What can remind me of my former life?--
Those happy days I spent in noise and strife!"
The last word struck him;--"Zounds!" says he,
"a Wife!"--
And so he married.

Muse! regulate your pace;--
Restrain, awhile, your frisking, and your giggling!
Here is a stately Lady in the case:
We mustn't, now, be fidgetting, and niggling.

O God of Love! Urchin of spite, and play!
Deserter, oft, from saffron Hymen's quarters;
His torch bedimming, as thou runn'st away,
Till half his Votaries become his Martyrs!

Sly, wandering God! whose frolick arrows pass
Thro' hearts of Potentates, and Prentice-boys;
Who mark'st with Milkmaids' forms, the tell-tale grass,
And make'st the fruitful Prude repent her joys!

Drop me one feather, from thy wanton wing,
Young God of dimples! in thy roguish flight;
And let thy Poet catch it, now, to sing
The beauty of the Dame who won the Knight!

Her beauty!--but Sir Thomas's own Sonnet
Beats all that I can say upon it.

[Illustration]

SIR THOMAS ERPINGHAM's[6] SONNET _ON HIS LADY_.

1

SUCH _star-like_ lustre lights her _Eyes_,
They must have darted from a _Sphere_,
Our duller _System_ to surprise,
Outshining all the _Planets_ here;
And, having wander'd from their wonted place,
Fix in the wond'rous _Heaven_ of her _Face_.

2

The modest _Rose_, whose blushes speak
The ardent kisses of the Sun,
Off'ring a tribute to her _Cheek_,
Droops, to perceive its _Tint_ outdone;
Then withering with envy and despair,
Dies on her _Lips_, and leaves its _Fragrance_ there.

3

Ringlets, that to her _Breast_ descend,
_Increase_ the beauties they _invade_;
Thus branches in luxuriance bend,
To grace the _lovely Hills_ they shade;
And thus the glowing _Climate_ did entice
Tendrils to curl, unprune'd, o'er _Paradise_.

* * * * *

Sir Thomas having close'd his love-sick strain,
Come, buxom Muse! and let us frisk again!

Close to a Chapel, near the Castle-gates,
Dwelt certain stickers in the Devil's skirts;
Who, with prodigious fervour, shave their pates,
And shew a most religious scorn for shirts.

Their House's sole Endowment was our Knight's:--
Thither an Abbot, and twelve Friars, retreating,
Conquer'd (sage, pious men!) their appetites
With that infallible specifick--eating.

'Twould seem, since tenanted