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And to engage her fickle Mind, Was singing, Oh, my dear, my kind. Whilst all thus merrily were sporting, Some Drinking, Singing, and some Courting, Who should step Drunk into the Hall, But long-leg'd Beau Original, Who we, to make the Rhime concur, Do sometimes call Beau Cursitor ; For Rhime delights some Readers better By half, than Reason does in Metor; Besides, 'twill tickle these my Rakes, And cure the Wounds my Satyr makes : Yet has it a tormenting Force, And make 'em, tho' it heals, smart worse. So Indian Planters when they Scourge, Those Slaves that do their anger urge, With Brine they vex their wounded Hides, Which heals, but yet torments their Sides. • ••••<••• Next Morn the Beau at Wells appear'd, Amongst the rest of th' foppish Herd; Crowdero had his Suff'rings told, To his own Brother stout and bold, A Master of the String and Bow, But came not there his Skill to show, Who scorn'd to play in publick manner, But was a Fidler of some Honour, Who angry such ill Usage shou'd, Be offer'd to his Flesh and Blood, Advanc'd, and boldly ask'd the Beau, What made him Beat his Brother so, Who did from Knife and Violence free, His Label of Mortality. Sirrah, reply'd the angry Beau, You are a Fidler too I know,
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