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Poetical Essays in FEBRUARY, 1731.
No. II.
The Midsummer Wish.
By Mr. Stephen Duck.
WAft me some soft and cooling breeze, To Windsor's shady kind retreat,Where Sylvan scenes, wide spreading trees, Repell the raging dog star's heat:Where tufted grass, and mossy beds, Afford a rural calm repose,Where Woodbines hang their dewy heads And fragrant sweets around disclose.
His chrystal current Thames displays,Thro' meadows sweet by flowers made, Along the smiling valley plays:And bubbling springs refresh the glade. His fertile banks with herbage green,His purling stream with plenty swells. Where e'er his coursing tide is seen,The god of health and pleasure dwells.
Let me thy pure thy yielding wave,With naked arm once more divide; In thee my glowing bosom lave,And gently stem thy rolling tide, Lay me with damask roses crown'd,Beneath thy Osier's verdant shade, Where water lillies paint the ground,And bubbling springs refresh the glade.
Let chaste Clarinda too be there, With azure mantle lightly drest.Ye nymphs, bind up her silken hair, Ye zephirs fan her panting breast,Oh! haste away fair maid, and bring Harmonious songs the voice of love,To thee alone my muse shall sing. And warble through the vocal grove.
The Gossip's Tale; under the Rose.
TWO Gossips they merrily met, At nine in the morn before noon.And they were resolv'd for a whet, To keep their sweet voices in tune.Away to the tavern they went, Quoth Joan, I do vow and protest,That I have a crown never spent. Come let's have a cup of the best.
And I have another perhaps, A piece of the very same sort:Why should we sit thrumming of caps, Come drawer and fill us a quart,And let it be liquor of life, Canary that sparkling wine.As I am buxom young wife, I love to be gallant and fine.
The drawer as blithe as a bird, Came skipping with cap in his hand,Dear ladies, I'll give you my word. The best shall be at your command,A quart of canary he drew, Joan fill'd up her glass and begun,Here's, Gossip, a bumper to you, I'd pledge thee, girl, were it a tun.
And pray, Gossip, did you not hear The common report of the town,A man of five hundred a year, Is married to Dell o' the crown,A draggle tail'd slut o' my word, Her cloaths hanging ragged and foul,In troth he wou'd fain have a bird, That wou'd give a groat for an owl.
And she had a sister last year, Whose name they call draggle tail Pegg.She'd take up a straw with her ear, I'll warrant her right as my leg:A brewer he got her with child, But e'en let them brew as they bake,I know she was wanton and wild, But I'll neither meddle nor make.
Nor I, gossip Joan, by my troth, Tho' nevertheless I've been told,She stole seven yards of broad cloth, A ring and a locket of gold;A smock, and a new pair of shoes, A flourishing Madam was she,But Margery told me the news, And it ne'er shall go further for me.
I was at a gossipping club, Where we had a chiruping cup.Of good humming liquor, strong bubb, Your husband's name there it was up,For bearing a powerful sway, All neighbours his wonders have seen,For he is a cuckold they say———A constable,———gossip, I mean.
Dear gossip, a slip o' the tongue. No harm may proceed from the mind,Chance words they will mingle among Our others we commonly find,I hope you won't take it amiss——— No, no, there is folly in us,And if we by stealth get a kiss, Our husbands are never the worse.
