The Lady wrote just what Sir Thomas told her; For, it is no less strange than true, That Wives did, once, what Husbands bid them do;-- Lord! how this World improves, as we grow older! She name'd the midnight hour;-- Telling the Friar to repair To the sweet, secret Bower;-- But not a word of any crabsticks there. Thus have I seen a liquorish, black rat, Lure'd by the Cook, to sniff, and smell her bacon; And, when he's eager for a bit of fat, Down goes a trap upon him, and he's taken. A tiny Page,--for, formerly, a boy Was a mere dunce who did not understand The doctrines of Sir Pandarus, of Troy,-- Slipp'd the Dame's note into the Friar's hand, As he was walking in the cloister; And, then, slipp'd off,--as silent as an oyster. The Friar read;--the Friar chuckle'd:-- For, now the Farce's unities were right: _Videlicet_--The Argument, a Cuckold; The Scene, a Bow'r; Time, Twelve o'clock, at night. Blithe was fat John!--and, dreading no mishap, Stole, at the hour appointed, to the _trap_; But, so perfume'd, so musk'd, for the occasion,-- His _tribute_ to the nose so like _invasion_,-- You would have sworn, to smell him, 'twas no rat, But a dead, putrified, old civet-cat. He reach'd the spot, anticipating blisses, Soft murmurs, melting sighs, and burning kisses, Trances of joy, and mingling of the souls; When, whack! Sir Thomas hit him on the joles. Now, on his head it came, now on his face, His neck, and shoulders, arms, legs, breast, and back; In short, on almost every place We read of in the Almanack. Blows rattle'd on him thick as hail; Making him rue the day that he was born;-- Sir Thomas plied his cudgel like a flail, And thrash'd as if he had been thrashing corn. At length, a thump,--(painful the facts, alas! Truth urges us Historians to relate!)-- Took Friar John so smart athwart the pate, It acted like a perfect _coup de grace_. Whether it was a random shot, Or aim'd maliciously,--tho' Fame says _not_-- Certain his soul (the Knight so crack'd his crown) Fled from his body; but which way it went, Or whether Friars' souls fly up, or down, Remains a matter of nice argument. Points so abstruse I dare not dwell upon; Enough, for me, his body is not gone; For I have business, still, in my narration, With the fat carcass of this holy porpus; And Death, tho' sharp in his Administration, Never suspended such an _Habeas Corpus_. END OF PART I. [Illustration] THE KNIGHT AND THE FRIAR. PART THE SECOND. READER! if you have Genius, you'll discover, Do what you will to keep it cool, It, now and then, in spite of you, boils over, Upon a fool. Haven't you (lucky man if _not_) been vex'd, Worn, fretted, and perplex'd, By a pert, busy, would-be-clever knave, A forward, empty, self-sufficient slave?