Page:The dispensary - a poem in six canto's (sic) (IA b30356775).pdf/81

 No, 'tis resolv'd, he either shall comply, Or I'll renounce my wan Divinity.

With that the Hag approach'd Mirmillo's Bed, And taking Querpo's meager Shape, She said;

At Noon of Night I hasten, to dispel Those Tumults in your pensive Bosom dwell. I dreamt but now I heard your heaving Sighs, Nay, saw the Tears debating in your Eyes. O that 'twere but a Dream! But Threats I find Low'r in your Looks, and rankle in your Mind. Speak, whence it is this late Disorder flows, That shakes your Soul, and troubles your Repose. Mistakes in Practice scarce cou'd give you Pain, Too well you know the Dead will ne'er complain.

What Looks discover, said the Homicide, Wou'd be a fruitless Industry to hide. My Safety first I must consult, and then I'll serve our suff'ring Party with my Pen.

All shou'd, reply'd the Hag, their Talent learn; The most attempting oft the least discern. Let P speak, and Vk write, Soft Acon court, and rough Cæcinna fight: Such must succeed; but when th' Enervate aim Beyond their Force, they still contend for Shame, Had C printed nothing of his own. He had not been the Sfold o' the Town. Asses and Owls, unseen, their Kind betray, If these attempt to Hoot, or those to Bray. Had