Even so Master Doctor had puzzled his brains In making a ballad, but was at a stand; He had mixt little wit with a great deal of pains, When he found a new help from invisible hand. Then, good Doctor Swift Pay thanks for the gift, For you freely must own you were at a dead lift; And, though some malicious young spirit did do't, You may know by the hand it had no cloven foot. CHO. Let censuring, &c. [Footnote 1: Lady Betty Berkeley, finding the preceding verses in the author's room unfinished, wrote under them the concluding stanza, which gave occasion to this ballad, written by the author in a counterfeit hand, as if a third person had done it.--_Swift_. The _Cut-Purse_ is a ballad sung by Nightingale, the ballad-singer, in Ben Jonson's "Bartholomew Fair," Act III, Sc. I. The burthen of the ballad is: "Youth, youth, thou had'st better been starv'd by thy nurse Than live to be hang'd for cutting a purse."--_W. E. B._] THE DISCOVERY When wise Lord Berkeley first came here,[1] Statesmen and mob expected wonders, Nor thought to find so great a peer Ere a week past committing blunders. Till on a day cut out by fate, When folks came thick to make their court, Out slipt a mystery of state To give the town and country sport. Now enters Bush[2] with new state airs, His lordship's premier minister; And who in all profound affairs, Is held as needful as his clyster.[2] With head reclining on his shoulder, He deals and hears mysterious chat, While every ignorant beholder Asks of his neighbour, who is that? With this he put up to my lord, The courtiers kept their distance due, He twitch'd his sleeve, and stole a word; Then to a corner both withdrew. Imagine now my lord and Bush Whispering in junto most profound, Like good King Phys and good King Ush,[3] While all the rest stood gaping round. At length a spark, not too well bred, Of forward face and ear acute, Advanced on tiptoe, lean'd his head, To overhear the grand dispute; To learn what Northern kings design, Or from Whitehall some new express, Papists disarm'd, or fall of coin; For sure (thought he) it can't be less. My lord, said Bush, a friend and I, Disguised in two old threadbare coats, Ere morning's dawn, stole out to spy How markets went for hay and oats. With that he draws two handfuls out, The one was oats, the other hay; Puts this to's excellency's snout, And begs he would the other weigh. My lord seems pleased, but still directs By all means to bring down the rates; Then, with a congee circumflex, Bush, smiling round on all, retreats. Our listener stood awhile confused, But gathering spirits, wisely ran for't, Enraged to see the world abused, By two such whispering kings of Brentford.[4] [Footnote 1: To Ireland, as one of the Lords Justices.]