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N ancient Times, as Story tells,

The Saints would often leave their Cells,
And strole about, but hide their Quality,
To try good People's Hospitality,

It happen'd on a Winter-Night,
(As Authors of the Legend write,)
Two Brother-Hermits, Saints by Trade,
Taking their Tour in Masquerade,
Disguis'd in tatter'd Habits, went
To a small Village down in Kent;
Where, in the Strolers canting Strain,
They begg'd from Door to Door in vain ;
Try'd ev'ry Tone might Pity win,
But not a Soul would let them in.

Our wand'ring Saints in woful State,
Treated at this ungodly Rate,
Having thro' all the Village past,
To a small Cottage came at last ;



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Where dwelt a good old honest Ye'man,
Called in the Neighbourhood, Philemon,
Who kindly did the Saints invite
In his poor' Hut to pass the Night:
And then the hospitable Sire
Bid Goody Baucis mend the Fire ;
While he from out the Chimney took
A Flitch of Bacon off the Hook ;
And freely from the fatteft Side,
Cut out large Slices to be fry'd :
Then stepp'd aside to fetch 'em Drink,
Filld a large Jug up to the Brink;
And saw it fairly twice go round;
Yet (what was wonderful) they found
'Twas still replenish'd to the Top,
As if they ne'er had touch'd a Drop.
The good old Couple were amaz'd,
And often on each other gaz'd:
For both were frighted to the Heart,
And just began to cry, -

What art!
Then softly turn'd aside to view,
Whether the Lights were burning blue.
The gentle Pilgrims soon aware on't,
Told 'em their Calling, and their Errant ::
Good Folks, you need not be afraid,
We are but Saints, the Hermits said :
No Hurt shall come to you or yours;
But, for that Pack of churlish Boors,
Not fit to live on Christian Ground,
They and their Houses shall be drown'd:



shall see your Cottage rise, And grow a Church before

your Eyes.

They scarce had spoke ; when fair and soft,
The Roof began to mount aloft:
Aloft rose ev'ry Beam and Rafter ;
The heavy Wall climb'd Nowly after.

The Chimney widen'd and grew higher, Became a Steeple with a Spire.

The Kettle to the Top was hoist,
And there ftood fasten'd to a Joift;
But with the Up-side down, to show
Its Inclination for below:
In vain ; for some superior Force,
Apply'd at Bottom, stops its Course ;
Doom'd ever in Suspence to dwell ;
'Tis now no Kettle, but a Bell.

A Wooden Jack, which had almost
Loft, by Disuse, the Art to roaft,
A sudden Alteration feels,
Increas'd by new intestine Wheels :
And what exalts the Wonder more,
The Number made the Motion slow'r,
The Flyer, which, tho’t had Leaden Feet,
Turn'd round so quick, you scarce could see't;
Now Nacken'd by some secret Pow'r,
Can hardly move an Inch an Hour.


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The Jack and Chimney, near ally'd,
Had never left each other's Side;
The Chimney to a Steeple grown,
The Jack would not be left alone;
But, up against the Steeple rear'd,
Became a Clock; and still adherd:
And still its Love to Houshold Cares,
By a shrill Voice at Noon declares;
Warning the Cook-Maid not to burn
That roast Meat, which it cannot turn.

The groaning Chair was seen to crawl,
Like an huge Snail half up the Wall;
There stuck aloft in publick View
And with small Change, a Pulpit grew.

The Porringers, that in a Row
Hung high, and made a glitt'ring Show,
To a less noble Substance chang’d,
Were now but Leathern Buckets, rang'd.

The Ballads pasted on the Wall,
Of Joan of France, and Englis Moll,
Fair Rosamond, and Robin Hood,
The Little Children in the Wood;
Now seem'd to look abundance better,
Improv'd in Picture, Size, and Letter ;
And high in Order plac'd describe
The Heraldry of ev'ry Tribe.

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A BEDSTEAD of the antique Mode,
Compact of Timber many a Load
Such as our Grandfires wont to use,
Was metamorphos'd into Pews ;
Which still their ancient Nature keep,
By lodging Folks dispos'd to sleep.

The Cottage, by such Feats as these,
Grown to a Church by juft Degrees;
The Hermits then desire their Host
To ask for what he fancy'd most.
Philemon, having pausd a while,
Return'd his Thanks in homely Style ;
Then said; My House is grown so fine,
Methinks I still would call it mine :
I'm old, and fain would live at Ease,
Make me the Parfon, if you please.

He spoke, and presently he feels
His Grazier's Coat fall down his Heels:
He sees, yet hardly can believe,
About each Arm a Pudding-Sleeve :
His Waistcoat to a Caffock grew,
And both assum'd a fable Hue ;
But being old, continu'd just
As thread-bare, and as full of Dust.
His Talk was now of Tythes and Dues :
Could smoke his Pipe, and read the News,
Knew how to preach old Sermons next,
Vamp'd in the Preface, and the Text;


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