With that long waist, and those enormous stays; She had three lovers, and no creature knew The one preferr’d, or the discarded two; None could the secret of her bosom see; Loving, poor maid, th’ attention of the three, She kept such equal weight in either scale, 130 ’Twas hard to say who would at last prevail. Thus, you may think, in either heart arose A jealous anger, and the men were foes; Each with himself concluded, two aside, The third may make the lovely maid his bride: This caused their fate—It was on Thursday night The deed was done, and bloody was the fight; Just as she went, poor thoughtless girl! to prayers, Ran wild the maid with horror up the stairs; Pale as a ghost, but not a word she said, 140 And then the lady utter’d, ‘Coates is dead!’ “Then the poor damsel found her voice and cried, } ‘Ran through the body, and that instant died! } But he pronounced your name, and so was satisfied.’ } A second fell, and he who did survive Was kept by skill and sovereign drugs alive; ‘O! would she see me!’ he was heard to say, ‘No! I’ll torment him to his dying day!’ The maid exclaim’d; and every Thursday night Her spirit came his wretched soul to fright. 150 Once, as she came, he cried aloud ‘Forgive!’ ‘Never!’ she answer’d, ‘never while you live, Nor when you die, as long as time endures; You have my torment been, and I’ll be yours!’ That is the lady, and the man confess’d Her vengeful spirit would not let him rest.” “But are there ghosts?” exclaim’d a timid maid; “My father tells me not to be afraid; He cries, when buried we are safe enough, And calls such stories execrable stuff.” 160 “Your father, child,” the former lady cried, “Has learning much, but he has too much pride; It is impossible for him to tell What things in nature are impossible, Or out of nature, or to prove to whom Or for what purposes a ghost may come; It may not be intelligence to bring, But to keep up a notion of the thing; And though from one such fact there may arise An hundred wild improbabilities, 170 Yet had there never been the truth, I say, The very lies themselves had died away.” “True,” said a friend; “Heaven doubtless may dispense A kind of dark and clouded evidence; God has not promised that he will not send A spirit freed to either foe or friend; He may such proof, and only such, bestow, Though we the certain truth can never know; And therefore, though such floating stories bring No strong or certain vouchers of the thing, 180 Still would I not, presuming, pass my word That all such tales were groundless and absurd.” “But you will grant,” said one who sate beside, “That all appear so when with judgment tried?” “For that concession, madam, you may call, When we have sate in judgment upon all.” An ancient lady, who with pensive smile