If your money be gone, as a learned divine fays, d'ye fee,

You are no text for my handling; fo take that from me:

I was never taken for a conjurer before, I'd have you to know.

Lord! faid I, don't be angry, I am sure I never thought you fo;

You know, I honour the cloth; I defign to be a parfon's wife

;

I never took one in your coat for a conjurer in all my life.

With that, he twisted his girdle at me like a rope, as who should say,

Now you may go hang yourself for me, and fo went away.

Well I thought I fhould have fwoon'd, Lord! faid I, what fhall I do?

I have loft my money, and shall lose my true love too.

Harry *, faid

Then my lord call'd me: Harry

my lord, don't cry,

I'll give you something towards thy lofs; and fays my lady, fo will I.

Oh! but, faid I, what if, after all, my chaplain won't come to?

For that, he faid, (an't please your excellencies,) I muft petition you.

* A cant word of my lord and lady to mrs. Harris.

The

The premises tenderly confider'd, I defire your excellencies protection,

And that I may have a share in next Sunday's collection;

And, over and above, that I may have your excellencies letter,

With an order for the chaplain aforefaid, or, instead of him, a better:

And then your poor petitioner both night and day,

Or the chaplain, (for 'tis his trade) as in duty bound, fhall ever pray.

Lady

Lady Betty Berkeley, finding in the author's room some verses * unfinished, underwrit a ftanza of her own with raillery upon him, which gave occafion to this Ballad, written by the author in a counterfeit hand, as if a third perfon had done it. Written in the Year 1703.

To the tune of The Cutpurse,

ONCE

I.

NCE on a time, as old ftories rehearse, A friar would needs fhew his talent in Latin;

But was forely put to't in the midst of a verse, Because he could find no word to come

pat in:

Then all in the place

He left a void space,

And fo went to bed in a desperate cafe: When behold the next morning a wonderful riddle !

He found it was strangely fill'd up in the middle.

Chorus. Let cenfuring criticks then think
what they lift on't;

Who wou'd not write verfes with
Such an affiftant?

the

* These verses are called A and may be found among ballad on the game of traffic, pofthumous poetry. Vol. VII.

BALLAD TO LADY BETTY BERKELEY. 77

II.

This put me the friar into an amazement : For he wifely confider'd it must be a sprite, That came through the key-hole, or in at the casement;

And it needs muft be one that could both read and write:

Yet he did not know

If it were friend or foe,

Or whether it came from above or below: Howe'er, it was civil in angel or elf,

For he ne'er could have fill'd it fo well of himself.

Cho. Let cenfuring, etc.

III.

Even so mafter doctor had puzzled his brains In making a ballad, but was at a ftand: He had mix'd little wit with a great deal of pains;

When he found a new help from invi-
fible hand.

Then good doctor Swift,
Pay thanks for the gift,

For you freely must own you were at a

dead lift:

And

And, though some malicious young spirit did do't,

You may know by the hand it had no cloven foot.

Cho. Let cenfuring, etc.

VANBRUGH's HOUSE,

Built from the ruins of Whitehall that was burnt.

N times of old, when time was young,

IN

And poets their own verses sung,
A verfe could draw a stone or beam,
That now would over-load a team;
Lead them a dance of many a mile,
Then rear them to a goodly pile.
Each number had its diff'rent pow'r :
Heroick ftrains could build a tow'r ;
Sonnets, or elegies to Chloris,

Might raise a house about two stories;
A lyrick ode wou'd flate; a catch
Wou'd tile; an epigram wou'd thatch.
But, to their own, or landlord's coft,
Now poets feel this art is loft.
Not one of all our tuneful throng
Can raise a lodging for a fong:
For Jove confider'd well the case,
Obferv'd they grew a num'rous race;

And,