What's her experience? In the time that's gone, Blundering she wrought, and still she blunders on:-- What is Nature? One who acts in aid Of gossips half asleep, and half afraid. With such allies I scorn my fame to blend, Skill is my luck and courage is my friend; No slave to Nature, 'tis my chief delight To win my way and act in her despite:-- 690 "Trust then my art, that, in itself complete, Needs no assistance and fears no defeat." Warm'd by her well-spiced ale and aiding pipe, The angry matron grew for contest ripe. "Can you," she said, "ungrateful and unjust, Before experience, ostentation trust! What is your hazard, foolish daughters, tell? If safe, you're certain; if secure, you're well: That I have luck must friend and foe confess, And what's good judgment but a lucky guess? 700 _He_ boasts but what he _can_ do:--will you run From me, your friend! who, all _he_ boasts, _have_ done? By proud and learned words his powers are known; By healthy boys and handsome girls my own. Wives! fathers! children! by my help you live; Has this pale Doctor more than life to give? No stunted cripple hops the village round; Your hands are active and your heads are sound: My lads are all your fields and flocks require; My lasses all those sturdy lads admire. 710 Can this proud leech, with all his boasted skill, Amend the soul or body, wit or will? Does he for courts the sons of farmers frame, Or make the daughter differ from the dame? Or, whom he brings into this world of wo, Prepares he them their part to undergo? If not, this stranger from your doors repel, And be content to _be_, and to be _well_." She spake; but, ah! with words too strong and plain; Her warmth offended, and her truth was vain: 720 The _many_ left her, and the friendly _few_, If never colder, yet they older grew; Till, unemploy'd, she felt her spirits droop, And took, insidious aid! th' inspiring cup; Grew poor and peevish as her powers decay'd, And propp'd the tottering frame with stronger aid;-- Then died!--I saw our careful swains convey, From this our changeful world, the matron's clay, Who to this world, at least, with equal care, Brought them its changes, good and ill to share. 730 Now to his grave was Roger Cuff convey'd, And strong resentment's lingering spirit laid. Shipwreck'd in youth, he home return'd, and found His brethren three--and thrice they wish'd him drown'd. "Is this a landman's love? Be certain then, We part for ever!"--and they cried, "Amen!" His words were truth's.--Some forty summers fled; His brethren died; his kin supposed him dead: Three nephews these, one sprightly niece, and one, Less near in blood--they call'd him _surly John_; 740 He work'd in woods apart from all his kind.