But, "_Ira furor brevis est_,"
As Horace, quaintly, has express'd;--

Therefore the Knight, finding his foam and froth
Work thro' the bung-hole of his mouth, like beer,
Pull'd out the vent-peg of his wrath,
To let the stream of his revenge run clear:

Debating, with himself, what mode might suit him,
To trounce the rogue who wanted to cornute him.

First, an attack against his Foe he plann'd,
Learn'd in the Field, where late he fought so felly;
That is--to march up, bravely, sword in hand,
And run the Friar thro' his holy belly.

At last, his better judgment did declare--
Seeing his honour would as little shine
By sticking Friars, as by killing swine--
To circumvent him, by a _ruse de guerre_:

And, as the project ripen'd in his head,
Thus to his virtuous Wife he said:

"Now sit thee down, my Lady bright!
And list thy Lord's desire;
An assignation thou shalt write,
Beshrew me! to the Friar.

"Aread him, at the midnight hour,
In silent sort to go,
And bide thy coming, in the Bower--
For there do Crabsticks grow.

"He shall not tarry long;--for why?
When _Twelve_ have striking done,
Then, by the God of Gardens![7] I
Will cudgel him till _One_."

The Lady wrote just what Sir Thomas told her;
For, it is no less strange than true,
That Wives did, once, what Husbands bid them do;--
Lord! how this World improves, as we grow older!

She name'd the midnight hour;--
Telling the Friar to repair
To the sweet, secret Bower;--
But not a word of any crabsticks there.

Thus have I seen a liquorish, black rat,
Lure'd by the Cook, to sniff, and smell her bacon;
And, when he's eager for a bit of fat,
Down goes a trap upon him, and he's taken.

A tiny Page,--for, formerly, a boy
Was a mere dunce who did not understand
The doctrines of Sir Pandarus, of Troy,--
Slipp'd the Dame's note into the Friar's hand,
As he was walking in the cloister;
And, then, slipp'd off,--as silent as an oyster.

The Friar read;--the Friar chuckle'd:--
For, now the Farce's unities were right:
_Videlicet_--The Argument, a Cuckold;
The Scene, a Bow'r; Time, Twelve o'clock, at night.

Blithe was fat John!--and, dreading no mishap,
Stole, at the hour appointed, to the _trap_;
But, so perfume'd, so musk'd, for the occasion,--
His _tribute_ to the nose