Madam and the Magpie

Ye thunders roll, ye oceans roar, And wake the rough resounding shore; Ye guns in smoke and flames engage, And shake the ramparts with your rage; Boreas distend your chops and blow; Ring, ring, ye bonny bells of Bow; Ye drums and rattles, rend the ears, Like twenty thousand Southwark fairs; Bellow ye bulls, and bawl ye bats, Encore, encore, ye amorous cats; In vain poor things ye squeak and squall, Soft Sylvia shall out-tongue you all: But here she comes—there's no relief, She comes, and blessed are the deaf. "A Magpie! why, you're mad, my dear, To bring a chattering Magpie here. A prating play thing, fit for boys— You know I can't endure a noise.— You brought this precious present sure, My headach and my cough to cure. Pray hand him in and let him stain Each curtain, and each counterpane; Yes, he shall roost upon my toilet, “Or on my pillow—he can't spoil it: He'll only make me catch my death.— O heavens! for a little breath!— Thank God, I never knew resentment, But am all patience and contentment, Or else, you paltry knave, I shou'd (As any other woman wou'd) Wring off his neck, and down your gullet Cram it, by way of chick or pullet.— Well, I must lock up all my rings, My jewels, and my curious things: My Chinese toys must go to pot; My deards, my pinchbecks—and what not? For all your Magpies are, like lawyers, At once thieves, brawlers, and destroyers.— You for a wife have search'd the globe, You've got a very female Job, Pattern of love, and peace and unity, Or how cou'd you expect impunity? O Lord! this nasty thing will bite, And scratch and clapper, claw and fight. O monstrous wretch, thus to devise, To tear out your poor Sylvia's eyes. You're a fine Popish plot pursuing, By presents to affect my ruin; And thus for good are ill retorting To Me, who brought you such a fortune; To Me, you low-liv'd clown, to Me, Who came of such a family; Me, who for age to age possess'd A lion rampant on my crest; Me, who have fill'd your empty coffers, Me, who'd so many better offers; And is my merit thus regarded, Cuckold, my virtue thus rewarded. O 'tis past sufferance—Mary—Mary, I faint—the citron, or the clary ."

The poor man, who had bought the creature, Out of pure conjugal good-nature, Stood at this violent attack, Like statutes made by Roubilliac , Tho' form'd beyond all skill antique, They can't their marble silence break; They only breathe, and think, and start, Astonish'd at their maker's art. "Quoth Mag, fair Grizzle, I must grant, Your spouse a magpye cannot want: For troth (to give the dev'l his due) He keeps a rookery in you. Don't fear I'll tarry long, sweet lady, Where there is din enough already, We never shou'd agree together, Although we're so much of a feather; You're fond of peace, no man can doubt it, Who make such wond'rous noise about it; And your tongue of immortal mould Proclaims in thunder you're no scold. Yes, yes, you're sovereign of the tongue, And, like the king, can do no wrong; Justly your spouse restrains his voice, Nor vainly answers words with noise; This storm, which no soul can endure, Requires a very different cure; For such sour verjuice dispositions, Your crabsticks are the best physicians."