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?