THE

LADY AND THE PIL

OR,

KNOW THYSELF.

A WORTHY Squire, of sober life,
Had a conceited, boasting wife:
Of him she daily made complaint;
Herself she thought a very saint.
She loved to load mankind with blame
And on their errors build her fame.
Her favorite subject of dispute
Was Eve and the forbidden fruit.
"Had I been Eve," she often cried,
"Man had not fallen, nor woman died;
I still had kept the orders given,
Nor for an apple lost my heaven;
To gratify my curious mind
I ne'er had ruined all mankind;
Nor, from a vain desire to know,
Entailed on all my race such wo."
The squire replied, "I fear 'tis true
The same ill spirit lives in you;
Tempted alike, I dare believe

You would have disobeyed, like Eve."
The lady stormed, and still denied
Sin, curiosity, and pride.

The squire, some future day at dinner,
Resolved to try this boastful sinner;
He grieved such vanity possessed her,
And thus in serious terms addressed her :-
"Madam, the usual splended feast,
With which our wedding-day is graced,
With you I must not share to day,
For business summons me away.

Of all the dainties I've prepared,
I beg not any may be spared;
Indulge in every costly dish;
Enjoy, 'tis what I really wish;
Only observe one prohibition,
Nor think it a severe condition;

On one small dish, which covered stands,
You must not dare to lay your hands;
Go-disobey not, on your life,

Or henceforth you're no more my wife."
The treat was served, the squire was gone,

The murmuring lady dined alone:
She saw whate'er could grace a feast,
Or charm the eye, or please the taste;
But while she ranged from this to that,
From venison haunch to turtle fat,
On one small dish she chanced to light,
By a deep cover hid from sight:
"O! here it is—yet not for me!
I must not taste, nay, dare not see;
Why place it there? or why forbid
That I so much as lift the lid?
Prohibited of this to eat,

I care not for the sumptuous treat;
I wonder if 'tis fowl or fish ;

To know what's there I merely wish.
I'll look-O no; I lose for ever,

If I'm betrayed, my husband's favor.
I own I think it vastly hard,
Nay, tyranny, to be debarred.

John, you may go-the wine's decanted;
I'll ring or call you when you're wanted."
Now left alone, she waits no longer;
Temptation presses more and stronger.
I'll peep-the harm can ne'er be much,
For though I peep, I will not touch;
Why I'm forbid to lift this cover,
One glance will tell, and then 'tis over.
My husband's absent; so is John;
My peeping never can be known."
Trembling, she yielded to her wish,
And raised the cover from the dish:
She starts-for, lo! an open pie,
From which six living sparrows fly.

She calls, she screams, with wild surprise.
"Haste, John, and catch these birds!" she cries.
John hears not; but to crown her shame,
In at her call her husband came.

Sternly he frowned as thus he spoke :
"Thus is your vowed allegiance broke!
Self-ignorance led you to believe
You did not share the sin of Eve.
Like hers, how blest was your condition!
Like Heaven's, how small my prohibition!
Yet you, though fed with every dainty,
Sat pining in the midst of plenty ;
This dish, thus singled from the rest,
Of your obedience was the test;
Your mind, unbroke by self-denial,
Could not sustain this slender trial.
Humility from this be taught;
Learn candor to another's fault.

Go; know, like Eve, from this sad dinner,
You're both a vain and curious sinner."

THE PLUM-CAKES;

OR,

THE FARMER AND HIS THREE SONS.

A FARMER, who some wealth possessed,
With three fine boys was also blessed;
The lads were healthy, stout, and young,
And neither wanted sense nor tongue.
Tom, Will, and Jack, like other boys,
Loved tops and marbles, sport and toys.
The father scouted that false plan,
That money only makes the man;
But, to the best of his discerning,
Was bent on giving them good learning:

He was a man of observation,
No scholar, yet had penetration;
So, with due care, a school he sought,
Where his young sons might well be taught.
Quoth he, "I know not which rehearses
Most properly his themes or verses;
Yet I can do a father's part,

And school the temper, mind, and heart;
The natural bent of each I'll know,
And trifles best that bent may show."
'Twas just before the closing year,
When Christmas holidays were near,
The farmer called to see his boys,
And asked how each his time employs.
Quoth Will," There's father, boys, without
He's brought us something good, no doubt.”
The father sees their merry faces,

With joy beholds them, and embraces.

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Come, boys, of home you'll have your fill." "Yes, Christmas now is near," says Will; ""Tis just twelve days-these notches see— My notches with the days agree.”

Well," said the sire, "again I'll come,
And gladly fetch my brave boys home.
You two the dappled mare shall ride,
Jack mount the pony by my side.
Meantime, my lads, I've brought you here
No small provision of good cheer."
Then from his pocket straight he takes
A vast profusion of plum-cakes;
He counts them out, a plenteous store;
No boy shall have or less or more;
Twelve cakes he gives to each dear son,
When each expected only one ;

And then, with many a kind expression,
He leaves them to their own discretion;
Resolved to mark the use each made
Of what he to their hands conveyed.

The twelve days past, he comes once more,

And brings the horses to the door;
The boys with rapture see appear
The pony and the dappled mare:
Each moment now an hour they count,
And crack their whips and long to mount.

As with the boys his ride he takes,
He asks the history of the cakes.

Says Will, "Dear father, life is short;
So I resolved to make quick sport;
The cakes were all so nice and sweet,
I thought I'd have one jolly treat;
'Why should I balk,' said I, 'my taste?
I'll make at once a hearty feast.'
So snugly by myself I fed,

When every boy was gone to bed;
I gorged them all, both paste and plum,
And did not spare a single crumb;
Indeed they made me, to my sorrow.
As sick as death upon the morrow;
This made me mourn my rich repast,
And wish I had not fed so fast."

Quoth Jack, "I was not such a dunce,
To eat my quantum up at once;

And though the boys all longed to clutch 'em,
I would not let a creature touch 'em;
Nor, though the whole were in my power,

Would I one single cake devour;

Thanks to the use of keys and locks,

box:

They're all now snug within my
The mischief is, by hoarding long,
They're grown so mouldy and so strong,
I find they won't be fit to eat,

And I have lost my father's treat."

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Well, Tom," the anxious parent cries,
"How did you manage?" Tom replies,
"I shunned each wide extreme to take,
To glut my maw, or hoard my cake;
I thought each day its wants would have,
And appetite again might crave;

Twelve school-days still my notches counted,
To twelve my father's cakes amounted;
So every day I took out one,

But never ate my cake alone;
With every needy boy I shared,
And more than half I always spared.
One every day, 'twixt self and friend,
Has brought my dozen to an end:
My last remaining cake to-day
I would not touch, but gave away;