THE lover to the crafty devil said:-- 'Tis crooked this, you see, and I am led To wish it otherwise; go, make it straight; A perfect line: no turn, nor twist, nor plait. Away to work, be quick, fly, hasten, run; The demon fancied it could soon be done; No time he lost, but set it in the press, And tried to manage it with great success; The massy hammer, kept beneath the deep, Made no impression: he as well might sleep; Howe'er he beat: whatever charm he used:-- 'Twas still the same; obedience it refused. His time and labour constantly were lost; Vain proved each effort: mystick skill was crossed; The wind, or rain, or fog, or frost, or snow, Had no effect: still circular 'twould go. The more he tried, the ringlet less inclined To drop the curvature so closely twined. How's this? said Satan, never have I seen Such stubborn stuff wherever I have been; The shades below no demon can produce, That could divine what here would prove of use: 'Twould puzzle hell to break the curling spring, And make a line direct of such a thing. ONE morn the devil to the other went: Said he, to give thee up I'll be content; If solely thou wilt openly declare What 'tis I hold, for truly I despair; I'm victus I confess, and can't succeed: No doubt the thing's impossible decreed. FRIEND Satan, said the lover, you are wrong; Despondency should not to you belong, At least so soon:--what you desire to know Is not the only one that's found to grow; Still many more companions it has got, And others could be taken from the spot. THE PICTURE SOLICITED I've been to give a tale, In which (though true, decorum must prevail), The subject from a picture shall arise, That by a curtain's kept from vulgar eyes. My brain must furnish various features new: What's delicate and smart produce to view; By this expressed, and not by t'other said: And all so clear, most easy to be read, By ev'ry fool, without the aid of notes, That idiot's bad indeed who never quotes. CATULLUS tells us, ev'ry matron sage Will peep most willingly (whate'er her age), At that gigantick gift, which Juno made, To Venus' fruit, in gardens oft displayed. If any belle recede, and shun the sight, Dissimulation she supposes right.