AS I  and my Sire,
Sat musing o'er a smoky Fire,
We heard a Knocking at the Door,
Rise, something is the Matter sure.
The little Turret seem'd to quake,
The Shelves, the Chairs and Tables shake;
cries, O, what's the Matter?
And  Teeth began to chatter:
The frighted Door (as what could choose)
Flew open (pray believe the Muse)
A hollow Voice for Entrance calls,
And soon — Although the dirty Walls
Were stain'd with Ignorance and Sin,
Yet   ventur'd in,
Not in a Cherub's Form enshrin'd,
Nor in the shape of human kind:
But Locks and Hinges round him glow,
In Figure like a neat Buroe;
Like Brambles in a thorny Gap
Stood  Hair beneath her Cap:
Her frighted Senses gone astray,
She bent her Knees in act to pray;
But the presuming Priest drew near,
As void of Piety as Fear,
And by its Side undaunted stood,
And wou'd persuade us it was Wood:
With Rev'rence then we did presume
To place him in the little Room;
The Priest excluded with the rest,
The Stranger  thus address'd,
(Tho' shaking with Surprise and Fear)
'O say what Power sent thee here,
'Not Fortune, for I ne'er cou'd see
'As yet her Favours bent on me:
'Nor Chance although we often find
'She governs most of human kind;
'Or can, against the Maid's Desire,
'Throw Madam's Caudle in the Fire;
'Can light a Candle, or can miss,
'She never brought a thing like this.