A quilted petticoat befide,

With whalebone hoop fix fathom wide.
With thefe fhe deck'd the cloud, d'ye fee?
As like herself, as like cou'd be:

So like, that cou'd not I or you know
Which was the cloud, and which was Juno.
Thus drefs'd fhe fent it to the villain,
To let him act his wicked will on :
Then laugh'd at the poor fool aloud,
Who for a Goddess grafp'd a cloud.

This you will fay was well done on her
T'expose the tempter of her honour.
But more of him you need not hear;
Only to Strephon lend an ear.

He never entertain'd one thought-
With which a Goddess could find fault;
His fpotless love might be forgiven
By ev'ry faint in earth and heav'n.
Juno herself, though nice and haughty,
Wou'd not have judg'd his paffion naughty.
All this Chlorinda's felf confefs'd,

And own'd his flame was pure and chaste,
Read what his teeming Mufe brought forth,
And prais'd it far beyond its worth:

Mildly receiv'd his fond addrefs,
And only blam'd his love's excefs:
Yet fhe, fo good, fo fweet, fo fmiling,

So full of truth, fo unbeguiling,

One way or other still devis'd'
To let him fee he was defpis'd:
And when he plum'd, and grew most proud,
All was a vapour, all a cloud.

A TALE.

To CHLORINDA,

By the Same.

AME Venus, a daughter of Jove's,

D And amongst all his daughters moft fair,

Loft, it feems, t' other day the two doves,
That wafted her car thro' the air.

The dame made a heavy fad rout,

Ran about heav'n and earth to condole 'em;

And fought high and low to find out,

Where the biddyes were ftray'd, or who ftole 'em.

To the God, who the ftragglers fhou'd meet,

She promis'd moft tempting fine pay,

Six kiffes than honey more fweet,
And a feventh far fweeter than they.

The propofal no fooner was made,
But it
put all the Gods in a flame;
For who would not give all he had
To be kifs'd by fo dainty a dame?

Το

To Cyprus, to Paphos they run,

Where the Goddess oft us'd to retire ; Some rode round the world with the fun, And fearch'd every country and shire.

But with all their hard running and riding,

Not a God of 'em claim'd the reward;

For no one could tell tale or tiding,

If the doves were alive or were ftarv'd.

At laft the fly shooter of men

Young Cupid, (I beg the God's pardon)
Mamma, your blue birds I have seen
In a certain terreftrial garden.

Where, where, my dear child, quickly fhew,
Quoth the dame, almost out of her wits:

Do but go to Chlorinda's, fays Cu,

And you'll find 'em in shape of pew its.

Is it she that hath done me this wrong?
Full well I know her, and her arts;
She has follow'd the thieving trade long,
But I thought he dealt only in hearts.

I fhall foon make her know, fo I fhall-
And with that to Jove's palace fhe run,
And began like a bedlam to bawl,

I am cheatel, I'm robb'd, I'm undone.

Chlorinda, whom none can approach
Without lofing his heart or his fenfes,
Has ftol'n the two doves from my coach,
And now flaunts it at Venus' expences.

She has chang'd the poor things to pewits,
And keeps 'em like ord'nary fowls:
So when the robs men of their wits,
She turns 'em to affes or owls.

I cou'd tell you of many a hundred
Of figure, high station, and means,
Whom she without mercy has plunder'd,
Ever fince fhe came into her teens.

But her thefts upon earth I'd have borne,
Or have let 'em all pafs for mere fable;
But nothing will now ferve her turn,

But the doves out of Venus's ftable.

Is it fit, let your mightyship say,
That I, like fome pitiful flirt,
Shou'd tarry within doors all day,

Or elfe trudge it afoot in the dirt?

Is it fit that a mortal fhou'd trample
On me, who am ftyl'd queen of beauty?
O make her, great Jove, an example,

And teach Nimble-fingers her duty.

Sir

Sir Jove when he heard her thus

rage, For all his great gravity, smil'd; And then, like a judge wife and fage, He began in terms fober and mild.

Learn, daughter, to bridle your tongue,
Forbear to traduce with your prattle
The fair, who has done you no wrong,

And scorns to purloin goods and chattel.

Το

She needs neither gewgaw nor trinket,
carry the world all before her;
Her deferts, I wou'd have you to think it,
Are enough to make all men adore her.

Your doves are elop'd, I confefs,
And chufe with Chlorinda to dwell;
But blame not the lady for this;
For fure 'tis no crime to excel.

As for them, I applaud their high aims; ·
Having ferv'd from the time of their birth
The fairest of heavenly dames,

They would now serve the fairest on earth.

ODE