
In fome of thefe, as Fancy fhould advise,
I'd always take my morning exercise ;
For fure no minutes bring us more content,
Than those in pleafing ufeful ftudies fpent!

I'd have a clear and competent estate,
That I might live genteelly, but not great;
As much as I could moderately spend→→→
A little more, fometimes t'oblige a friend.
Nor fhould the fons of Poverty repine..

Too much at Fortune, they should taste of mine
And all that objects of trae pity were,

Should be reliev'd with what my wants could fpare:

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