The Needle. a Poetical Essay, Canto II

Old Nature smil'd to see this child of art From her own womb, like some bright meteor, start: Well-pleas'd she gave the seeds of flax to spread, And hence the Needle's soft companion—Thread: A corresponding amity began, And both were wedded by the care of man, When long they liv'd in amorous friendship join'd, The Thread grew rotten, and the Needle blind! For who can rule th' uncertain chance of life? So fares it in the end with man and wife! Our froward dames are often out of joint, And husbands, like the Needle, lose their point. The Silk-worm next her curious weft display'd, And wrought her lines along the mulberry shade; The Needle soon another mistress found, A softer bride, more elegant and round, Of firmer texture, and of glossier hue, Needles, like men, are fond of all that's new: For now the blade a libertine is grown, Like man, his maker, quickly tir'd of one; Yes! bigamy still tempts the lawless crowd, But thank the laws, ye wives—'tis not allow'd. What! a third wife—ay! tremble at the word Ye former wives—the Needle weds a third! He weds the daughter of old Farmer Fleece, Even such a dame as Jason brought from Greece; A bride full coarse, and recreant to his love, But once united—supple as a glove— Hairy, and rough, of Esau's rustic breed, Who mock'd her rivals of the worm, and weed; For her the Needle must his size enlarge, And the third wife still brings a heavy charge; Her name was Lady Worsted, and she came From Lady Wool—a matron of high fame; She boasted blood, and blood of tincture deep, Descended from the lineage of a—sheep. And thus, while dear polygamy prevail'd, The Needle still with wind and current sail'd; Yet, like Sultanas, tho' they wooed their Turk, Each wife was skill'd, and constant to her work, For joint, or separate, they maintain'd their vows, And never left the drudgery to poor spouse; Each had her own department—Lady Silk Deck'd the white glove, for hands as white as milk; She claim'd the mantua-making, as her trade, Her's was the jantee trolloppee and shade, From the smirk lady to—my lady's maid; 'Twas she set off the milliner so gay, From humble sattin to proud padesuay— She trimm'd the bonnet, and the flaming hat, Proportion'd to the face, or lean or fat. Fair Lady Thread profess'd the sempstress' art; In the fine shirt, or shift, she warm'd the heart: Sometimes she wanton'd in the linen gown, From Lady Bab to Dolly of the town, While Gammar Worsted wrought the humbler stuff Of various colours, for her work was rough. Like these, did women lead industrious lives; What halcyon-days were in the gift of wives? Vain rovers then would envy what they hate, And only fools reject the married state. But here, my Muse, the home-spun theme must change, O'er the sad field of elegy to range; To sing the dire misfortune of the dame, Who died a victim to the Needle's fame; So home the puncture, that she bled to death, And thro' some artery resign'd her breath; Th' industrious finger sudden felt the smart, And quick convey'd it to her throbbing heart, The crimson streams precipitately move To guard their fort—the citadel of love; In vain—for Death too close a siege had laid, And took by storm the miserable maid— Here draw the veil—let fancy paint the rest, And share that grief which cannot be exprest.