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There in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug,
framed with listing, found a place,
THE CLOWN'S REPLY.
JOHN TROTT was desired by two witty peers,
THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG.
FROM THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD,
Good people all, of every sort,
Give ear unto my song;
It cannot hold you long.
In Islingtown there was a man,
Of whom the world might say, That still a godly race he ran,
Whene'er he went to pray.
A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes; The naked every day he elad,
When he put on his clothes,
And in that town a dog was found,
As many dogs there be,
And curs of low degree.
This dog and man at first were friends;
But when a pique began,
Went inad, and bit the man.
The wondering neighbours ran,
To bite so good a man,
The wound it seemed both sore and sad
To every Christian eye; And while they swore the dog was mad,
They swore the man would die.
But soon a wonder came to light,
That showed the rogues they lied; The man recovered of the bite,
The dog it was that died.
ON THE GLORY OF HER SEX,
MRS. MARY BLAIZE.
Good people all, with one accord,
Lament for Madam Blaize, Who never wanted a good word
From those who spoke her praise.
The needy seldom passed her door,
And always found her kind; She freely lent to all the poor
Who left a pledge behind. She strove the neighbourhood to please,
With manners wondrous winning, And never followed wicked ways
Unless when she was sinning.
At church, in silks and satins new,
With hoop of monstrous size; She never slumbered in her pew
But when she shut her eyes.
Her love was sought, I do aver,
By twenty beaux and more;
When she has walked before.
But now her wealth and finery fled,
Her hangers-on cut short-all;
Her last disorder mortal.
Let us lament, in sorrow sore,
For Kent-street well may say,
She had not died to-day.
ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH STRUCK BLIND BY
IMITATED FROM THE SPANISH.
SURE 'twas by Providence designed,
Rather in pity, than in hate,
To save him from Narcissus' fate,
TO IRIS, IN BOW-STREET, COVENT-GARDEN,
Say, cruel Iris, pretty rake
Dear mercenary beauty,
Expressive of my duty?
My heart, a victim to thine eyes,
Should I at once deliver,
The gift, who slights the giver?
A bill, a jewel, watch, or toy,
My rivals give-and let 'em;
I'll give them—when I get 'em.
I'll give—but not the full-blown rose,
Or rose-bud more in fashion;
A transitory passion.
Not less sincere than civil:
I'll give thee--to the devil."
STANZAS ON WOMAN.
FROM THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD.
When lovely woman stoops to folly,
And finds too late that men betray,
What art can wash her guilt away?
1 These verses appear to be imitated from the French of Grecourt, a witty, but grossly indecent writer.