"My ills have disturbed my brain, and the revival of old ideas has set it a-boyling, that, till I have skim'd off the froth, I can't pretend to say a word for myself; and by the time I have cleared off the scum, the little grudge that is left may be burnt to the bottom of the pot. "My mortal injuries have turned my mind, And I could hate myself for being blind But why should I thus rave of eyes and looks? All I have felt is fancy--all from Books. I stole my charmers from the cuts of Quarles, And my dear Clarissa from the grand Sir Charles. But if his mam or Cupid live above, Who have revenge in store for injured love, O Venus, send dire ruin on her head, Strike the Destroyer, lay the Victress dead; Kill the Triumphress, and avenge my wrong In height of pomp, while she is warm and young. Grant I may stand and dart her with my eyes While in the fiercest pangs of life she lies, Pursue her sportive soul and shoot it as it flies, And cry with joy--There Montague lies flat, Who wronged my passion with her barbarous Chat, And was as cruel as a Cat to Rat, As cat to rat--ay, ay, as cat to rat. And when you got her up into your house, Clinch yr, fair fist, and give her such a souse: There, Hussy, take you that for all your Prate, Your barbarous heart I do a-bo-mi-nate. I'll take your part, my dearest faithful Doctor! I've told my son, and see how he has mockt her! He'll fire her soul and make her rant and rave; See how she groans to be old Vulcan's slave. The fatal bow is bent. Shoot, Cupid, shoot, And there's your Montague all over soot. Now say no more my little Boy is blind, For sure this tyrant he has paid in kind. She fondly thought to captivate a lord. A lord, sweet queen? 'Tis true, upon my word. And what's his name? His name? Why-- And thought her parts and wit the feat had done. But he had parts and wit as well as she. Why then, 'tis strange those folks did not agree. Agree? Why, had she lived one moment longer, His love was strong, but madam's grew much stronger. _Hiatus valde deflendus._ So for her long neglect of Venus' altar I changed Cu's Bowstring to a silken Halter; I made the noose, and Cupid drew the knot. Dear mam! says he, don't let her lie and rot, She is too pretty. Hold your tongue, you sot! The pretty blockhead? None of yr. rogue's tricks. Ask her, she'll own she's turned of thirty-six. I was but twenty when I got the apple, And let me tell you, 'twas a cursed grapple. Had I but staid till I was twenty-five, I'ad surely lost it, as you're now alive! Paris had said to Juno and Minerva, Ladies, I'm yours, and shall be glad to serve yer; I must have bowed to wisdom and to power. And Troy had stood it to this very hour,