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 call'd Mally; and three brinded Cows. Her Parlor Window fluck with Herbs around, Of fav'ry Smell; and Rushes ftrew'd the Ground. A Maple-Dreffer in her Hall fhe had, On which full many a flender Meal the made: For no delicious Morfel pafs'd her Throat; According to her Cloth fhe cut her Coat: No poynant Sawce fhe knew, no costly Treat, Her Hunger gave a Relish to her Meat: A fparing Diet did her Health affure; Or fick, a Pepper-Poffet was her Cure. Before the Day was done her Work fhe 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 firft fhe skim'd her Bowls)

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

A Yard fhe had with Pales enclos'd about, Some high, fome low, and a dry Ditch without. Within this Homestead liv'd, without a Peer For crowing loud, the noble Chanticleer: So hight her Cock, whofe finging did furpafs The merry Notes of Organs at the Mafs. More certain was the crowing of a Cock To number Hours, than is an Abbey-clock; And fooner than the Mattin-Bell was rung, He 'clap'd his Wings upon his Rooft, and fung: For when Degrees fifteen afcended right, By fure Instinct he knew 'twas One at Night. High was his Comb, and Coral-red withal, In Dents embattel'd like a Castle-Wall; His Bill was Raven-black, and fhone like Jet, Blue were his Legs, and Orient were his Feet: White were his Nails, like Silver to behold, His Body glitt'ring like the burnish'd Gold.

This gentle Cock, for folace of his Life, Six Miffes had befide his lawful Wife;

Scandal that fpares no King, tho' ne'er fo good,
Says, they were all of his own Flesh and Blood:
His Sifters both by Sire, and Mother's fide,
And fure their Likeness fhow'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 Int'reft 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 paffing 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 the that was not only paffing fair,
But was withal difcreet, and debonair,
Refolv'd the paffive 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 fince fhe was a Sennight old, they fay,
Was chaft, and humble to her dying Day,
Nor Chick nor Hen was known to disobey.

By this her Husband's Heart fhe 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 fprung 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 fpring, 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 fpeak, and fing, and learn the lib'ral Arts.

It happ'd that perching on the Parlor-beam Amidst his Wives he had a deadly Dream; Juft at the Dawn, and figh'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

For Help from Gods and Men: And fore aghast
She peck'd and pull'd, and waken'd him at last.
Dear Heart, faid fhe, for Love of Heav'n declare
Your Pain, and make me Partner of your Care.
You groan, Sir, ever fince the Morning-light,
As fomething had disturb'd your noble Spright.
And Madam, well I might, faid Chanticleer,
Never was Shrovetide-Cock in fuch a fear.
Ev'n ftill I run all over in a Sweat,

My Princely Senfes not recover'd yet.
For fuch a Dream I had of dire Portent,
That much I fear my Body will be fhent:
It bodes I fhall have Wars and woful Strife,
Or in a loathfom Dungeon end my Life.
Know Dame, I dreamt within my troubled Breast,
That in our Yard I saw a murd'rous Beast,
That on my Body would have made Arrest.
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 reft, in shape a Beagle's Whelp throughout,
With broader Forehead, and a fharper Snout: