WITH many tales like this the books abound; But able hands are necessary found, To place the incidents, arrange the whole, That nothing may be forced nor feel control. The urchin blind, who sees enough to lay His num'rous snares, such tricks will often play. The CRADLE in Boccace excels the most, As to myself I do not mean to boast, But fear, a thousand places, spite of toil, By him made excellent, my labours spoil. 'Tis time howe'er with preface to have done, And show, by some new turn, or piece of fun, (While easy numbers from my pencil flow,) Of Fortune and of Love the quid pro quo. In proof, we'll state what happened at Marseilles: The story is so true, no doubt prevails. THERE Clidamant, whose proper name my verse, Prom high respect, refuses to rehearse, Lived much at ease: not one a wife had got, Throughout the realm, who was so nice a lot, Her virtues, temper, and seraphick charms, Should have secured the husband to her arms; But he was not to constancy inclined; The devil's crafty; snares has often twined Around and round, with ev'ry subtle art, When love of novelty he would impart. THE lady had a maid, whose form and size, Height, easy manners, action, lips, and eyes, Were thought to be so very like her own, That one from t'other scarcely could be known; The mistress was the prettiest of the two; But, in a mask where much escapes the view, 'Twas very difficult a choice to make, And feel no doubts which better 'twere to take. THE Marseillesian husband, rather gay, With mistress Alice was disposed to play; (For such was called the maid we just have named;) To show coquettish airs the latter aimed, And met his wishes with reproof severe; But to his plan the lover would adhere, And promised her at length a pretty sum: A hundred crowns, if to his room she'd come. To pay the girl with kindness such as this, In my opinion, was not much amiss. At that rate what should be the mistress' price? Perhaps still less: she might not be so nice. But I mistake; the lady was so coy, No spark, whatever art he could employ, How cleverly soe'er he laid the snare, Would have succeeded, spite of ev'ry care. Nor presents nor attentions would have swayed; Should I have mentioned presents as an aid? Alas! no longer these are days of old! By Love both nymph and shepherdess are sold; He sets the price of many beauties rare; This was a god;--now nothing but a mayor.