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Not fiercer famed La Mancha's knight,
Hight Quixote, at a puppet-show, Did with more valor stoutly fight,
And terrify each little squeaking foe; When bold he pierced the lines, immortal fray! And broke their pasteboard bones, and stabbed their hearts
Not with more energy and fury
Attacks a sister of the smuggling trade,
And to her bed of healthy straw persuade;
And now a cane, and now a whip he used,
Now rushed the monarch for a bow and arrow
Now with the fury of the chafed wild boar,
Now to the floor he brought the stubborn beast;
Pleased on the quadruped his eyes to feast;
Yet more to gratify his godlike ire,
THE TENDER HUSBAND.
Lo, to the cruel hand of fate,
Resigns her tuneful breath-
She's beautiful in death.
As o'er her lovely limbs I weep,
How wonderfully tame!
With all the lightning's flame.
Death was, indeed, a daring wight,
To lift his dart to hit her;
I thought he feared to meet her.
Still is that voice of late so strong,
And beat in sounds the spheres;
Hath soothed my ravished ears.
Ah me! indeed I'm much inclined
Nor hurt her dear repose;
And touch her precious nose.
Here let me philosophic pause-
When ladies' breath retires, Its fate the flaming passions share, Supported by a little air,
Like culinary fires.
Whene'er I hear the bagpipe's note,
And loud instructive lungs;
At least a thousand tongues.
Soon as I heard her last sweet sigh,
How great was my surprise !
Nor blamed the righteous skies.
Why do I groan in deep despair,
Ah! why my bosom smite ?
Whatever is, is right.
O doctor! you are come too late;
That could not save my lamb:
And Grizzle's gullet cram.
For this my poor lost treasure: I thank you for your pains and skill ; When next you come, pray bring your bill;
I'll pay it, sir, with pleasure.
Ye friends who come to mourn her doom,
Nor call her from the blessed-
To bid her spirit rest.
Repress the sad, the wounding scream;
Enough one little sigh-
Our noise is all a lie.
Good nurses, shroud my lamb with care;
Her mouth, ah! slowly close;
To peace my loudest woes.
And, carpenter, for my sad sake,
I'd not be stingy, sure-
To lodge his wife secure ?
Ye people who the corpse convey,
Nor shake her precious head;
Did once disturb the dead.
Farewell, my love, forever lost!
That I again will woo-
Deil take me if I do!
THE SOLDIER AND THE VIRGIN MARY.
PETER PINDAR, A Soldier at Loretto's wondrous chapel, To parry
from his soul the wrath Divine, That followed mother Eve's unlucky apple,
Did visit oft the Virgin Mary's shrine; Who every day is gorgeously decked out,
In silks or velvets, jewels, great and small. Just like a fine young lady for a rout,
A concert, opera, wedding, or a ball.
At first the Soldier at a distance kept,
Begging her vote and interest in heavenWith seeming bitterness the sinner wept,
Wrung his two hands, and hoped to be forgiven: Dinned her two ears with Ave-Mary flummery!
Declared what miracles the dame could do,
Even with her garter, stocking, or her shoe, And such like wonder-working mummery.
What answer Mary gave the wheedling sinner,
One day, as he was making love and praying,
And sins so manifold confessing;
Instead of taking the good lady's blessing.