appearances.  She, at last weary of railing to no purpose, applies to a good uncle, who gives her a bottle of water.  “The virtue of this powerful liquor,” said he, “is such, that if the woman you marry proves a scold (which, it seems, my dear niece, is your misfortune, as it was your good mother’s before you), let her hold six spoonfuls in her mouth, for a full half hour after you come home—­” But I find I am not in humour for telling a tale, and nothing in nature is so ungrateful as story-telling against the grain, therefore take it as the author has given it you.

The MEDECINE.

#A Tale—­for the Ladies.#

    Miss Molly, a famed toast, was fair and young,
    Had wealth and charms, but then she had a tongue
    From morn to night, the eternal larum run,
    Which often lost those hearts her eyes had won.

    Sir John was smitten, and confessed his flame,
    Sighed out the usual time, then wed the dame: 
    Possessed he thought of every joy of life,
    But his dear Molly proved a very wife. 
    Excess of fondness did in time decline,
    Madam loved money, and the knight loved wine. 
    From whence some petty discords would arise,
    As, “You’re a fool”; and, “You are mighty wise!”

    Though he and all the world allowed her wit,
    Her voice was shrill, and rather loud than sweet,
    When she began,—­for hat and sword he’d call. 
    Then, after a faint kiss, cry, “B’y, dear Moll: 
    Supper and friends expect me at the Rose."[83]
    And, “What, Sir John, you’ll get your usual dose! 
    Go, stink of smoke, and guzzle nasty wine,
    Sure, never virtuous love was used like mine!”

    Oft as the watchful bellman marched his round,
    At a fresh bottle gay Sir John he found. 
    By four the knight would get his business done,
    And only then reeled off, because alone;
    Full well he knew the dreadful storm to come,
    But armed with bordeaux, he durst venture home.

    My lady with her tongue was still prepared,
    She rattled loud, and he impatient heard: 
    “’Tis a fine hour?  In a sweet pickle made! 
    And this, Sir John, is every day the trade. 
    Here I sit moping all the live-long night,
    Devoured with spleen, and stranger to delight;
    ’Till morn sends staggering home a drunken beast,
    Resolved to break my heart, as well as rest.”

    “Hey!  Hoop! d’ye hear my damned obstreperous spouse! 
    What, can’t you find one bed about the house! 
    Will that perpetual clack lie never still! 
    That rival to the softness of a mill! 
    Some couch and distant room must be my choice,
    Where I may sleep uncursed with wife and noise.”

    Long this uncomfortable life they led,
    With snarling meals, and each, a separate bed. 
    To an old uncle oft she would complain,
    Beg his advice, and scarce from tears refrain. 
    Old Wisewood smoked the matter as it was,
    “Cheer up!” cried he, “and I’ll remove the cause.