And pinch'd her Belly with her Daughters two, To bring the Year about with much ado.

The Cattel in her Homestead were three Sows, An Ewe callid Mally; and three brinded Cows. Her Parlor-Window ftuck with Herbs around, Of sav'ry Smell; and Rushes strew'd the Ground. A Maple-Dresser in her Hall she had, On which full many a slender Meal she made: For no delicious Morsel pass’d her Throat; According to her Cloth the cut her Coat: No poynant Sawce she knew, no costly Treat, Her Hunger gave a Relish to her Meat: A sparing Diet did her Health allure; Or fick, a Pepper-Posset was her Cure. Before the Day was done her Work the fped, And never went by Candle-light to Bed: With Exercise the sweat ill Humours out, Her Dancing was not hinder'd by the Gout. Her Poverty was glad; her Heart content, Nor knew she what the Spleen or Vapours meant.

Of Wine the never tasted through the Year, But White and Black was all her homely Chear;

Brown Bread, and Milk, (but first she skim'd

her Bowls)
And Rashers of findg'd Bacon, on the Coals.
On Holy-Days, an Egg, or two at most;
But her. Ambition never reach'd to Roast.

A Yard she had with Pales enclos'd about,
Some high, some low, and a dry Ditch without.
Within this Homestead liv'd, without a Peer
For crowing loud, the noble Chanticleer:
So hight her Cock, whose singing did surpass
The merry Notes of Organs at the Mass.
More certain was the crowing of a Cock
To number Hours, than is an Abbey-clock;
And sooner than the Mattin-Bell was rung,
He'clap'd his Wings upon his Rooft, and sung:
For when Degrees fifteen ascended right,
By sure Instinct he knew 'twas One at Night.
High was his Comb, and Coral-red withal,
In Dents embarcel'd like a Castle-Wall;
His Bill was Raven-black, and shone like Jet,
Blue were his Legs, and Orient were his Feet:
White were his Nails, like Silver to behold,
His Body glittring like the burnish'd Gold.

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This gentle Cock, for folace of his Life, Six Misses had beside his lawful Wife ; Scandal that spares no King, tho' ne'er so good, Says, they were all of his own Flesh and Blood: His Sisters both by Sire, and Mother's side, And fure their Likeness show'd them near ally’d. But make the worst, the Monarch did no more, Than all the Ptolomey's had done before: When Incest is for Intrest of a Nation, 'Tis made no Sin by Holy Dispensation. Some Lines have been maintain’d by this alone, Which by their common Ugliness are known.

But passing this as from our Tale apart, Dame Partlet was the Sovereign of his Heart: Ardent in Love, outragious in his Play, He feather'd her a hundred times a Day: And she that was not only passing fair, But was withal discreet, and debonair, Resolv'd the passive Doctrine to fulfil Tho' loath: And let him work his wicked Will. At Board and Bed was affable and kind, According as their Marriage-Vow did bind, And as the Churches Precept had enjoin'd.

Ev'n since she was a Sennight old, they say,
Was chast, and humble to her dying Day,
Nor Chick por Hen was known to disobey.

By this her Husband's Heart she did obtain ;
What cannot Beauty, join’d with Virtue, gain!
She was his only Joy, and he her Pride,
She, when he walk’d, went pecking by his fide;
If spurning up the Ground, he sprung a Corn,
The Tribute in his Bill to her was born.
But oh! what Joy it was to hear him fing
In Summer, when the Day began to spring,
Stretching his Neck, and warbling in his Throat,
Solus cum Sola, then was all his Note.
For in the Days of Yore, the Birds of Parts
Were bred to speak, and sing, and learn the lib'ral

Arts.
It happ'd that perching on the Parlor-beam
Amidst his Wives he had a deadly Dream;
Just at the Dawn, and ligh'd, and groan’d so fast,
As ev'ry Breath he drew wou'd be his last.
Dame Partlet, ever nearest to his Side,
Heard all his piteous Moan, and how he cry'd

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For Help from Gods and Men: And fore' aghalt
She peck’d and pulld, and waken'd him at last.
Dear Heart, said she, for Love of Heav'n declare
Your Pain, and make me Partner of your Care.
,

. You groan, Sir, ever since the Morning-light, As something had disturb’d your noble Spright.

And Madam, well I might, said Chanticleer, Never was Shrovetide-Cock in such a fear. Ev'n still I run all over in a Sweat, My Princely Senses not recover'd yet. For such a Dream I had of dire Portent, That much I fear my Body will be shent: It bodes I shall have Wars and woful Strife, Or in a loathsomn Dungeon end my Life. . Know Dame, Idreamt within my troubled Breast, That in our Yard I saw a murd'rous Beast, That on my Body would have made Arreft. With waking Eyes I ne'er beheld his Fellow, His Colour was betwixt a Red and Yellow: Tipp'd was his Tail, and both his pricking Ears With black; and much unlike his other Hairs : The rest, in shape a Beagle's Whelp throughout, With broader Forehead, and a sharper Snout: