A BALLAD TO THE TUNE OF THE CUT-PURSE

Once on a time, as old stories rehearse,

A friar would need show his talent in Latin;

But was sorely put to‘ t in the midst of a verse,

Because he could find no word to come pat in;

Then all in the place

He left a void space,

And so went to bed in a desperate case:

When behold the next morning a wonderful riddle!

He found it was strangely fill'd up in the middle.

CHO. Let censuring critics then think what they list o n't;

Who would not write verses with such an assistant?

This put me the friar into an amazement;

For he wisely consider'd it must be a sprite;

That he came through the keyhole, or in at the casement;

And it needs must be one that could both read and write;

Yet he did not know,

If it were friend or foe,

Or whether it came from above or below;

Howe'er, it was civil, in angel or elf,

For he ne'er could have fill'd it so well of himself.

Even so Master Doctor had puzzled his brains

In making a ballad, but was at a stand;

He had mixt little wit with a great deal of pains,

When he found a new help from invisible hand.

Then, good Doctor Swift

Pay thanks for the gift,

For you freely must own you were at a dead lift;

And, though some malicious young spirit did do't,

You may know by the hand it had no cloven foot.