The Proposal

WITH aking Fingers, twinging Nose,
And vex'd, dear Madam, we'll suppose:
(To leave yourself and Parlour-fire)
Trudg'd Mira to her own good Sire;
Beneath a cold and gloomy Sky
Walk'd cheek by jole the Muse and I:
The list'ning Gossip, tho' unseen,
Had watch'd the Talk that pass'd between
Myself and you: And much offended
(It seems) at what was there intended.
' So cries the peevish Maid, (and squinting)
' Methinks I heard you talk of Printing:
' Have I bestow'd a world of Pains,
' To spirit up your blockish Brains,
' To get from thence an idle Rhyme,
' That made me blush to call it mine?
' And shall I see the crippl'd Crew
' Discarded from their Seat and you,
' Turn'd out to skip from hand to hand
' In dirty Gazettes round the Land,
' To grace the Knee of ev'ry Sot,
' And catch the Droppings of his Pot,
' While in a Rage the drowsy Swains
' Perhaps may curse you for your Pains,
' Protesting with a Critick's Spite,
' That none since Durfey knew to write?
' But, Mira, if you want a Muse,
' To grace the Page of weekly News,
' The Task is much too low for me,
' Yet I've a Maid of less Degree,
' (With Spirit suiting to her State)
' Will serve you at an easy Rate:
' Whose Voice, tho' hoarse, is loud and strong,
' An Artist at a ranting Song,
' Can chaunt Lampoons without much straining,
' Or Epigrams with double Meaning,
' To join the Tavern-Harp or Viol:
' Now if you'll take her upon trial,
' To her Deservings suit your Pay,
' And then you take the safest way:
' Perhaps you'll prosper in the End,
' I'll say no more: But ask your Friend,
' Here ends the Muse—Dear Madam, say,
' Shall I reject her or obey?