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says the prophet of the Turk,

Good mussulman, abstain from pork;
There is a part in every swine
No friend or follower of mine
May taste, whate'er his inclination,
On pain of excommunication.
Such Mahomet's mysterious charge,
And thus he left the point at large.
Had he the sinful part express'd,
They might with safety eat the rest;
But for one piece they thought it hard
From the whole hog to be debarr'd:
And set their wit at work to find

What joint the prophet had in mind.
Much controversy straight arose,
These choose the back, the belly those;
By some 'tis confidently said
He meant not to forbid the head;
While others at that doctrine rail,
And piously prefer the tail.





Thus, conscience freed from every clog,
Mahometans eat up the hog.

You laugh-'tis well-The tale applied
May make you laugh on t'other side.
Renounce the world-the preacher cries.
We do a multitude replies.

While one as innocent regards

A snug and friendly game at cards;

And one, whatever you may say,
Can see no evil in a play;

Some love a concert, or a race;

And others shooting and the chase.

Reviled and loved, renounced and follow'd;
Thus, bit by bit, the world is swallow'd;
Each thinks his neighbour makes too free,
Yet likes a slice as well as he :

With sophistry their sauce they sweeten,
Till quite from tail to snout 'tis eaten.



THE lady thus address'd her spouse→→→
What a mere dungeon is this house!
By no means large enough; and was it,
Yet this dull room, and that dark closet;
Those hangings with their worn out graces,
Long beards, long noses, and pale faces,
Are such an antiquated scene,
They overwhelm me with the spleen,
Sir Humphry, shooting in the dark,
Makes answer quite beside the mark:
No doubt, my dear, I bade him come,
Engaged myself to be at home,
And shall expect him at the door
Precisely when the clock strikes four.
You are so deaf, the lady cried
(And raised her voice and frown'd beside),
You are so sadly deaf, my dear,

What shall I do to make you hear?

Dismiss poor Harry! he replies;

Some people are more nice than wise.

For one slight trespass all this stir?
What if he did ride, whip and spur?
'Twas but a mile—your favourite horse
Will never look one hair the worse.

Well, I protest 'tis past all bearing-
Child! I am rather hard of hearing-
Yes, truly-one must scream and bawl;
I tell you, you can't hear at all!
Then with a voice exceeding low,
No matter if you hear or no.
Alas! and is domestic strife,
That sorest ill of human life,
A plague so little to be fear'd
As to be wantonly incurr'd,
To gratify a fretful passion,
On every trivial provocation?
The kindest and the happiest pair
Will find occasion to forbear;
And something, every day they live,
To pity, and perhaps forgive.
But if infirmities, that fall
In common to the lot of all,
A blemish or a sense impair'd,
Are crimes so little to be spared,
Then farewell all that must create
The comfort of the wedded state;
Instead of harmony, 'tis jar,
And tumult and intestine war.

The love that cheers life's latest stage,

Proof against sickness and old age,

Preserved by virtue from declension,
Becomes not weary of attention;
But lives, when that exterior grace
Which first inspired the flame decays.
'Tis gentle, delicate, and kind,
To faults compassionate or blind,
And will with sympathy endure
Those evils it would gladly cure:
But angry, coarse, and harsh expression
Shows love to be a mere profession;
Proves that the heart is none of his,
Or soon expels him if it is.

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