And then, to spy what might ensue,
Into a neighb'ring wood withdrew;
Nor waited long; for soon he sees
A tall black man skulk thro' the trees;
He knew him by his shuffling pace,
His threadbare coat and hatchet face;
And who the devil should it be
But sanctify'd Sir Timothy!
His uncle by his mother's side,
His guardian and his faithful guide,
This driv'lling knight with pockets full,
And proud as any Great Mogul,
For his wise conduct had been made
Director of the jobbing trade,
And had most piously drawn in
Poor Ned and all his nearest kin.
The greedy fools laid out their gold,
And bought the very stock he sold;
Thus the kind knave convey'd their pelf,
By bocus pocus, to himself;
And to secure the spoils he got
Form'd this contrivance of the pot,
Here ev'ry night and ev'ry morn,
Devout as any monk new shorn,
The prostrate hypocrite implores
Just Heav'n to bless his hidden stores;
But when he saw dear Mammon flown,
The plunder'd hive, the honey gone,
No jilted bully, no bilk'd hack,
No thief when beadles flay his back,
No losing rook, no carted whore,
No sailor when the billows roar,
With such a grace e'er curs'd and swore:
Then as he por'd upon the ground,
And turn'd his haggard eyes around,
The halter at his feet he spy'd,
"And is this all that's left?" he cry'd;
"Am I thus paid for all my cares,
"My lectures, repetitions, pray'rs?
"'Tis well---there's something sav'd at least,
"Welcome, thou faithful, friendly guest;
"If I must hang, now all is lost,
"'Tis cheaper at another's cost;
"To do it at my own expence
"Would be downright extravagance."
Thus comforted, without a tear
He fix'd the noose beneath his ear,
To the next bough the rope he ty'd,
And most heroically dy❜d.
Ned, who behind a spreading tree
Beheld this tragi-comedy,
With hearty curses rung his knell,
And bid him thus his last farewell:
"Was it not, Uncle, very kind
"In me to leave the rope behind?
"A legacy so well bestow'd
"For all the gratitude I ow'd.
"Adieu, Sir Tim; by Heav'n's decree
"Soon may thy brethren follow thee,
"In the same glorious manner swing,
"Without one friend to cut the string;
"That hence rapacious knave; may know
"Justice is always sure, tho' slow."
VII. A PADLOCK FOR THE MOUTH.
JACK DIMPLE was a merry blade,
Young, am'rous, witty, and well made;
Discreet !---Hold, Sir,---nay, as I live,
My friend, you're too inquisitive:
Discretion, all men must agree,
Is a most shining quality,
Which, like leaf-gold, makes a great show,
And thinly spread sets off a beau:
But, Sir, to put you out of pain,
Our younker had not half a grain,
A leaky blab, rash, faithless, vain.
The victories his eyes had won
As soon as e'er obtain'd were known;
For trophies rear'd the deed proclaim,
Spoils hung on high expose the dame,
And love is sacrific'd to fame.
Such insolence the sex alarms,
The female world is up in arms;
Th' outrageous Bacchanals combine,
And brandish'd tongues in concert join.
Unhappy youth where wilt thou go
T'escape so terrible a foe?
Seek shelter on the Lybian shore,
Where tigers and where lions roar?
Sleep on the borders of the Nile,
And trust the wily crocodile;
'Tis vain to shun a woman's hate,
Heavy the blow, and sure as Fate.
Phyllis appear'd among the crowd,
But not so talkative and loud,
With silence and with care supprest
The glowing vengeance in her breast,
Resolv'd by stratagem and art
To make the saucy villain smart.
The cunning baggage had prepar'd
Pomatum of the finest lard,
With strong astringents mix'd the mess,
Alum, and vitriol, q. s.
Arsenic, and bole. But I want time
To turn all Quincy into rhyme;
'Twould make my diction too sublime.
Her grandame this receipt had taught,
Which Bendo from Grand Cairo brought,
An able styptic (as 'tis said)
To soder a crack'd maidenhead.
This ointment being duly made,
The jilt upon her toilette laid:
The saunt'ring cully soon appears,
As usual, vows, protests, and swears;
Careless an opera tune he hums,
Plunders her patchbox, breaks her combs.
As up and down the monkey play'd,
His hand upon the box he laid,
The fatal box. Pleas'd with her wiles,
The treacherous Pandora smiles.
"What's this?" cries Jack. "That box!" said she: "Pomatum; what else should it be?"
But here 'tis fit my reader knows
'Twas March, when blust'ring Boreas blows,
Stern enemy to belles and beaus.
His lips were sore; rough, pointed, torn,
The coral bristled like a thorn.
Pleas'd with a cure so a-propos,
Nor jealous of so fair a foe,
The healing ointment thick he spread,
And ev'ry gaping cranny fed.
His chops begin to glow and shoot;
He strove to speak, but, oh! was mute,
Mute as a fish; all he could strain,
Were some hoarse gutt'rals forc'd with pain.
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