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POEMS ON Several Subjects: WRITTEN BY STEPHEN DUCK, LATELY A POOR THRESHER IN THE COUNTY OF WILTS, AT THE WAGES OF FOUR SHILLINGS AND SIX PENCE PER WEEK.

Which were publicly read in the drawing room at Windsor Castle, on Friday the 11th of September, 1730, to her Majesty Queen Caroline—Who was thereupon pleased to take the Author into her protection.

TO WHICH IS ADDD, THE WOMAN's LABOUR: AN EPISTLE TO STEPHEN DUCK; IN ANSWER TO HIS POEM, CALLED THE THRESHER LABOUR: TOGETHER WITH THE THREE WISE SENTENCES, TAKEN FROM ESDRAS, CH. III. AND IV.

By MARY COLLIER, a Washer-Woman.

CORK, PRINTED—PHILADELPHIA: RE-PRINTED AND SOLD BY WILLIAM GIBBONS NO. 144, NORTH THIRD STREET. 1793.

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THE AUTHOR's LIFE.

STEPHEN DUCK, the Author of the following Poems, was born in the year 1705, near the seat of Pe­ter Bathurst, Esq at Clarendon Park, in the county of Wilts, of parents remarkable only for their honesty and industry. However, we find he had some small share of reading and writing bestowed on him, with very little or no grammar: For before he had reached his syntaxis, his mother had a very notable complaint exhibited against him by his Schoolmaster, viz. That he took his Learning too fast, even faster than the master could give it him. So that the prudent parent, to prevent so growing an evil, removed her son from School to the Plough, lest he might become too fine a gentleman for the family that produced him.

The seeds of learning being once sowed in our young plowman, there was no possibility of weeding them out: for the labour of his mind generally accompanied that of his body. Milton was his constant companion in the field and the barn: He had likewise made himself mas­ter of a set of the Spectators, and Bailey's English Diction­ary. Our Author, thus equipped, ascends the Hill of Parnassus.

The courteous reader must be informed that our Poet is to be unhappily numbered amongst those men, whose learning and fine parts are not able to give their yoke­mates that satisfaction and content, which a weak mind with a vigorous constitution is generally apt to do. How­ever, he has had three children born to him in wedlock; at the christening of the last child, one of the good wo­men happened to blab it out to the reverend gentleman who performed the ceremony, That Mr. Duck was a man of great learning, and had wit enough to be a parson; for that he could make verses like any man, and as good as ever she heard in her life. Upon the recommendation of this wise woman, the doctor who is a dignified person in the University of Oxford, had some discourse with Mr. Duck, and gave him a theme, with some directions for the improvement of his genius: But when Mr. Duck had finished his Verses, and presented them to him for his approbation, the Doctor recommended them to the [Page iv] flames. This was a most cruel discouragement; so that for a long time after he was almost out of conceit with himself, and went on writing and burning, and his wife continually scolding, because he neglected his labour: And when he was scanning his lines, she would oftentimes run out and raise the whole neighbourhood, telling the people, That her Husband dealt with the Devil, and was going mad because he did nothing all day but talk to himself, and tell his Fingers.

But mangre this ill situation of his poetical affairs, his fame at length began to rouse the Wits of Wiltshire to some consideration of him, and he was admitted to the tables of a great many worthy gentlemen. He now wrote his Poem called the Shunamite, that on Poverty, and the Thresher's Labour; which were handed about the coun­try with great applause, in manuscript. A copy was sent to the Right Honourable the Earl of Tankerville at Wind­sor, where the Honourable Mrs. Clayton, of her Majesty's Bed-chamber, happening to see it, that Lady immediate­ly presented it to the Queen: The Verses became in much reputation at Court by all judges of Poetry; and the Author was then sent for to Windsor, where her Ma­jesty was graciously pleased to declare, she would allow him Thirty Guineas a year, and a little House at Richmond, till he should be better provided for.

He was asked by a Noble Earl to write upon the Sun, but said, That as he had no true knowledge, nor had read any thing of the nature of that great Luminary, he was at present uncapable of such a task. He has read Milton with such attention, (whom he esteems the first of the English Poets) that he can repeat the whole book by heart. The Spectators, he says, were of singular use to him, and Bai­ley's English Dictionary instructed him in the significa­tion of all words which he thought uncouth. He gave such answers as were entirely satisfactory to those who might have any suspicion that the Poems were wrote by some other person; and as he readily accounted for every thing that seemed extraordinary, it is demonstrable he walks in no other Stilts than those of his own Genius, which has justly rendered him the admiration of the pre­sent age.

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Poems on Several Subjects.

THE SHUNAMITE.

DEIGN, Heav'nly Muses to assist my Song:
To Heav'nly Muses Heav'nly Themes belong.
But chiefly thou, O God, my soul inspire,
And touch my lips with thy celestial fire:
If thou delight'st in flow'ry Carmel's shade,
Or Jordan's stream, from thence I crave thy aid:
Instruct my tongue, and my low accents raise,
To sing thy w [...]nders, and display thy praise;
And make th [...] inhabitants of Judah's land
Give ear, and Israel to my voice attend.
Thus when the Shunamite had made her pray'r,
The crouds promiscuous throng'd around to hear
Th' amazing tale [...] while thus her joyful tongue,
Mov'd by the Heav'nly pow'r, began the song.
Attend, ye seed of Abram, and give ear,
Whilst I Jehovah's glorious acts declare:
From that great source of pow'r what wonders spring,
If he assist my lays, my muse shall sing.
My Lord and I, to whom all bounteous Heav'n
His blessings with no sparing hand had giv'n,
Like faithful stewards of our wealthy store,
Still lodg'd the stranger and reliev'd the poor,
And as Elisha, by divine command,
Came preaching virtue to a sinful land,
He often deign'd to lodge within our gate,
And oft receiv'd an hospitable treat;
A decent chamber we for hi [...] prepar'd;
And he, the generous labour to reward,
Honours in camp or court to us propos'd,
Which I refus'd, and thus my mind disclos'd;
Heav'n's king hath plac'd us in a fertile land,
[Page 6]Where he show'rs down his gifts with copious hand;
Already we enjoy an affluent store,
Why should we be solicitous for more?
Give martial camps, and kingly courts to them
Who place their only bliss in fleeting fame;
There let them live in golden chains of state,
And be unhappy, only to be great.
But let us in our native soil remain,
Nor barter happiness for sordid gain.
Here we may feed the indigent in peace,
And cloath the bare with superfluous fleece,
And give the weary fainting pilgrim ease.
This we prefer to pomp, and formal show,
Which only serves to varnish o'er our woe;
Refulgent ornaments, which dress the proud,
Objects of wonder to the gazing croud;
Yet seldom give content or solid rest,
To the vain man by whom they are possess'd.
All blessings, but a child, had Heav'n supply'd,
And only that, the Almighty had deny'd;
Which, when made known to the prophetic Seer,
He said, and I before him did appear,
And the first moment I approach'd the room,
He gravely rose, and did new looks assume;
Not such a wildness and fanatic mien,
With which some say, the Delphic priests are seen,
When they for mysteries of fate explain
The odd cimaera's of a frantic brain;
But with a grave majestic air he stood,
And more than human in his aspect glow'd:
Celestial grace sat on his radiant look,
And pow'r diffusive shone before he spoke.
Then thus: Hail generous soul! thy pious cares.
Are not forgot, nor fruitless are thy pray'rs:
Propitious Heav'n, thy virtuous deeds to crown,
Shall make thy barren womb conceive a son.
So spake the Seer, and to complete my joy,
As he had said, I bore the promis'd boy.
Soon to my friends the welcome news was known,
Who crouded in a-pace to view my son;
[Page 7]Surpriz'd, to hear my unexpected bliss,
And each rejoices for my happiness.
When all had said, I mov'd my joyful tongue,
And thus, to God, address'd my grateful song.
O God! What eloquence can sing thy praise;
Or who can fathom thy stupendous ways?
All things obey at thy divine command,
Thou mak'st a fruitful field of barren land:
The' obdurate rock a fertile glebe shall be,
And bring forth copious crops, if bid by thee;
Arabia's Desert shall with plenty smile,
And fruitful vines adorn th' uncultivated soil.
As thus she spake, her audiance raise their voice,
And interrupt her song, as they rejoice.
O God! We gladly hear thy mighty pow'r,
And joyfully thy gracious name adore:
All nature is subservient to thy word,
And shifts her wonted course t' obey her lord.
We, for thy servant's joy, our thanks express;
As grows the child, so let her bliss increase;
And may thy delegate, who did preside
Over his native hour, his actions guide!
And, ye protecting Angels, that do still
Wait round the bless'd, preserve him from all ill;
Inspire his soul with virtue whilst on earth,
And be his watchful guardians until death,
Then safely bear—The dame here wav'd her hand,
The people straight obey the mute command:
All silent stand, and all attentive look,
Waiting her words, while thus she mournful spoke.
All pleasures are imperfect here below;
Our sweetest joys are mixt with bitter woe:
And while we wait our growing happiness,
Some sudden grief destroys the rising bliss.
E'er fourteen years were measur'd by my son,
(So soon alas! the greatest blessing's gone)
He in the harvest to the reapers goes,
To view the bearded sheaves erect in rows;
Like an embattled army in the field;
(A new delightful prospect to the child!)
[Page 8]But either there the scorching sun display'd
His heat intense, and on his vitals prey'd;
Or sudden blast, or apoplectic pain,
With racking torture seiz'd his tender brain:
His spirits fail'd, he straight began to faint,
And [...]ainly to his father made complaint.
The glowing rose was quickly seen to fade,
At once, his beauty and his life decay'd.
Soon, at my house, the dismal news I heard;
Soon, at my house, the dying child appear'd.
T' embrace him I with fond affection run,
And O! said I, what pain afflicts my son?
He try'd to speak; but fault'ring gave a groan:
No perfect word proceeded from his tongue,
But on his lips the broken accents hung.
All means I us'd that might allay his pain,
And strove to give him ease, but strove in vain:
Short, and more short he drew his rosy breath,
Too sure presage of his approaching death.
The blood congeal'd the heaving heart beat low;
And his head dropt with a declining bow:
Thrice from my breast to raise himself he try'd,
And thrice sunk down again, and groaning dy'd.
Thus, when with care we've nurs'd a beauteous vine,
And taught the docile branches where to twine:
An Eastern gale, or some pernicious frost,
Nips the young tree, and all our labour's lost.
With horror chill'd, a-while aghast I stood
Viewing the child, and trembling as I view'd:
My eyes discharg'd their humid store a-pace,
And tear succeeded tear a-down my face:
Scarce my dilated heart the grief sustain'd;
At length, recovering speech, I thus complain'd.
O fleeting joys, inconstant as the wind,
That only for a moment please the mind,
Then fly, and leave a weight of woe behind!
But yet in vain I thus lament and mourn,
The Soul once fled shall never more return;
And the fair body now must be convey'd
To earth's dark bosom, and eternal shade.
[Page 9]Yet let me not prescribe a bound to Heav'n,
'Twas by a miracle the child was giv'n;
No [...] [...]n I think the wonder is more great,
If the departed soul resumes her seat.
What if I to Mount Carmel haste away,
To him who did his mystic birth display?
His pow'rful word the barren fruitful made:
His pow'rful word, perhaps, may raise the dead.
The famous Tishbile rais'd a widow's son:
Elisha has as wondrous actions done.
When he to Jordan's rapid torrent came,
He with the mantle smote th' impetuous stream;
Obsequious to the stroke, the waves divide,
And raise a liquid wall on either side.
At Jericho, long had the barren soil
Deceiv'd the husbandman, and mock'd his toil;
Yet at his word it grew a fertile field,
And pois'nous springs did wholesome waters yield.
Nor can [...] only such great blessings send,
But curses, if invok'd, on him attend:
E [...] how at Bethel call'd he vengeance down,
At a just scourge on the [...]pprobrious town?
Again, when Moa [...] peace with Israel broke,
And vainly strove to quit the servile yoke:
Our pow'rful Kings led forth th' embattled host
Thro' Edom's sultry wilds and air adust,
Where the confed'rate troops no water found;
Dry were the springs, and [...]e [...] was the ground.
The captain's wanted strength [...] courage fail'd,
When thirst and foes at once the host assail'd.
The kings to him their joint petitions made,
And fainting soldi [...] ▪ crav'd his timely aid;
Nor crav'd in vain▪ The pow'rful word he spake,
A [...] [...]ing waters form'd a spacious lake;
The shining streams advance their humid train,
And Edom's wilds soon grow a liquid plain.
N [...]t in more plenty did the waters run
Out of the rock, when struck by Amram's son.
And who can that amazing act forget,
Which he perform'd to pay the widow's debt?
[Page 10]Whose quantity of oil one pot contain'd,
Yet num'rous vessels fill'd before 'twas drain'd,
Then he who such stupendous acts has done,
If God propitious prove, can raise my son.
So saying, up I caught the child with speed,
And laid it on the sacred prophet's bed:
Then call'd my servant to prepare the steed.
Pensive and sad, my mourning husband said,
Fain would I from this journey thee dissuade:
No God to-day the prophet does inspire,
Nor can he aught reveal thou dost require.
To whom thus I:
Rather than sink, attempt my hopes to raise,
Tell me no more of ceremonial days,
His God is present still, and hears him when he prays.
Thus said: urging my steed with eager haste,
Swift as the mountain roe, the plains I past;
O'er hills and dales my journey I pursu'd,
Nor slack'd my pace till flow'ry Carmel view'd:
On whose delightful brow, in cool retreat
Among the curling vines, the prophet sat,
Whose twining arms a beauteous arbour made;
The beauteous arbour form'd a grateful shade:
The fanning Zephyrs gently play'd around,
And shook the trembling leaves, and swept the ground;
Down humbly at his feet I prostrate fell,
Submiss, and weeping, told the mournful tale.
Calm and compose thy anxious mind, said he,
Tears can't revoke th' Almighty's fix'd decree.
We live and die, and both as he thinks fit;
He may command, but mortals must submit.
Death is a debt we all to nature owe,
And not an evil, but when counted so.
Yet if of Heav'n I can my suit obtain,
Thy child shall live, and thou rejoice again.
Thus said, with looks divine his staff he views,
As if some pow'rful charm he wou'd infuse;
Then calls his servant hastily, and said,
On the child's face see this discreetly laid.
Th' obsequious servant his command obey'd.
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O thou, said I, on whom my hope depends,
Do not transfer this [...]ork to servants hand!
If thou thyself refuse with me to go,
Here to the list'ning vines, I'll vent my woe;
Still prostrate lie, lamenting for my son,
'Till ev'ry hill prove vocal to my moon.
More had I said, but grief the words sup [...]ss'd;
Yet sighs and silent tears explain'd the rest.
At length be from his verdant seat aro [...]
And hastily adown the mountain goes
To Shunem, we with speed our way pursue,
The city soon appears within our view;
And the returning servant at the gate,
Pensive and sad without success, we met:
The beauteous child by death still vanquish'd lay;
Still death insulted o'er the beauteous prey:
'Till to the house [...]he sacred Seer was come,
And with supernal pow'r approach'd the room.
By the dead child a-while he pensive stood,
Then from the chamber put the mourning crowd:
That done, to God he made his ardent pray'r,
And breath'd upon the child with vital air:
And now the soul resumes her pristine seat,
And now the heart begins again to beat;
A second life diffuses o'er the dead,
And death, repuls'd, inglorious doth recede.
Thus when a prowling wolf had stol'n a lamb,
He sternly guards it from the blea [...]ing dam;
But if the keeper comes, he quits his prey,
And, lowring, with reluctance makes away.
And now the prophet to my longing arms
Resigns the child, with more than wonted charms;
The blushy rose shone fresher in his face,
And beauty smil'd with a superior grace.
So when Heav'n's lamp that rules the genial day,
Behind the sable moon pursues his way,
Affrighted mortals, when th' eclipse is o'er,
Believe him more illustrious than before.
Here ends the dame, and the promiscuous throng,
With Hallelujahs thus conclude the song:
[Page 12]Righteous and good art thou, Lord God of Host,
And all my works are wonderful and just;
Both life and death are in thy pow'rful hand;
Both life and death obey thy great command:
By thy great pow'r the Heav'n's and Earth are aw'd,
Then let the Heav'n's and Earth adore their God.
Thou glorious sun, that measur'st all our days,
Rising and setting, still advance his praise.
Thou moon, and ye less glitt'ring orbs that dance
Round this terrestrial globe, his praise advance:
Ye liquid seas, still waving to and fro,
Praise when ye ebb, and praise him when ye flow:
Ye wandring rivers, and each purling stream,
As ye pursue your course, his praise proclaim:
Ye dews, and mists, and humid vapours, all
Praise when ye rise, and praise him when ye fall:
But chiefly Israel, who so oft do'st view
His pow'rful works, his daily praise renew.

THE THRESHER's LABOUR.

THE grateful tribute of these rural lays,
Which to her patron's hand the muse conveys,
Deign to accept; 'tis just she tribute bring
To him whose bounty gives her life to sing:
To him whose generous favours tune her voice,
And bid her 'midst her poverty rejoice.
Inspir'd by these, she dares herself prepare
To sing the toils of each revolving year:
Those endless toils, which always grow anew,
And the poor Thresher's destin'd to pursue;
Ev'n these with pleasure can the muse rehearse,
When you, and gratitude, command the verse.
Soon as the harvest hath laid bare the plains,
And barns well fill'd reward the farmer's pains;
What corn each sheaf will yield, intent to hear,
And guess from thence the profits of the year;
[Page 13]Or else impending ruin to prevent,
By paying, timely, threat'ning landlord's rent,
He calls his threshers forth: Al [...]nd we stand,
With deep attention waiting his command:
To each our tasks he readily divides,
And pointing, to our different stations, guides,
As he directs, to different barns we go;
Here two for wheat, and there for barley two.
But first to shew, what he expects to find,
These words, or words like these disclose his mind:
So dry the corn was carry'd from the field,
So easily 'twill thresh, so well 'twill yield;
Sure large day's work I well may hope for now;
Come, strip, and try, let's see what you can do.
Divested of our cloaths, with frail in hand,
At a just distance, front to front we stand;
And first the threshald's gently swung, to prove,
Whether with just exactness, it will move:
That once secure, more quick we whirl them round,
From the strong planks our crab-tree staves rebound,
And echoing barns return the rattling sound.
Now in the air our knotty weapon's fly;
And now with equal force descend from high:
Down one, one up, so well they keep the time,
The Cyclops hammers could not truer chime;
Nor with more heavy strokes could Aetna groan,
When Vulcan forg'd the arms for Thetis' son.
In briny streams our sweat descends a-pace,
Drops from our locks, or trickles down our face,
No intermission in our works we know;
The noisy threshal must for ever go.
Their master absent, others safely play:
The sleeping threshal doth itself betray.
Nor yet the tedious labour to beguile.
And make the passing minutes sweetly smile,
Can we, like shepherds, tell a merry tale?
The voice is lost, drown'd by the noisy flail.
But we may think—Alas! what pleasing thing
Here to the mind can the dull fancy bring?
[Page 14]The Eye beholds no pleasant object here:
No chearful sound diverts the list'ning Ear.
The Shepherd well may tune his voice to sing,
Inspir'd by all the beauties of the Spring:
No Fountains murmur here, no Lambkins play,
No linnets warble, and no fields look gay;
'Tis all a dull and melancholy scene,
Fit only to provoke the Muses spleen.
When sooty Pease we thresh, you scarce can know
Our native colour, as from work we go;
The sweat and dust, and suffocating smoke,
Make us so much like Ethiopians look:
We scare our wives, when ev'ning brings us home;
And frighted infants think the Bug-bear come.
Week after week we this dull task pursue,
Unless when winnowing days produce a new;
A new indeed but frequently a worse,
The Threshal yield but to the master's curse.
He counts the bushels, counts how much a day,
Then swears we've idled half our time away.
Why look ye, Rogues! D'ye think that this will do?
Your neighbours thresh as much again as you.
Now in our hands we wish our noisy tools,
To drown the hated names of rogues and fools;
But wanting those, we just like School boys look,
When th' angry master views the blotted book:
They cry their Ink was faulty and their pen;
We, the Corn threshes bad, 'twas cut too green.
But now the winter hides his hoary head,
And Natur's face is with new beauty spread;
The Spring appears, and kind refreshing show'rs,
New clothe the field with grass, and deck with flow'rs.
Next her, the rip'ning Summer presses on,
And Sol begins his longest stage to run:
Before the door our welcome master stands,
And tells us the ripe grass requires our hands.
The long much-wish [...]d intelligence imparts
Life to our looks, and spirit to our hearts:
We wish the happy season may be fair,
And joyful, long to breathe in op'ner air.
[Page 15]This change of labour seems to give much ease;
And does, at least, imagination please.
With thoughts of happiness our joy's complete,
There's always bitter mingled with the sweet.
When morn does thro' the Eastern windows peep,
Straight from our beds we start, and shake off sleep;
This new employ with eager haste to prove,
This new employ becomes so much our love:
Alas! that human joys should change [...]o soon,
Ev'n this may bear another face at noon!
The birds salute us as to work we go,
And a new life seems in our breast to glo [...]
A cross one shoulder hangs a Scythe well [...]eel'd,
The weapon destin [...]d to unclothe the field:
T'other supports the Whetstone, Scrip, and Beer;
That for our Scythes, and th [...] ourselves to chear.
And now the field design'd our strength to try
Appears, and meets at last our longing eye;
The grass and ground each chearfully surveys,
Willing to see which way th' advantage lies.
As the best man, each claims the foremost place,
And our first work seems but a sportive race.
With rapid force our well-whet blades we drive,
Strain ev'ry nerve, and blow for blow we give:
Tho' but this eminence the foremost gains,
Only t' excel the rest in toll and pains.
But when the scorching Sun is mounted high,
And no kind barns with friendly shades are nigh,
Our weary Scythes entangled in the grass,
And streams of sweat run trickling down a pace;
Our sportive labour we too late lament,
And wish that strength again we vainly spent.
Thus in the morn a Courser I have seen,
With headlong fury scour the level green,
Or mount the hills, if hills are in his way,
As if no labour could his fire allay,
Till the meridian Sun with sultry heat,
And piercing beams hath bath'd his sides in sweat;
[Page 16]The lengthen'd chace scarce able to sustain,
He measures back the hills and dales with pain.
With heat and labour tir'd, our Scythes we quit,
Search out a shady tree and down we sit;
From scrip and bottle hope new strength to gain;
But scrip and bottle too are try'd in vain.
Down our parch'd throats we scarce the bread can get,
And quite o'er-spent with toil but faintly eat;
Nor can the bottle only answer all,
Alas! the bottle and the beer's too small.
Our time slides on, we move from off the grass,
And each again betakes him to his place.
Not eager now, as late, our strength to prove,
But all contented regular to move:
Often we whet, as often view the Sun,
To see how near his tedious race is run;
At length he vails his radiant face from fight,
And bids the weary Traveller good-night▪
Homewards we move, but so much spent with toil,
We walk but slow, and rest at every stile.
Our good expecting wives, who think we stay,
Got to the door, soon eye us in the way;
Then from the pot the dumpling's catch'd in haste,
And homely by its side the bacon's plac'd.
Supper and sleep by morn new strength supply,
And out we set again our works to try:
But not so early quite, nor quite so fast,
As to our cost we did the morning past.
Soon as the rising Sun hath drank the dew,
Another scene is open'd to our view;
Our master comes, and at his heels a throng
Of prattling females, arm'd with rake and prong:
Prepar'd, whilst he is here, to make his hay;
Or, if he turns his back, prepar'd to play.
But here, or gone, sure of this comfort still,
Here's company, so they may chat their fill:
And we're their hands as active as their tongues,
How nimbly then would move their rakes and prongs?
The grass again is spread upon the ground,
[Page 17]Till not a vacant place is to be found;
And while the piercing Sun-beams on it shine,
The hay-makers have time allow'd to dine:
That soon dispatch'd, they still sit on the ground,
And the brisk chat renew'd, a-fresh goes round:
All talk at once, but seeming all to fear,
That all they speak so well, the rest won't hear;
By quick degrees so high their notes they strain,
That standers-by can nought distinguish plain:
So loud their speech, and so confus'd their noise,
Scarce puzzled echo can return a voice;
Yet spite of this, they bravely all go on,
Each scorns to be, or seem to be, outdone:
Till (unobserv'd before) a low'ring Sky,
Fraught with black clouds, proclaims a show'r nigh;
The tattling crowd can scarce their garments gain,
Before descends the thick impetuous rain:
Their noisy prattle all at once is done,
And to the hedge they all for shelter run.
Thus have I seen on a bright summer's day,
On some green brake a flock of sparrows play;
From twig to twig, from bush to bush they fly,
And with continu'd chirping fill the sky;
But on a sudden, if a storm appears,
Their chirping noise no longer dins your ears;
They fly for shelter to the thickest bush,
There silent sit, and all at once is hush.
But better fate succeeds this rainy day,
And little labour serves to make the hay;
Fast as 'tis cut, so kindly shines the Sun,
Turn'd once or twice, the pleasing work is done
Next day the cocks appear in equal rows,
Which the glad master in safe reeks bestows.
But now the field we must no longer range,
And yet, hard fate! still work for work we change.
Back to the barns again in haste we're sent,
Where lately so much time we pensive spent:
Not pensive now; we bless the friendly shade,
[Page 18]And to avoid the parching Sun are glad.
But few days here we're destin'd to remain,
Before our master calls us forth again:
For Harvest now, says he, yourselves prepare,
The ripen'd harvest now demands your care.
Early next morn I shall disturb your rest,
Get all things ready, and be quickly drest.
Strict to his word, scarce [...] dawn appears,
Before his hasty su [...] [...]il [...] [...] [...]ars.
Obedient to his call, straight up we get,
And finding soon our company complete;
With him, our guide, we to the Wheat-Field go;
He, to appoint, and we, the work to do.
Ye reapers, cast your eyes around the field,
And view the scene its different beauties yield:
Then look again with a more tender eye,
To think how soon it must in ruin lie.
For once set in, where'er our blows we deal,
There's no resisting of the well-whet steel:
But here or there, where'er our course we bend,
Sure desolation does our steps attend.
Thus, when Arabia's sons, in hopes of prey,
To some more fertile country take their way;
How beauteous all things in the morn appear,
There Villages, and pleasing Co [...]s are here;
So many pleasing objects meet the sight,
The ravish'd eye could willing gaze 'till night:
But long e'er then, where'er their troops have past,
Those pleasant prospects lie a gloomy waste.
The morning past, we sweat beneath the Sun,
And but uneasily our work goes on.
Before us we perplexing thistles find,
And Corn blown adverse with the ruffling wind:
Behind our backs the female gleaners wait,
Who sometimes stoop, and sometimes hold a chat.
Each morn we early rise, go late to bed,
And lab'ring hard, a painful life we lead;
For toils, scarce ever ceasing, press us now,
Rest never does, but on the Sabbeth show,
And barely that, our master will allow.
[Page 19]Nor, when asleep, are we secure from pain,
We then perform our labours o'er again:
Our mimic fancy always restless seems,
And what we act awake, she acts in dreams.
Hard fate! Our labours ev'n in sleep don't cease,
Scarce Hercules e'er felt such toils as these.
At length in rows stands up the well dry'd Corn,
A grateful seene, and ready for the barr.
Our well-pleas'd master views the sight with joy,
And we for carrying all our force employ.
Confusion soon o'er all the fields appear,
And stunning clamours fill the workmen [...]s [...]ars;
The bells, and [...]hing whips, alternate [...]nd,
And rattling [...] thunder o'er the ground.
The Wi [...] [...], the Pease, and other grain,
Share the [...], and soon leave bare the plain:
In noisy triumph the last load moves on,
And loud huzza's proclaim the Harvest done.
Our master joyful a [...] [...]he welcome sight,
Invites us all to feast with him at night.
A table plentifully spread we find,
And jugs of humming beer to chear the mind;
Which he, too generous, pushes on so fast,
We think no toils to come, nor mind the past.
But the next morning soon reveals the cheat,
When the same toils we must again repeat:
To the same barns again must back return,
To labour there for room for next year's Corn.
Thus, as the year's revolving course goes round,
No respite from our labour can be found:
Like Sysiphus, our work is never done,
Continually rolls back the restless stone:
Now growing labours still succeed the past,
And growing always new, must always last.
[Page 20]

ON POVERTY.

THERE's no ill on Earth which mortals fly
With so much dread, as abject Poverty.
O despicable name! We thee to shun,
On every other evil blindly run.
For fear of thee, distrustful Niggards go
In tatter'd rags, and starve their bodies too;
And still are poor, for fear of being so.
For fear of thee, the trader swears and vows
His wares are good, altho' his conscience knows
That he hath us'd his utmost art and skill,
Their faults and imperfections to conceal.
The sailor terrify'd with thoughts of thee,
Boldly attempts the dangers of the sea:
From East to West, o'er rocks and quick-sands steers,
'Tis Poverty, 'tis that alone he fears.
The soldier too, whom nought but thee can scare,
In hopes of plunder, bravely meets the war:
To fly from Poverty, he runs on death,
And shews he prizes riches more than breath.
Strange terror of mankind! by thee misled,
Not conscience, quick-sands, rocks, or death, they dread;
And yet thou art no formidable foe,
Except to little souls, who think thee so.
'Tis only the imagination, that
The blunted edge of Poverty can whet.
'Tis servile fear that does us most affect;
'Tis that transforms a shadow to a ghost.
Thus when a tim'rous man, in fears grown old,
Reminds the Fairy Tales his nurse has told;
In the dark night he oft will sideways squint,
And see's a Gobling, when there's nothing in't.
Contented Poverty's no dismal thing,
Free from the cares unwieldy riches bring:
At distance both alike deceive our view,
Nearer approach'd, they take another hue.
The poor Man's Labour relishes his meat;
[Page 21]His morsel's pleasant, and his rest is sweet.
The little, nature craves, we find with ease;
Too much but surfeit into a disease:
And what we have, more than we can enjoy,
Instead of satisfying, does but cloy.
But should we in another prospect take it;
Was Poverty so hideous as they make it;
That steady Man is worthy of our praise,
Who in distress, or pinch'd with hunger, says,
Let Poverty, or Want, be what it will,
It does proceed from God, therefore's no ill.
How does his great heroic soul aspire
Above that sordid wealth the rest admire!
His noble thoughts are fix'd on things above,
Where by true faith, he sees the God of love
Hold forth th' attractive prize, which makes him run
His moral race, to gain th' immortal crown.
Not all the snares a crafty Devil can lay,
Can intercept, or stop him in his way;
His God-like soul pursues the thing that's good,
And soars above the common multitude.
Not all the scornful insults of the proud,
Nor censures of the base and groveling crowd
Nor Poverty, in all her terrors drest,
Can shake the solid quiet of his breast.
Unmov'd he stands, against his worst of foes,
And mocks the darts which adverse fortune throws;
Calm and compos'd amidst or ease or pain,
Enjoys that true content, which others seek in vain.
So stands a fix'd rock, lofty and steep,
Within the confines of the briny deep:
Lash'd by the foaming surges on each side,
Yet can't be shaken by th' indignant tide.
Then why should phantoms discompose the mind,
Or woes, so far from real, fright mankind?
Since wealth is but imaginary fame,
Since Poverty is nothing but a name;
Since both from God's unerring hand are sent,
Lord, give me neither, give me but content.
[Page 22]
HONOUR'D SIR,
I HAVE before the Time prescrib'd by you,
Expos'd my weak productions to your View.
'T had been unjust so long to make you wait,
For what at last had scarce been worth your sight:
And only hopes for pardon at your hand,
Because produc'd to light by your command,
Haply you might expect some finish'd ode,
Or sacred song, made to the praise of God.
A glorious thought, and laudable! O then
Think on th' illiterate Soul that guides the pen;
Ill suit such tasks with one that holds the Plow,
Such lofty subjects with a fate so low.
Alas! great Sir, was but your learning mine;
And I, like you, a fav'rite of the nine;
Sacred Parnassus' top I soon would climb,
And find a Hero worthy of my Rhyme
My well chose subject then I'd treat with sense,
And grace each line with art and eloquence.
I would not sing of Troy, or ancient Greece;
Of sage Ulysses, or of Priam's Race;
Or any of these fictious sons of fame,
Pagans, unworthy of a Christian's Theme.
Much nobler thoughts my grateful voice shou'd raise,
In lofty Strains, to Great Messiah's praise:
With joy I'd sing of his stupendous birth,
And paint his god-like virtues whilst on Earth.
Then with reluctance, horror, and surprize,
I'd mournfully recite his agonies;
I'd trace the heav'nly hero to the tree,
And shew how God in man expir'd for me.
Next in Heroic Numbers would I tell,
How the third day he rose, and vanquish'd Hell;
Subdu'd the grave, and death victoriously,
And gave us earnest of Eternity.
Such noble subjects shou'd my lays excite;
[Page 23]And you, great patron, wou'd in such delight:
Grateful to me, when you well pleas [...]d shou'd view
Th' accomplish [...]d sacred piece inscrib'd to you.
But in Meshah [...]s cause I can't proceed,
L [...]st when [...] praise him, I degrade.
My fate unkind, compels me to be mute,
Because of learning I am destitute;
By which no thought, tho' well conceiv'd, can rise
To full perfection, but in Embryo dies.
Yet my unpolish'd Soul wou'd fain produce,
And bring forth something, tho' 'tis of no use.
Thus in the country often have I found,
(Th [...] slothful man's neglect) a plat of ground
Waste and uncultivated, void of seeds,
Producing nothing but the rankest weeds.
But why stand I my fate accusing so?
The field calls me to labour, I must go.
The Cow lows after mea [...]; the hungry Steed,
Neighing, complains he wants his usual feed.
Then, Sir, adieu! Accept what you did crave,
And be propitious to your humble slave.
STEPHEN DUCK.

The following ingenious Pieces, we hope will not be thought improperly placed here.

ON STEPHEN DUCK.

O Duck! prefer'd by bounteous queen,
To cackle verse on Richmond Green:
Wild Duck in genius! You on high
Soar with bold wing: our rhyming fry
Are tame ones, and not made to fly.
All glorious souls, who e'er have been,
Some lesser Beings usher in.
One hardly worthy to unloose
The leathern thongs that tie thy shoes,
[Page 24]We udge did [...] his eye on thee.
In his Duck [...] prophecy:
Where, now fulfill'd, we sense explore,
Dark, (as it should be) all before.
Thy notes our ears with pleasure treat,
So very wild so very sweet:
More than Amphion thou hast done,
And raised walls, which prove thy own,
This, Stephen, if there's faith in news,
Preferment, Heav'n open'd views:
And yet, by sov'reign goodness own'd,
By critick's hands escapes unston'd.
O sent in mercy to these times!
With vigour thresh our modern rhymes:
Much stalk from little grain withdraw,
And save our pence in buying straw.
No chaffy Bard dare thee assail,
There's no fence against a flail.
Our dang'rous state we all discern,
And fetch Dictators from the Barn.

To Stephen Duck, on his late preferment by Her Majesty.

OLD Homer tho' a Bard divine,
(If not by fame bely'd)
Stroll'd about Greece; old Ballads sung;
A beggar liv'd and dy'd.
Fame Milton too, our British Bard,
Who as divinely wrote,
Sung like an Angel, but in vain;
And dy'd not worth a groat.
Thrice happy Duck! a milder fate
Thy Genius does attend;
Well hast thou thresh'd thy Barns and Brains
To make a Queen thy friend!
O! may she still new favours grant,
And make the Laurel thine!
Then shall we see next New Year's Ode,
By far the last outshine.
[Page]

THE WOMAN's LABOUR: AN EPISTLE TO STEPHEN DUCK: In answer to his POEM called, The THRESHER's LABOUR.

TO WHICH IS ADDED THE THREE WISE SENTENCES, TAKEN FROM ESDRAS, CH. III. AND IV.

Written by, MARY COLLIER, a WASHER WOMAN, At Petersfield in Hampshire.

[Page]

ADVERTISEMENT.

IT is thought proper to assure the Readers, that the follow­ing Verses are really the productions of the Person to whom the Title-page ascribes them.

Tho' She pretends not to the Genius of Mr. DUCK, nor hopes to be taken notice of by the Great, yet her Friends are of opinion that the Novelty of a Washer-Women's turning Poetess, will procure her some Readers.

If all that follow the same employment would amuse them­selves, and one another, during the tedious hours of their La­bour, in this, or some other way as innocent, instead of tossing Scandal to and fro, many reputations would remain un­wounded, and the peace of families be lese disturbed.

I think it no reproach to the Author, whose Life is toilsome, and her Wages inconsiderably, to confess honestly, that the view of her putting a small Sum of Money in her Pocket, as well as the Reader's Entertainment, had its share of influ­ence upon this Publication. And she humbly hopes she shall not be absolutely disappointed; since, though she is ready to own that her performance could by no means stand a critical examination, yet she flatters herself that, with all its faults and imperfections, the candid Reader will judge it to be some­thing considerably beyond the common capacity of those of her own rank and occupation.

M. B.
[Page]

THE WOMAN's LABOUR. TO MR. STEPHEN DUCK.

IMMORTAL Bard! thou Fav'rite of the nine!
Enrich'd by Peers, advanc'd by CAROLINE!
Deign to look down on one that's poor and low,
Rememb'ring you yourself was lately so;
Accept these lines! Alas! what can you have
From her, who ever was, and's still a slave?
No learning ever was bestow'd on me;
My life was always spent in drudgery:
And not alone; alas! with grief I find,
It is the portion of poor Woman-kind.
Oft have I thought as on my bed I lay,
Eas'd from the tiresome labours of the day,
Our first extraction from a Mass refin'd,
Could never be for slavery design'd;
Till time and custom by degrees destroy'd
That happy state our sex at first enjoy'd.
When men had us'd their utmost care and toil,
Their recompense was but a female smile;
When they by arts or arms were render'd great,
They laid their trophies at a Woman's feet;
They, in those days, unto our sex did bring
Their hearts, their all, a free-will offering;
And as from us their being they derive,
They back again shou'd all due homage give.
JOVE once descending from the Clouds, did drop
In Show'rs of Gold on lovely Danae's Lap;
The sweet-tongu'd poets, in those gen'rous days,
Unto our shrine still offer'd up their lays:
But now, alas! that Golden age is past,
We are the objects of your scorn at last.
[Page 30]And you, great DUCK, upon whose happy brow,
The Muses seem to fix the garland now,
In your late Poem boldly did declare
Alcides' labour can't with yours compare;
And of your annual task have much to say,
Of threshing, reaping, mowing, corn and hay;
Boasting your daily toil, and nightly dream,
But can't conclude your never-dying theme,
And let our hapless sex in silence lie
Forgotten, and in dark oblivion die;
But on our abject state you throw your scorn,
And Women wrong, your verses to adorn.
You of hay-making speak a word or two,
As if our sex but little work cou'd do:
This makes the honest Farmer smiling say,
He'll seek for women still to make his hay;
For if his back be turn'd their work they mind,
As well as men as far as he can find.
For my own part, I many a Summer's day
Have spent in throwing, turning, making hay;
But ne'er could see, what you have lately found,
Our wages paid for sitting on the ground.
'Tis true, that when our morning's work is done,
And all our grass expos'd unto the sun,
While that his scorching beams do on it shine,
As well as you we have a time to dine:
I hope, that since we freely toil and sweat
To earn our bread, you'll give us time to eat.
That over, soon we must get up again,
And nimbly turn our hay upon the plain:
Nay, rake and row it in, the case is clear;
Or how should Cocks in equal Rows appear?
But if you'd have what you have wrote believ'd,
I find, that you to hear us talk are griev'd:
In this, I hope, you do not speak your mind,
For none but Turks, that ever I could find,
Have Mutes to serve them, or did e'er deny
Their slaves, at work, to chat it merrily.
Since you have liberty to speak your mind,
[Page]And are to talk, as well as we, inclin'd,
Why should you thus repine, because that we,
Like you, enjoy that pleasing liberty?
What! wou'd you lord it quite, and take away
The only privilege our sex enjoy?
When ev'ning does approach, we homeward hie,
And our domestic toils incessant ply:
Against your coming home prepare to get
Our work all done, our house in order set;
Bacon and Dumpling in the pot we boil,
Our beds we make, our swine we feed the while;
Then wait at door to see you coming home,
And set the table out against you come:
Early next morning we on you attend,
Our children dress and feed, their cloaths we mend;
And in the field our daily task renew,
Soon as the rising sun has dry'd the dew.
When Harvest comes, into the field we go,
And help to reap the Wheat as well as you;
Or else we go the ears of corn to glean;
No labour scorning be it e'er so mean;
But in the work we freely bear a part,
And what we can, perform with all our heart.
To get a living we so willing are,
Our tender babes into the field we bear,
And wrap them in our cloaths to keep them warm,
While round about we gather up the corn;
And often unto them our course do bend,
To keep them safe, that nothing them offend:
Our children that are able bear a share
In gleaning Corn, such is our frugal care.
When night comes on, unto our home we go,
Our corn we carry, and our infant too;
Weary indeed! but 'tis not worth our while
Once to complain, or rest at ev'ry stile;
We must make haste, for when we home are come,
We find again our work but just begun;
So many things for our attendance call,
[Page 32]Had we ten hands, we could employ them all.
Our children put to bed, with greatest care,
We all things for your coming home prepare:
You sup and go to Bed without delay,
And rest yourselves till the ensuing day;
While we; alas! but little sleep can have,
Because our froward Children cry and rave;
Yet, without fail, soon as day light doth spring,
We in the field again our work begin,
And there, with all our strength, our toil renew,
Till Titan's golden rays have dry'd the dew;
Then home we go unto our Children dear,
Dress, feed, and bring them to the field with care.
Were this your case, you justly might complain,
That day nor night you are secure from pain;
Those mighty troubles which perplex your minds,
( Thistles before, and Females come behind)
Would vanish soon and quickly disappear,
Were you, like us, encumber'd thus with care.
What you would have of us we do not know:
We oft take up the Corn that you do mow;
We cut the Peas, and always ready are,
In ev'ry work to take our proper share;
And from the time that harvest doth begin,
Until the Corn be cut and carry'd in,
Our toil and labour's daily so extreme,
That we've hardly ever Time to dream.
The Harvest ended, respite none we find;
The hardest of our toil is still behind:
Hard labour we most chearfully pursue,
And out, abroad, a chairing often go:
Of which I now will briefly tell in part,
What fully to describe is past my art;
So many hardships daily we go thro'
I boldly say, the like you never knew.
When bright Orion glitters in the skies
In Winter nights, then early we must rise;
The weather ne'er so bad, wind, rain, or snow,
Our work appointed, we must rise and go;
[Page]While you on easy Beds may lie and sleep,
Till light does thro' your chamber windows peep.
When to the house we come where we should go,
How to get in, alas! we do not know:
The maid quite tir'd with work the day before,
O'ercome with sleep; we standing at the door
Oppress'd with cold, and often call in vain,
E'er to our work we can admittance gain:
But when from wind and weather we get in,
Briskly with courage we our work begin;
Heaps of fine linen we before us view,
Whereon to lay our strength and patience too;
Cambricks and muslins which our ladies wear,
Laces and edgings, costly, fine, and rare,
Which must be wash'd with utmost skill and care;
With Holland shirts, ruffles and fringes too,
Fashions, which our fore-fathers never knew.
For several hours here we work and slave,
Before we can one glimpse of day-light have;
We labour hard before the morning's past,
Because we fear the time runs on too fast.
At length bright Sol illuminates the skies,
And summons drowsy mortals to arise;
Then comes our Mistress to us without fail,
And in her hand, perhaps, a mug of Ale
To cheer our hearts, and also to inform
Herself what work is done that very morn;
Lays her command upon us, that we mind
Her linen well, nor leave the dirt behind:
Nor this alone, but also to take care,
We don't her cambricks nor her ruffles tear;
And these most strictly does of us require,
To save her soap, and sparing be of fire;
Tells us her charge is great, nay furthermore,
Her cloaths are fewer than the time before.
Now we drive on, resolv'd our strength to try,
And what we can we do most willingly;
Until with heat and work, 'tis often known,
Not only sweat, but blood runs trickling down
[Page 34]Our wrists and fingers; still our work demands
The constant action of our lab'ring hands.
Now night comes on, from whence you have relief,
But that, alas! does but increase our grief;
With heavy hearts we often view the sun,
Fearing he'll set before our work is done;
For either in the morning, or at night,
We piece the Summer's day with candle-light.
Tho' we all day with care our work attend,
Such is our fate, we know not when 'twill end:
When ev'ning's come, you homeward take your way,
We, till our work is done, are forc'd to stay;
And after all our toil and labour past,
Six-pence or Eight-pence pays us off at last;
For all our pains, no prospect can we see
Attend us, but Old Age and Poverty.
The Washing is not all we have to do:
We oft change work for work as well as you,
Our Mistress of her pewter doth complain,
And 'tis our part to make it clean again.
This work, tho' very hard and tiresome too,
Is not the worst we hapless females do:
When night comes on, and we quite weary are,
We scarce can count what falls unto our share;
Pots, kettles, sauce-pans, skillets, we may see,
Skimmers and ladles, and such trumpery,
Brought in to make complete our slavery.
Tho' early in the morning 'tis begun,
'Tis often very late before we've done;
Alas! our labours never know an end;
On brass and iron we our strength must spend;
Our tender hands and fingers scratch and tear:
All this, and more, with patience we must bear.
Colour'd with dirt and filth we now appear;
Your threshing sooty peas will not come near.
All the perfections Woman once could boast,
Are quite obscur' [...] [...]nd altogether lost.
Once more ou [...] [...]istress sends to let us know
She wants our help, because the beer runs low;
[Page]Then in much haste for brewing we prepare,
The vessels clean, and scald with greatest care;
Often at midnight, from our bed we rise,
At other times, ev'n that will not suffice;
Our work at ev'ning oft we do begin,
And e'er we've done, the night comes on again.
Water we pump, the copper we must fill,
Or tend the fire; for if we e'er standing still,
Like you, when threshing, we a watch must keep,
Our wort boils over, if we dare to sleep.
But to rehearse all labour is in vain,
Of which we very justly might complain:
For us, ye see, but little rest is found;
Our toil increases as the year runs round.
While you to Sysiphus yourselves compare,
With Danaus' Daughters we may claim a share;
For while he labours hard against the hill,
Bottomless tubs of water they must fill.
So the industrious bees do hourly strive,
To bring their loads of honey to the hive;
Their sordid owners always reap the gains,
And poorly recompense their toil and pains.

The THREE WISE SENTENCES.

IN gentle numbers fain my Muse would sing,
Of great Darius, Persia's royal king;
That potent monarch, whose imperial sway,
So many mighty kingdoms did obey;
From India's coast, to Ethiopia's land,
All people did submit to his command.
The king with feasting, in most noble sort
Did entertain the princes of his court,
Till night came on, and all retir'd were,
Then to his chamber did to rest repair;
[Page 36]Where several * noble youths strict watch did keep,
To guard his sacred person in his sleep;
Among them three young men of virtuous mind,
Whose hearts to study wisdom were inclin'd,
Had privately, between themselves, agreed
To leave in writing, for the king to read,
What in their judgments, did in strength excel
All other things, for they discerned well
Their sov'reign's bounteous disposition so,
What they could wish, he would on them bestow.
The first of them, in writing did declare.
That nothing could for strength with Wine compare:
The second then his sentence in did bring,
Nothing for might is equal with the King;
With like assurance did the third decree,
Women do bear away the victory
From all on earth; but yet he knew full well,
Great was the truth that did in Heav'n dwell.
These papers seal'd, were secretly convey'd
Beneath the pillow where Darius laid,
Until Aurora did the light display,
And Phoebus rising, usher'd in the day;
Then they withdraw, and when the king did rise,
His servants on their writings cast their eyes,
And to his sacred majesty made known,
What in the night had by his guards been done.
The king was pleas'd on hearing the report,
How the brave youths had acted in his court;
And straightway did his royal mandate send.
Commanding all his princes to attend;
All his wise men, and captains, he did call
Straight to assemble in the council-hall:
The king himself in judgment takes his place,
And with his presence will the senate grace;
His resolution doth to them declare,
Impartially to end this nice affair.
[Page]
And now their several writings being read,
That with the greater force they may proceed,
The king commands the young men in with speed,
And bids them freely speak their whole intent,
What either of them by his sentence meant:
Then having leave, the first did silence break,
And to this purpose he before them spake.
Most mighty pow'rs! doth not Wine exceed
In strength?—It overcometh all indeed:
By freely drinking many are misled;
By Wine the strongest have been conquered:
The needy orphan it will quickly bring,
To be as gay and pleasant as the king;
Enslav'd him that heretofore was free;
Makes servants think they have their liberty:
The poor man and the rich alike are found,
While mirth and jollity go freely round;
Remembrance of all evils, past and gone,
Sorrows and debts, no more are thought upon,
When sparkling Wine their hearts begins to chear,
Nor king, nor governor, they seem to fear;
They speak at large, each would be chief of all,
Till friends and brethren at variance fall:
Drawn swords sometimes the pow'r of Wine attend,
But when 'tis gone, the quarrel's at an end;
Their wrath forgot, their mirth thought on no more,
Each man is in the state he was before.
The force and pow'r of Wine, consider'd well,
Must needs in strength all other things excel.
He having spoke, the second did begin,
Thus to declare the pow'r of the King.
Most noble lords! Of all things that were made,
Or ever on the earth a being had,
Men do excel in strength: To their command
All things are subject, both by sea and land:
How strong then is the King, whose regal sway
All men on earth submissively obey!
They yield obedience to his princely will,
[Page 38]And ready are his pleasure to fulfil:
To his dominion, high and low submit,
He over them bears rule as he thinks fit.
If he in hostile manner draws his sword,
Whole armed legions straight attend his word;
Whate'er he bids, they do with heart and hand,
Walls, tow'rs, nor bulwarks can before them stand:
When into foreign lands he doth them send,
They, in his quarrel, e'en their blood do spend,
And fight till victory doth on them attend;
Then with glad hearts submissively they bring,
The choicest spoils with homage to the King:
While those whose bus'ness is to till the ground,
With whom a sword or spear is seldom found,
Manure their land, their fruitful vineyards dress;
They reap their corn, and luscious clusters press:
And when the harvest doth their toil reward,
They bring the tribute to their sov'reign lord.
If any hapless wretch the King displease,
His neighbours ne'er dispute, but on him seize;
If he bid spare, they spare; if he bid kill,
They ready are his pleasure to fulfil;
If cities to destroy, or buildings burn,
They into heaps of ruin, kingdoms turn:
If clemency within his breast take place,
His people all adore his princely grace,
And build, and plant, what late they did deface.
Whene'er he please▪ he lays him down to sleep,
While armed bands strict watch do round him keep;
Nor dare depart, nor their own bus'ness mind,
But serve the King, as duty doth them bind,
Then what can equal him for strength, I pray,
Whom in such sort all men on earth obey:
Wise Zorababel then appears in place,
A royal youth of David's kingly race;
(Much nobler he than those that spake before,
Because he did the living GOD adore)
And thus his mind and writing did declare,
[...] [...]em all, that sate in judgment there.
[Page]
Most worthy princes! I do freely own
The strength of Kings throughout the world is known;
The force of Wine all mortals know full well;
Yet neither of them doth in might excel:
Women alone must bear the prize away,
Whom all mankind do honour and obey.
And well they may, because from them do spring
The poor and rich, the peasant and the king;
The greatest heroes that the world can know,
To Women their original must owe;
They nourish those that plant the fruitful vine.
From whence you vainly boast the pow'r of Wine:
The glory and the praise of men they are,
And make the garments which they daily wear;
Nay, without women, men can't be at all,
But soon the species would to ruin fail.
When men have gather'd gold and treasures great
Of precious things, and live in pomp and state,
No true content their captive hearts attain,
Unless they can a woman's favour gain;
Her beauty to adore they are inclin'd,
Her noble virtue does attract the mind;
With gold and silver they will freely part,
To gain admission to a female's heart;
Her rare perfections are so much admir'd,
Nought in the world can be like her desir'd,
For if his native country lay at stake,
The husband quits it for his spouse's sake;
His parents, friends, and kindred he doth leave;
Unto his wife alone his heart doth cleave:
Nought comes amiss, he's happy if he find
A consort virtuous, loving, fair, and kind;
A willing homage he to her doth pay;
In toil and labour hard he spends the day,
To gather wealth, that so he may provide,
Treasure to bring unto his dearest bride:
Another boldly, with his sword in hand,
Will cross the seas, and wander on the land;
No horrid dangers can procure his stay,
[Page 40]He bravely dares a lion in the way;
Laden with booty to his mistress flies,
And at her feet presents the golden prize.
Some men, for love of women, oft we see,
Have been reduc'd to utmost misery,
And lost their senses, if they chanc'd to find
A beauteous female cruel and unkind.
How oft have wretched mortals been misled,
With murd'rous hands their rival's blood to shed?
While some as desp'rately have sought for death,
And by self-murder stopt their vital breath!
The King is strong, no people can deny
The honor due to sov'reign majesty:
All stand in fear of him; his pow'r is such,
'Tis death to strike, no less than death to touch.
This mighty monarch I did lately spy
In his chair of state, fair Apame sitting by;
At his right hand this youthful beauty bright,
Appear'd like Cynthia's glitt'ring rays of light;
Altho' he did the Persian scepter sway,
This blooming lady took his crown away;
The diadem that on his head was worn,
Her lovely brows and temples did adorn;
Nay furthermore, when she had done this thing,
With her left hand she struck this puissant king,
Yet no displeasure did in him arise,
Who was a captive to her conqu'ring eyes:
Her radiant beauty did such beams display,
From her he could not turn his eyes away:
If this illustrious Lady deign'd to smile,
O'ercome with joy, the King would laugh the while:
If ought displeas'd her, then the King would try
With gentle words the Dame to pacify.
What mortal strength with Women can compare,
Since crowned Heads to them obedient are?
The king and princes then began to gaze,
And look upon each other with amaze;
For now they very plainly did descry,
This noble prince would have the victory;
[Page]Who, having paus'd, began to speak again,
Not doubting but he should acceptance gain.
Most noble Counsellors, assembled here!
Women are strong, as I have made appear;
The Earth is large, wherein all creatures dwell;
The Heav'n's stupendous do in height excel;
The glorious Sun does heat and light display,
And with his beams gives ev'ry region day:
How great then HE, by whose divine command,
All things at first were made, Earth, Sea, and Land!
Strong is the Truth, who did create all things;
From that blest fountain all perfection springs:
The heav'nly Host with rev'rence all adore,
While men on earth with trembling fear implore
Almighty Truth, which ever shall endure,
When worldly pomp and splendor are no more.
That Kings are wicked, all wise men agree;
Women are so we know assuredly;
When to excessive drinking men incline,
The worst of evils has been caus'd by wine:
All men on earth of high and low degree,
Are subject unto sin and vanity;
Destruction does on wickedness attend,
But mighty Truth shall never know an end;
Not only strong, but good beyond compare;
No wicked men with him accepted are:
No rich reward, no golden bribe can buy
License from Truth to act unfaithfully:
Fraud or deceit in Truth we never find;
Good men embrace it with a ready mind:
Whatever thing is virtuous, good, and great,
In Truth we find it perfect and complete:
Then prais'd be Truth to all eternity.
In one alone is strength and majesty!
He having finish'd th' attentive crowd,
With joyful acclamations shout aloud;
The Truth applauding, they, as one agree,
This brave young Prince should have the victory:
The king and council did his wisdom praise,
[Page 42]Affirming [...]d doubly won the Bays,
Straightway the king Darius did declare,
That purple [...]d fine linen he should [...]ear;
That all his royal bount [...] might behold,
Commanded [...]e should eat and drink in gold;
A regal chariot too be did decree,
Adorn'd with gold, at his command should be;
A massy chain of gold his neck does grace,
And next unto himself assigns his place:
And to increase his honour, after all.
Commands that they his cousin should him call;
And of his royal grace he doth decree,
What he would ask, performed it should be:
Speak what thou wilt, it shall be done for thee;
He was not long to seek what choice to make,
But to the King with low submission spake.
Most mighty Prince! I beg thou wou'dst pursue,
The thing that thou propos'dst long ago.
Behold Jerusalem in ruins laid!
Perform the vow which thou thyself hast made,
When first thou didst the Persian sceptre wield,
That thou the peerless city wouldst rebuild;
That glorious Temple, which was once the praise
Of all the earth, thou vow'dst again to raise;
That goodly Pile by Edomites destroy'd,
Each goodly building now in ashes laid,
And all the holy vessels to restore,
As Cyrus did design long time before;
That then Judea's sons may bless thy name,
And babes unborn thy matchless grace proclaim:
No other things, great Prince! do I require;
No earthly pomp or grandeur I desire:
But if this one request thou grant to me,
Immortal honour thy reward will be.
The King observing how he stood inclin'd,
To serve his country with a willing mind,
Rose from his seat, and in that very place,
Before the council, doth the Prince embrace;
Grants his request, and doth his letters send,
[Page]Commanding all his captains to attend
Both him and his, that so they might convey
Them to their ancient land without delay:
Not only from all tribute set them [...]ree,
But gave much treasure to them lib'rally;
The city built, the temple up did raise,
For solemn worship, as in former days.
This brave young man having his end obtain'd,
And liberty beyond his wishes gain'd;
With thankful heart, and joyful lips, did raise
His voice, to sing his great Creator's praise.
To thee, great GOD! I render praises due,
From whom comes victory, and wisdom too:
Thy worthless servant I myself do own,
Yet thou to me thy strength and might hast shown?
Thine be the glory now and evermore!
I thankfully thy gracious name adore;
Prostrate before thee would I gladly lie,
And praise thy name to all eternity.

We whose Names are hereunto subscribed, being Inha­bitants of the Borough of Petersfield, in the County of South­ampton, do hereby certify that we know Mary Collier, the Washer-woman of Petersfield, and that she is really the au­thor of an Epistle to Stephen Duck, called the Woman's Labour; and also of (a Paraphrase on the third and fourth Chapters of Esdras, called) The Three Wise Sentences, therewith published. Signed by us at Petersfield, Septem­ber 21, 1739.

  • A. Matthew John Clement, Esq
  • Edw. Rookes, Esq
  • Charles Eades.
  • Thomas Stilwell.
  • Thomas Bradly.
  • John Shackleford, Esq
  • Thomas Swannack.
  • W. Clement.
  • Thomas Peace.
FINIS.
[Page]

Lately Published, And for Sale at WILLIAM GIBBONS's Printing-Office, No. 144, North Third Street.

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THE MEANS, PROPERTIES, AND EFFECTS OF TRUE FAITH CONSIDERED. A DISCOURSE Delivered in a PUBLIC ASSEMBLY of the PEOPLE called QUAKERS. By THOMAS STORY.

Also for Sale, (Lately Printed) DIVINE BREATHINGS; or, A PIOUS SOUL THIRSTING AFTER CHRIST. In a Hundred Pathetical Meditations.

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