The greatest monarch may be stabb’d by night
And fortune help the murderer in his flight;
The vilest ruffian may commit a rape,
Yet safe from injured innocence escape;
And calumny, by working under ground,
Can, unrevenged, the greatest merit wound. 
  What’s to be done?  Shall wit and learning choose
To live obscure, and have no fame to lose? 
By Censure[1] frighted out of Honour’s road,
Nor dare to use the gifts by Heaven bestow’d? 
Or fearless enter in through Virtue’s gate,
And buy distinction at the dearest rate.

[Footnote 1:  See ante, p. 160, the poem entitled “On Censure.”—­W.  E. B..]

CATULLUS DE LESBIA[1]

Lesbia for ever on me rails,
To talk of me she never fails. 
Now, hang me, but for all her art,
I find that I have gain’d her heart. 
My proof is this:  I plainly see,
The case is just the same with me;
I curse her every hour sincerely,
Yet, hang me but I love her dearly.

[Footnote 1:  “Lesbia mi dicit semper mala nec tacet unquam
De me:  Lesbia me dispeream nisi amat. 
Quo signo? quia sunt totidem mea:  deprecor illam
Assidue; verum dispeream nisi amo.”
  Catulli Carmina, xcii.—­W.  E. B.]

ON A CURATE’S COMPLAINT OF HARD DUTY

I marched three miles through scorching sand,
With zeal in heart, and notes in hand;
I rode four more to Great St. Mary,
Using four legs, when two were weary: 
To three fair virgins I did tie men,
In the close bands of pleasing Hymen;
I dipp’d two babes in holy water,
And purified their mother after. 
Within an hour and eke a half,
I preach’d three congregations deaf;
Where, thundering out, with lungs long-winded,
I chopp’d so fast, that few there minded. 
My emblem, the laborious sun,
Saw all these mighty labours done
Before one race of his was run. 
All this perform’d by Robert Hewit: 
What mortal else could e’er go through it!

TO BETTY, THE GRISETTE

Queen of wit and beauty, Betty,
Never may the Muse forget ye,
How thy face charms every shepherd,
Spotted over like a leopard! 
And thy freckled neck, display’d,
Envy breeds in every maid;
Like a fly-blown cake of tallow,
Or on parchment ink turn’d yellow;
Or a tawny speckled pippin,
Shrivell’d with a winter’s keeping. 
  And, thy beauty thus dispatch’d,
Let me praise thy wit unmatch’d. 
  Sets of phrases, cut and dry,
Evermore thy tongue supply;
And thy memory is loaded
With old scraps from plays exploded;
Stock’d with repartees and jokes,
Suited to all Christian folks: 
Shreds of wit, and senseless rhymes,
Blunder’d out a thousand times;
Nor wilt thou of gifts be sparing,
Which can ne’er be worse for wearing.