A Ballad To The Tune Of The Cut-Purse

[1]     WRITTEN IN AUGUST, 1702     I     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 on't;             Who would not write verses with such an assistant?     II     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.             CHO. Let censuring, & c.     III     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.             CHO. Let censuring, & c.