For still that rustic infidel denied To have their names with solemn rite applied: His, a lone house, by Deadman's Dyke-way stood; And his a nightly haunt, in Lonely-wood: Each village inn has heard the ruffian boast, That he believed "in neither God nor ghost; That when the sod upon the sinner press'd, He, like the saint, had everlasting rest; That never priest believed his doctrines true, But would, for profit, own himself a Jew, Or worship wood and stone, as honest heathen do; That fools alone on future worlds rely, And all who die for faith deserve to die." These maxims,--part th' Attorney's Clerk profess'd, His own transcendent genius found the rest. Our pious matrons heard, and, much amazed, Gazed on the man, and trembled as they gazed; And now his face explored, and now his feet, Man's dreaded foe in this bad man to meet: But him our drunkards as their champion raised, Their bishop call'd, and as their hero praised: Though most, when sober, and the rest, when sick, Had little question whence his bishopric. But he, triumphant spirit! all things dared; He poach'd the wood, and on the warren snared; 'Twas his, at cards, each novice to trepan, And call the want of rogues "the rights of man;" Wild as the winds he let his offspring rove, And deem'd the marriage-bond the bane of love. What age and sickness, for a man so bold, Had done, we know not;--none beheld him old; By night, as business urged, he sought the wood; - The ditch was deep,--the rain had caused a flood, - The foot-bridge fail'd,--he plunged beneath the deep, And slept, if truth were his, th'eternal sleep. These have we named; on life's rough sea they sail, With many a prosperous, many an adverse gale! Where passion soon, like powerful winds, will rage, And prudence, wearied, with their strength engage: Then each, in aid, shall some companion ask, For help or comfort in the tedious task; And what that help--what joys from union flow, What good or ill, we next prepare to show; And row, meantime, our weary bark to shore, As Spenser his--but not with Spenser's oar. {2} PART II. Nubere si qua voles, quamvis properabitis ambo, Differ; habent parvae commoda magna morae. OVID, Fasti, lib.iii. MARRIAGES.