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BAUCIS and PHILEMON.

Imitated from the Eighth Book of Ovid.

Written about the Year 1708.

N ancient Times, as Story tells,

IN

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

Ir happen'd on a Winter-Night,
(As Authors of the Legend write,)
Two Brother-Hermits, Saints by Trade,
Taking their Tour in Masquerade,
Difguis'd in tatter'd Habits, went
To a fmall 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 honeft Yeʼman,.
Call'd 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 afide to fetch 'em Drink,
Fill'd a large Jug up to the Brink;
And faw 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 foftly turn'd afide to view,

Whether the Lights were burning blue.
The gentle Pilgrims foon aware on't,
Told 'em their Calling, and their Errant :
Good Folks, you need not be afraid,
We are but Saints, the Hermits faid:
No Hurt fhall come to you or yours;
But, for that Pack of churlish Boors,
Not fit to live on Christian Ground,
They and their Houfes fhall be drown'd:

While you shall fee your Cottage rife,
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 slowly after.

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

THE Kettle to the Top was hoift,
And there stood faften'd to a Joift;
But with the Up-fide down, to show.
Its Inclination for below:

In vain; for fome fuperior Force,
Apply'd at Bottom, stops its Course ;
Doom'd ever in Sufpence to dwell
'Tis now no Kettle, but a Bell.

A WOODEN Jack, which had almost
Loft, by Difufe, the Art to roast,
A fudden Alteration feels,

Increas'd by new inteftine Wheels:
And what exalts the Wonder more,
The Number made the Motion flow'r,

The Flyer, which, tho't had Leaden Feet,

Turn'd round fo quick, you scarce could fee't;
Now flacken'd by fome fecret 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 adher❜d:
And ftill its Love to Houfhold Cares,
By a fhrill Voice at Noon declares;
Warning the Cook-Maid not to burn
That roaft Meat, which it cannot turn.

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

THE Porringers, that in a Row
Hung high, and made a glittring Show,
To a lefs noble Substance chang'd,
Were now but Leathern Buckets, rang'd.

THE Ballads pafted on the Wall,
Of Joan of France, and English Moll,
Fair Rofamond, and Robin Hood,
The Little Children in the Wood;
Now feem'd to look abundance better,
Improv'd in Picture, Size, and Letter;
And high in Order plac'd defcribe
The Heraldry of ev'ry Tribe.

A

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 difpos'd to fleep.

THE Cottage, by such Feats as thefe,
Grown to a Church by juft Degrees;
The Hermits then defire their Hoft
To ask for what he fancy'd most.
Philemon, having paus'd a while,
Return'd his Thanks in homely Style;
Then faid; My Houfe is grown fo fine,
Methinks I ftill 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 fees, yet hardly can believe,
About each Arm a Pudding-Sleeve:
His Waistcoat to a Caffock grew,
And both affum'd a fable Hue;
But being old, continu'd just

As thread-bare, and as full of Duft.
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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