Quite worn to the stumps, in a piteous condition,
I present to your grace this my humble petition;
Full twenty-eight stone, as all the world says,
(To me it seems more) my plump master weighs.
A load for a team this, yet I alone
To Claremont must draw him, for help I have none;
O’er Esher’s hot sands, in a dry summer’s day,
How I sweat and I chafe, and I pant all the way
But when I return, and the draft is increased
By what he has crammed―a stone at the least―
No single horse can be, in conscience thought able
To draw both the justice, and eke half your table.
This, my case, gracious duke, to your tender compassion
I submit, and O! take it in consideration.
To draw with a pair, put the squire in a way,
Your petitioner then, bound in duty, shall neigh.
_Epitaph on Cardinal Richelieu._
Stay, traveller―for all you want is near:
Wisdom and power I seek―they both lie here.
Nay, but I look for more, and raise my aim,
To wit, taste, learning, elegance, and fame.
Here ends your journey, then; for there the store
Of Richelieu lies―Alas! repent no more:
Shame on my pride! what hope is left for me,
When here death treads on all that man can be?
_A Caveat to the Fair Sex._
Wife and servant are the same,
But only differ in the name;
For when that fatal knot is tied
Which nothing, nothing can divide;
When she the word “obey” has said,
And man by law supreme is made,
Then all that’s kind is laid aside,
And nothing left but state and pride;
Fierce as an eastern prince he grows,
And all his innate rigour shows:
Then but to look, or laugh, or speak,
Will the nuptial contract break.
Like mutes, she signs alone must make,
And never any freedom take;
But still be governed by a nod,
And fear her husband as her god;
Him still must serve, him still obey,
And nothing act, and nothing say,
But what her haughty lord thinks fit,
Who with the power, has all the wit.
Then shun, Oh! shun that wretched state,
And all the fawning flatterers hate;
Value yourselves, and men despise,
You must be proud, if you’ll be wise.
_Fast and Loose._
Colin was married in all haste,
And now to rack doth run;
So knitting of himself too fast
He hath himself undone.
_Marriage._
Were I, who am not of the Romish tribe,
The number of their sacraments to fix,
I speak sincerely, without fee, or bribe,
Instead of seven, there should be but six.
All men of sense tautology disclaim,
Marriage and penance always were the same.
* * * * *
Frank carves very ill, yet will palm all the meats;
He eats more than six, and drinks more than he eats.
Four pipes after dinner he constantly smokes;
And seasons his whiffs with impertinent jokes.
Yet sighing, he says, we must certainly break,
And my cruel unkindness compels him to speak:
For of late I invite him―but four times a week.
* * * * *