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Till reading, I forget what day on,
A chapter out of Tooke's Pantheon,
I think I met with something there,
To suit my purpose to a hair ;
But let us not proceed too furious,
First please to turn to god Mercurius :
You'll find him pictured at full length
In book the second, page the tenth:
The stress of all my proofs on him I lay,
And now proceed we to our simile,

Imprimis, pray observe his hat,
Wings upon either side-mark that.
Well! what is it from thence we gather?
Why these denote a brain of feather.
A brain of feather! very right,
With wit that's flighty, learning light;
Such as to modern bards decreed;
A just comparison-proceed.

In the next place, his feet peruse, Wings grow again from both his shoes; Design’d, no doubt, their part to bear, And waft his godsbip through the air: And here my simile unites; For, in a modern poet's flights, I'm sure it may be justly said, His feet are useful as his head.

Lastly, vouchsafe to observe his hand, Filld with a snake-encircled wand; By classic authors term’d caduceus, And highly famed for several uses: To wit-most wondrously endued, No poppy water half so good; For let folks only get a touch, Its soporific virtue's such,

Though ne'er so much awake before,
That quickly they begin to snore.
Add too, what certain writers tell,
With this he drives men's souls to hell,

Now to apply, begin we then:
His wand's a modern author's

pen;
The serpents round about it twined
Denote him of the reptile kind;
Denote the rage with which he writes,
His frothy slaver, venom’d bites;
An equal semblance still to keep,
Alike too both conduce to sleep.
This difference only, as the god
Drove souls to Tartarus with his rod,
With his goose quill the scribbling elf
Instead of others damns himself.

And here my simile almost tripp'd,
Yet grant a word by way of postscript.
Moreover, Mercury had a failing;
Well! what of that? out with it-stealing;
In which all modern bards agree,
Being each as great a thief as he:
But e'en this deity's existence
Shall lend my simile assistance.
Our modern bards! why what a pox
Are they but senseless stones and blocks?

DESCRIPTION OF AN AUTHOR'S BED

CHAMBER. WHERE the Red Lion, staring o'er the way, Invites each passing stranger that can pay; Where Calvert's butt, and Parson's black cham

pagne, Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury Lane;

There in a lonely room,

from bailiffs

snug, The Muse found Scroggen stretch'd beneath a rug; A window, patch'd with paper, lent a ray, That dimly show'd the state in which he lay; The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread; The humid wall with paltry pictures spread; The royal game of goose was there in view, And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew; The seasons, framed with listing, found a place, And brave prince William show'd his lamp-black

face; The morn was cold, he views with keen desire The rusty grate unconscious of a fire: With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scored, And five crack'd teacups dress’d the chimney

board ; A nightcap deck'd his brows instead of bay, A cap by night-a stocking all the day!

THE CLOWN'S REPLY.

JOHN TROTT was desired by two witty peers, To tell them the reason why asses had ears? • An't please you (quoth John), I'm not given to

letters, Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters; Howe'er, from this time, I shall ne'er see your

graces, As I hope to be saved! without thinking on asses.'

AN ELEGY

ON

THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG. Good people all, of every sort,

Give ear unto my song ;
And if you find it wondrous short,

It cannot hold you long.
In Islington 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 clad,

When he put on his clothes.
And in that town a dog was found,

As many dogs there be,
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,

And curs of low degree.
This dog and man at first were friends;

But when a pique began,
The dog, to gain his private ends,

Went mad, and bit the man.
Around from all the neighbouring streets

The wondering neighbours ran, And swore the dog bad lost his wits,

To bite so good a man. The wound it seem'd 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 show'd the rogues they lied; The man recover'd of the bite,

The dog it was that died.

AN ELEGY

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 pass’d 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 follow'd wicked ways

Unless when she was sinning. At church, in silks and satins new,

With hoop of monstrous size; She never slumber'd in her pew

But when she shut her eyes.
Her love was sought, I do aver,

By twenty beaux and more;
The king himself has follow'd her-

When she has walk'd before.
But now her wealth and finery fled,

Her hangers-on cut short-all;
The doctors found, when she was dead, -

Her last disorder mortal.

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