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CUDDY.

Anfwer, thou carle, and judge this riddle right, 115 I'll frankly own thee for a cunning wight.

"What flower is that which royal honour craves, "Adjoin the virgin, and 'tis ftrown on graves?"

CLODDIPOLE.

Forbear, contending louts! give o'er your strains,

An oaken staff each merits for his pains.
But fee the fun-beams bright to labour warn,

And gild the thatch of goodman Hodge's barn.
Your herds for want of water ftand a-dry,

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Ver. 120. "Et vitula tu dignus & hic,"

120

VIRG.

VIRG.

TUESDAY;

TUESDA

FOR,

THE DITT Y.

Y;

MARIA N.

YOUNG Colin Clout, a lad of peerless meed,

Full well could dance, and deftly tune the reed;

In every wood his carols fweet were known,
At every wake his nimble feats were shown.
When in the ring the ruftic routs he threw,
The damfels' pleasures with his conquests grew;
Or when aflant the cudgel threats his head,
His danger fmites the breast of every maid,
But chief of Marian. Marian lov'd the fwain,
The parfon's maid, and neatest of the plain;
Marian, that foft could stroke the udder'd cow,
Or leffen with her fieve the barley-mow;
Marbled with fage the hardening cheese the prefs'd,
And yellow butter Marian's skill confefs'd;
But Marian now, devoid of country cares,

Nor yellow butter, nor fage-cheese, prepares;
For yearning love the witless maid employs,
And Love, fay fwains, "all bufy heed destroys."
Colin makes mock at all her piteous smart ;
A lafs that Cicely hight had won his heart,

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Cicely

Cicely the western lass that tends the kec,
The rival of the parfon's maid was the.
In dreary fhade now Marian lies along,

And, mixt with fighs, thus wails in plaining song :
Ah woful day! ah woful noon and morn!
When first by thee my younglings white were shorn;
Then first, I ween, I caft a lover's eye,

My fheep were filly, but more filly I.
Beneath the fhears they felt no lafting smart,
They loft but fleeces, while I loft a heart.

Ah, Colin! canft thou leave thy fweetheart true?
What I have done for thee, will Cicely do?
Will the thy linen wash, or hosen darn,

And knit thee gloves made of her own spun yarn?
Will the with hufwife's hand provide thy meat?
And every Sunday morn thy neckcloth plait,
Which, o'er thy kersey doublet spreading wide,
In fervice-time drew Cicely's eyes afide?

Where-e'er I gad, I cannot hide my care,

My new disasters in my look appear.

White as the curd my ruddy cheek is grown,
So thin my features that I'm hardly known.
Our neighbours tell me oft', in joking talk,
Of ashes, leather, oatmeal, bran, and chalk ;
Unwittingly of Marian they divine,

And wift not that with thoughtful love I pine.
Yet Colin Clout, untoward fhepherd fwain,
Walks whistling blithe, while pitiful I plain.

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Ver. 21. Kee, a weft-country word for kine or cows.

Whilom with thee 'twas Marian's dear delight
To moil all day, and merry-make at night.

If in the foil you guide the crooked fhare,
Your early breakfast is my constant care;
And when with even hand you ftrow the grain,
I fright the thievifh rooks from off the plain.
In mifling days when I my threfher heard,
With nappy beer I to the barn repair'd;
Loft in the mufick of the whirling flail,
To gaze on thee I left the fmoaking pail :
In harvest when the fun was mounted high, ́
My leathern bottle did thy drought fupply;
When-e'er you mow'd, I follow'd with the rake,
And have full oft' been fun-burnt for thy fake;
When in the welkin gathering fhowers were feen,
I lagg'd the laft with Colin on the green;
And when at eve returning with thy carr,
Awaiting heard the jingling bells from far,
Straight on the fire the footy pot I plac`d,
To warm thy broth I burnt my hands for hafte.
When hungry thou stood'st staring, like an oaf,
I flic'd the luncheon from the barley-loaf;
With crumbled bread I thicken'd well thy mefs.
Ah, love me more, or love thy pottage lefs!
Laft Friday's eve, when as the fun was fet,
I, near yon ftile, three fallow gypfies met.

Upon my hand they caft a poring look,

Bid me beware, and thrice their heads they fhook :
They faid that many croffes I must prove;
Some in my worldly gain, but moft in love.

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Next morn I miss'd three hens and our old cock,
And off the hedge two pinners and a smock;
I bore thefe loffes with a chriftian mind,
And no mishaps could feel, while thou wert kind.
But fince, alas! I grew my Colin's fcorn,

I 've known no pleasure, night, or noon, or morn.
Help me, ye gypfies; bring him home again,
And to a conftant lafs give back her fwain.
Have I not fat with thee full many a night,
When dying embers were our only light,
When every creature did in flumbers lie,
Besides our cat, my Colin Clout, and I?
No troublous thoughts the cat or Colin move;
While I alone am kept awake by love.

Remember, Colin, when at last year's wake
I bought the costly present for thy fake;
Could't thou fpell o'er the pofy on thy knife,
And with another change thy ftate of life?
If thou forget'ft, I wot, I can repeat,
My memory can tell the verse fo sweet:
"As this is grav'd upon this knife of thine,
"So is thy image on this heart of mine."
But woe is me! fuch prefents lucklefs prove,
For knives, they tell me, always fever love.

Thus Marian wail'd, her eyes with tears brimfull,
When goody Dobbins brought her cow to bull.
With apron blue to dry her tears the fought;
Then faw the cow well ferv'd, and took a groat.

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VOL. I.

F

WEDNES

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