A thousand grimaces she made, To fhew forth her grief at his parting; But that was the trick of the jade, And regardless as old womens farting. The dyer was now out of fight, And prepar'd to discover the treafon; You will find he was much in the right; And I'm going to tell you the reafon: The wife was no fooner alone, But fhe fent for her father-confeffor; He put his best pantaloons on, And he ran like the devil to bless her. The damfel, with fmiles on her face, Some hours were past at this rate, When the husband, with pass-par-tour keys, And caught napping the hog in his peafe. The The abbot, as you may believe, His cloaths he got on with all speed, And conducted he was by the dyer, To be duckt (as you after may read)` And be cool'd from his amorous fire. Quoth the dyer, Moft reverend father, To give you a taste of our drenching. Take the abbot, undress him, and douse him, They obey'd in that very fame nick, To the dye-vat they take him, and souse him. To behold what a figure he made,、 Such a monster there never was feen, "Twas enough to make Satan afraid; He was colour'd all over with green. The dyer had pleasure enough, When he thought how he dy'd him for life; "Twas much better than using him rough, Since he only had lain with his wife. The abbot was led to the door, Never looking behind or before; 'Tis reported by fome of his neighbours, That he did not difcover, till morning, The excellent fruits of his labours, Nor the colour he had for his horning. But, good lack, when he came to the glass, And beheld fuch a ftrange alteration, He was dy'd of the colour of grafs, And had like to have dy'd with vexation, And the abbot muft lose the church-fleece; ROUND her fee Cupid flying, Blind boy, forbear to woe her, On SWE On his Miftrefs drown'd. WEET ftream, that doft with equal pace And liften to my woe. Then go, and tell the sea, that all its brine Is fresh, compar'd to mine; Inform it that the gentler dame, Who was the life of all my flame, In the glory of her bud, Has pafs'd the fatal flood. Death by this only stroke triumphs above The greatest power of love: Alas! alas! I must give o'er, My fighs will let me add no more. Go on, sweet stream, and henceforth rest The The Mafquerade Garland. OM E, all ye fons of Adam, Oh masquerades are fine things For why thou'd mirth and pleasure, And hide our leffer beauties, Here |