Julia was blest with beauty, wit, and grace: Small poets loved to sing her blooming face. Before her altars, lo! a numerous train Preferr'd their vows; yet all preferr'd in vain. Till charming Florio, born to conquer, came, And touch'd the fair one with an equal flame. The flame she felt, and ill could she conceal What every look and action would reveal. With boldness then, which seldom fails to move, He pleads the cause of marriage and of love; The course of hymeneal joys he rounds, The fair one's eyes dance pleasure at the sounds. Naught now remain'd but "Noes"--how little meant-- And the sweet coyness that endears consent. The youth upon his knees enraptured fell:-- The strange misfortune, oh! what words can tell? Tell! ye neglected sylphs! who lap-dogs guard, Why snatch'd ye not away your precious ward? Why suffer'd ye the lover's weight to fall On the ill-fated neck of much-loved Ball? The favorite on his mistress casts his eyes, Gives a melancholy howl, and--dies! Sacred his ashes lie, and long his rest! Anger and grief divide poor Julia's breast. Her eyes she fix'd on guilty Morio first, On him the storm of angry grief must burst. That storm he fled:--he woos a kinder fair, Whose fond affections no dear puppies share. 'Twere vain to tell how Julia pined away;-- Unhappy fair, that in one luckless day (From future almanacs the day be cross'd!) At once her lover and her lap-dog lost! A COCK AND HEN STORY. ROBERT SOUTHEY PART I. Once on a time three Pilgrims true, Being Father and Mother and Son, For pure devotion to the Saint, A pilgrimage begun. Their names, little friends, I am sorry to say, In none of my books can I find; But the son, if you please, we'll call Pierre, What the parents were called, never mind. From France they came, in which fair land They were people of good renown; And they took up their lodging one night on the way In La Calzada town. Now, if poor Pilgrims they had been, And had lodged in the Hospice instead of the Inn, My good little women and men, Why then you never would have heard, This tale of the Cock and the Hen. For the Innkeepers they had a daughter, Sad to say, who was just such another As Potiphar's daughter, I think, would have been If she followed the ways of her mother. This wicked woman to our Pierre Behaved like Potiphar's wife; And because she failed to win his love, She resolved to take his life. So she packed up a silver cup In his wallet privily; And then, as soon as they were gone, She raised a hue and cry. The Pilgrims were overtaken, The people gathered round, Their wallets were searched, and in Pierre's The silver cup was found.