170 THE POEMS OF ANNE �Is held but by a little String, Which upwards cannot make it spring, Or bear it from the Ground. �Whilst on this Oak, a Fruit so small, So disproportion'd, grows; �That, who with Sence surveys this All, �This universal Casual Ball, �Its ill Contrivance knows. �My better Judgment wou'd have hung �That Weight upon a Tree, And left this Mast, thus slightly strung, 'Mongst things which on the Surface sprung, And small and feeble be. �No more the Caviller cou'd say, Nor farther Faults descry; For, as he upwards gazing lay, An Acorn, loosen'd from the Stay, Fell down upon his Eye. �Th' offended Part with Tears ran o'er, �As punish'd for the Sin: Fool! had that Bough a Pumpkin bore, Thy Whimseys must have work'd no more, �Nor Scull had kept them in. �THE PREVALENCE OF CUSTOM �A Female, to a Drunkard marry'd, When all her other Arts miscarry'd, Had yet one Stratagem to prove him, And from good Fellowship remove him ; Finding him overcome with Tipple, And weak, as Infant at the Nipple, ��� �
