in all my life.” 
  With that, he twisted his girdle at me like a rope, as who should say,
  “Now you may go hang yourself for me!” and so went away. 
  Well:  I thought I should have swoon’d, “Law!” said I, “what shall I do? 
  I have lost my money, and shall lose my true love too!”
  Then my Lord called me:  “Harry,” said my Lord, “don’t cry,
  I’ll give you something towards your loss;” and, says my Lady,
          “so will I.” 
  “O, but,” said I, “what if, after all, the chaplain won’t come to?”
  For that, he said, (an’t please your Excellencies), I must petition you. 
  The premises tenderly consider’d, I desire your Excellencies’ protection,
  And that I may have a share in next Sunday’s collection: 
  And, over and above, that I may have your Excellencies’ letter,
  With an order for the chaplain aforesaid, or, instead of him, a better: 
  And then your poor petitioner both night and day,
  Or the chaplain (for ’tis his trade), as in duty bound, shall ever pray.

XXVII.  ELEGY ON PARTRIDGE.

This was written to satirize the superstitious faith placed in the predictions of the almanac-makers of the period.  Partridge was the name of one of them—­a cobbler by profession.  Fielding also satirized the folly in Tom Jones.  The elegy is upon “his supposed death”, which drew from Partridge an indignant denial.

  Well; ’tis as Bickerstaff has guess’d,
  Though we all took it for a jest: 
  Partridge is dead; nay more, he died
  Ere he could prove the good ’squire lied. 
  Strange, an astrologer should die
  Without one wonder in the sky! 
  Not one of his crony stars
  To pay their duty at his hearse! 
  No meteor, no eclipse appear’d! 
  No comet with a flaming beard! 
  The sun has rose, and gone to bed,
  Just as if Partridge were not dead;
  Nor hid himself behind the moon
  To make a dreadful night at noon. 
  He at fit periods walks through Aries,
  Howe’er our earthly motion varies;
  And twice a year he’ll cut the equator,
  As if there had been no such matter. 
    Some wits have wonder’d what analogy
  There is ’twixt cobbling and astrology;
  How Partridge made his optics rise
  From a shoe-sole to reach the skies. 
    A list the cobbler’s temples ties,
  To keep the hair out of his eyes;
  From whence ’tis plain, the diadem
  That princes wear derives from them: 
  And therefore crowns are nowadays
  Adorn’d with golden stars and rays: 
  Which plainly shows the near alliance
  ’Twixt cobbling and the planets science. 
    Besides, that slow-pac’d sign Bootes,
  As ’tis miscall’d, we know not who ’tis: 
  But Partridge ended all disputes;
  He knew his trade, and call’d it boots. 
    The horned moon, which heretofore
  Upon their shoes the Romans wore,