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Till reading, I forget what day on,
Imprimis, pray observe his hat,
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,
Now to apply, begin we then:
And here my simile almost tripp'd,
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,
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.'
THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG. Good people all, of every sort,
Give ear unto my song ;
It cannot hold you long.
Of whom the world might say,
Whene'er he went to pray.
To comfort friends and foes;
When he put on his clothes.
As many dogs there be,
And curs of low degree.
But when a pique began,
Went mad, and bit the man.
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.
ON THE GLORY OF HER SEX,
MRS. MARY BLAIZE.
Lament for Madam Blaize,
From those who spoke her praise.
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.
By twenty beaux and more;
When she has walk'd before.
Her hangers-on cut short-all;
Her last disorder mortal.