My treasure now they feize, the golden fpoil
They bury deep beneath the grafs-grown foil,
Far in the common field. Be bold, arise,
My steps fhall lead thee to the fecret prize;
There dig, and find; let that thy care reward:
Call loud on justice, bid her not retard
To punish murder; lay my ghost at rest:
So fhall with peace fecure thy nights be bleft;
And, when beneath these boards my bones are found,
Decent inter them in fome facred ground.
Here ceas'd the ghoft. The ftranger fprings from bed,
And boldly follows where the phantom led:
The half-worn ftony ftairs they now defcend,
Where paffages obfcure their arches bend.
Silent they walk; and now through groves they pafs,
Now through wet meads their fteps imprint the grafs.
At length amidst a fpacious field they came :
There ftops the spectre, and afcends in flame.
Amaz'd he stood, no bush or brier was found,
To teach his morning search to find the ground.
What could he do? the night was hideous dark,
Fear fhook his joints, and nature dropt the mark:
With that he starting wak'd, and rais'd his head,
But found the golden mark was left in bed.
What is the ftatefman's vaft ambitious fcheme,
But a fhort vifion, and a golden dream?
Power, wealth, and title, elevate his hope;
He wakes: but, for a garter, finds a rope,
APRUDE, at morn and evening prayer,
Had worn her velvet-cushion bare;
Upward fhe taught her eyes to roll,
As if the watch'd her foaring foul;
And, when devotion warm'd the croud,
None fung, or fmote their breast so loud :
Pale Penitence had mark'd her face
With all the meagre figns of grace.
Her mafs-book was compleatly lin'd
With painted Saints of various kind:
But, when in every page she view'd
Fine Ladies who the flesh fubdued,
As quick her beads fhe counted o'er,
She cry'd - Such wonders are no more!
She chofe not to delay confefsion,
To bear at once a year's tranfgreffion;
But every week fet all things even,
And balanc'd her accounts with Heaven.
Behold her now in humble guise,
Upon her knees with down-caft eyes
Before the Pricft: fhe thus begins,
And, fobbing, blubbers-forth her fins
"Who could that tempting man refist?
"My virtue languish'd, as he kiss'd;
till I could ftrive no longer:
"How can the weak fubdue the ftronger?"
The Father afk'd her where and when?
How many and what fort of men?
By what degrees her blood was heated?
How oft' the frailty was repeated?
Thus have I feen a pregnant wench
All flush'd with guilt before the bench:
The Judges (wak'd by wanton thought)
Dive to the bottom of her fault;
They leer, they fimper at her fhame,
And make her call all things by name.
And now to fentence he proceeds,
Prefcribes how oft' to tell her beads;
Shews her what Saints could do her good,
Doubles her fafts, to cool her blood.
Eas'd of her fins, and light as air,
Away fhe trips, perhaps to prayer.
'Twas no fuch thing. Why then this hafte ?
The clock has ftruck, the hour is paft;
And, on the fpur of inclination,
She fcorn'd to bilk her allignation.
Whate'er fhe did, next week fhe came,
And pioufly confeft the fame.
The Priest, who female frailties pity'd,
First chid her, then her fins remitted.
But did fhe now her crime bemoan
In penitential sheets alone?
And was no bold, no beaftly fellow
The nightly partner of her pillow?
No, none for next time in the groye
A bank was confcious of her love.
Confeffion day was come about,
And now again it all must out.
She feems to wipe her twinkling eyes:
"What now, my child?" the Father cries.
"Again!" fays fhe.-With threatening looks,
He thus the proftrate dame rebukes:
“Madam, I grant there 's fomething in it,
"That virtue has th' unguarded minute;
"But pray now tell me what are whores,
"But women of unguarded hours?
“Then you must sure have lost all shame.
"What! every day, and still the same,
"And no fault elfe! 'tis ftrange to find
"A woman to one fin confin'd!
"Pride is this day her darling paffion,
"The next day Slander is in fashion;
"Gaming fucceeds; if Fortune croffes,
"Then Virtue's mortgag'd for her loffes
"By use her favourite vice the loaths,
"And loves new follies like new cloaths:
"But you, beyond all thought unchafte,
"Have all fin center'd near your waist !
"Whence is this appetite fo ftrong?
"Say, Madain, did your mother long?
"Or is it luxury and high diet
"That won't let virtue fleep in quiet?"
She tells him now, with meekest voice,
That fhe had never err'd by choice;
Nor was there known a virgin chaster,
Till ruin'd by a fad difafter.
That the a favourite lap-dog had,
Which (as she stroak'd and kiss'd) grew mad;
And on her lip a wound indenting,
Firft fet her youthful blood fermenting.
The Priest reply'd, with zealous fury, "You should have fought the means to cure ye. "Doctors by various ways, we find,
"Treat thefe diftempers of the mind.
"Let gaudy ribbands be deny'd
"To her who raves with fcornful pride;
"And, if religion crack her notions,
"Lock-up her volumes of devotions;
"But, if for man her rage prevail,
"Bar her the fight of creatures male.
"Or elfe, to cure fuch venom'd bites,
"And fet the fhatter'd thoughts arights;
"They fend you to the ocean's fhore,
"And plunge the patient o'er and o'er."
The dame reply'd, "Alas! in vain "My kindred forc'd me to the main ; "Naked, and in the face of day: Look not, ye fishermen, this way!
|