Clear was the day, and Phoebus, rising bright,
Had streak'd the azure firmament with light:
He pierced the glittering clouds with golden streams
And warm'd the womb of earth with genial beams
It so befell, in that fair morning-tide,

The fairies sported on the garden-side,

And in the midst their monarch and his bride.

So featly tripp'd the light-foot ladies round,
The knights so nimbly o'er the greensward bound,
That scarce they bent the flowers, or touch'd the
ground.

The dances ended, all the fairy train

For pinks and daisies search'd the flowery plain;
While, on a bank reclined of rising green,

Thus, with a frown, the king bespoke his queen:
'Tis too apparent, argue what you can,
The treachery you women use to man:
A thousand authors have this truth made out,
And sad experience leaves no room for doubt.
'Heaven rest thy spirit, noble Solomon,
A wiser monarch never saw the sun;
All wealth, all honours, the supreme degree
Of earthly bliss, was well bestow'd on thee!
For sagely hast thou said: "Of all mankind,
One only just and righteous hope to find:

But shouldst thou search the spacious world around,
Yet one good woman is not to be found."

'Thus says the king who knew your wicked

ness:

The son of Sirach testifies no less.

So may some wildfire on your bodies fall,

Or some devouring plague consume you all;

As well you view the lecher in the tree,
And well this honourable knight you see:
But since he's blind and old (a helpless case,)
His squire shall cuckold him before your face.
'Now, by my own dread majesty I swear,
And by this awful sceptre which I bear,

No impious wretch shall 'scape unpunish'd long,
That in my presence offers such a wrong.
I will this instant undeceive the knight,
And in the very act restore his sight;
And set the strumpet here in open view,
A warning to these ladies, and to you,
And all the faithless sex, for ever to be true.'

'And will you so,' replied the queen, 'indeed? Now, by mother's soul, it is decreed,

She shall not want an answer at her need.
For her, and for her daughters, I'll engage,
And all the sex in each succeeding age!
Art shall be theirs, to varnish an offence,
And fortify their crime with confidence.
Nay, were they taken in a strict embrace,
Seen with both eyes, and pinion'd on the place:
All they shall need is to protest and swear,
Breathe a soft sigh, and drop a tender tear;
Till their wise husbands, gull'd by arts like these,
Grow gentle, tractable, and tame as geese.

'What though this slanderous Jew, this Solomon Call'd women fools, and knew full many a one; The wiser wits of later times declare,

How constant, chaste, and virtuous, women are.
Witness the martyrs, who resign'd their breath,
Serene in torments, unconcern'd in death,
And witness next what Roman authors tell,
How Arria, Portia, and Lucretia fell.

'But, since the sacred leaves to all are free,
And men interpret texts, why should not we?
By this no more was meant, than to have shown,
That sovereign goodness dwells in him alone
Who only is, and is but only One.

But grant the worst; shall women then be weigh'd
By every word that Solomon has said?

What though this king (as ancient story boasts)
Built a fair temple to the Lord of Hosts;
He ceased at last his Maker to adore,
And did as much for idol-gods, or more

Beware what lavish praises you confer
On a rank lecher and idolater;

Whose reign, indulgent God, says holy writ,
Did but for David's righteous sake permit;
David, the monarch after Heaven's own mind,
Who loved our sex, and honour'd all our kind.

'Well, I'm a woman, and as such must speak;
Silence would swell me, and my heart would break
Know then, I scorn your dull authorities,
Your idle wits, and all their learned lies.
By Heaven, those authors are our sex's foes,
Whom, in our right, I must and will oppose.'
'Nay,' quoth the king, 'dear madam, be not wrotu
I yield it up; but since I gave my oath,

That this much-injured knight again should see,
It must be done-I am a king,' said he,

And one,
'And so has mine,' said she,-'I am a queen;

whose faith has ever sacred been.'

Her answer she shall have, I undertake;

And thus an end of all dispute I make.

Try when you list; and you shall find, my lord.

It is not in our sex to break our word.'

We leave them here in this heroic strain,
And to the knight our story turns again;
Who in the garden, with his lovely May,
Sung merrier than the cuckow or the jay:
This was his song; 'Oh, kind and constant be,
Constant and kind I'll ever prove to thee.'

Thus singing as he went, at last he drew
By easy steps, to where the pear-tree grew :
The longing dame look'd up, and spied her love
Full fairly perch'd among the boughs above.
She stopp'd and sighing: 'Oh, good gods!' she cried
What pangs, what sudden shoots, distend my side!
O for that tempting fruit, so fresh, so green:
Help, for the love of heaven's immortal queen!
Help, dearest lord, and save at once the life
Of thy poor infant, and thy longing wife!'

Sore sigh'd the knight to hear his lady's cry,
But could not climb, and had no servant nigh:
Old as he was, and void of eye-sight too,
What could, alas! a helpless husband do?
And must I languish then,' she said, 'and die,
Yet view the lovely fruit before my eye?
At least, kind sir, for charity's sweet sake,
Vouchsafe the trunk between your arms to take,
Then from your back I might ascend the tree;
but stoop, and leave the rest to me.'

Do you
'With all my soul,' he thus replied again :
'I'd spend my dearest blood to ease thy pain.'
With that, his back against the trunk he bent,
She seized a twig, and up the tree she went.

Now prove your patience, gentle ladies all!
Nor let on me your heavy anger fall:
"Tis truth I tell, though not in phrase refined;
Though blunt my tale, yet honest is my mind.
What feats the lady in the tree might do,
I pass, as gambols never known to you;
But sure it was a merrier fit, she swore,
Than in her life she ever felt before.

In that nice moment, lo! the wondering knight
Look'd out, and stood restored to sudden sight.
Straight on the tree his eager eyes he bent,
As one whose thoughts were on his spouse intent;
But when he saw his bosom-wife so dress'd,
His rage was such as cannot be express'd:
Not frantic mothers, when their infants die,
With louder clamours rend the vaulted sky:
He cried, he roar'd, he storm'd, he tore his hair:
Death! hell! and furies! what dost thou do there?
'What ails my lord?' the trembling dame replied
I thought your patience had been better tried.

Is this your love, ungrateful and unkind,
This my reward for having cured the blind?
Why was I taught to make my husband see,
By struggling with a man upon a tree?

Did I for this the power of magic prove? Unhappy wife, whose crime was too muca love!" "If this be struggling, by his holy light,

Tis struggling with a vengeance,' quoth the knight
So Heaven preserve the sight it has restored,
As with these eyes I plainly saw thee whored;
Whored by my slave-perfidious wretch! may hell
As surely seize thee, as I saw too well!'

'Guard me, good angels!' cried the gentle May, 'Pray Heaven, this magic work the proper way! Alas, my love! 'tis certain, could you see, You ne'er had used these killing words to me: So help me, Fates, as 'tis no perfect sight, But some faint glimmering of a doubtful light.'

'What I have said,' quoth he, 'I must maintain, For by the immortal powers it seem'd too plain.'— 'By all those powers, some frenzy seized your mind, Replied the dame: 'are these the thanks I find? Wretch that I am, that e'er I was so kind,' She said: a rising sigh express'd her woe, The ready tears apace began to flow, And, as they fell, she wiped from either eye, The drops; (for women, when they list, can cry.)

The knight was touch'd, and in his looks appear'd Signs of remorse, while thus his spouse he cheer'd: Madam, 'tis pass'd, and my short anger o'er; Come down, and vex your tender heart no more. Excuse me, dear, if aught amiss was said, For, on my soul, amends shall soon be made:

Let my repentance your forgiveness draw.

By Heaven, I swore but what I thought I saw.'

'Ah, my loved lord! 'twas much unkind,' she cried 'On bare suspicion thus to treat your bride. But, till your sight's establish'd, for a while, Imperfect objects may your sense beguile. Thus when from sleep we first our eyes display, The balls are wounded with the piercing ray, And dusky vapours rise, and intercept the day.