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The dice are thrown, chufe this or that
Fair are your words, as fair your carriage,
Truft me, I'll do for 't what I can.
Home went well pleas'd the Suffolk tony,
(Doubtless the dad's and mamma's joy).
Pray let the next be each way longer,
If things but alter, and not undone,
Send a good coat, that's all; good-by, Sir.
First printed in the EXAMINER, 1710,
PHINX was a monfter that would eat
Unless his ready wit difclos'd
The subtle Riddle she propos'd.
try what ftrength of parts would do. Says Sphinx, On this depends your fate; Tell me what animal is that,
Which has four feet at morning bright,
Upon all four; as years accrue,
Now, in your turn, 'tis just, methinks,
Who has four legs, then two, then three
EPIGR A M, Extempore,
To the Master of ST. JOHN'S COLLEGE*, 1712.
food, Sir, patient at your feet,
Before your elbow-chair;
But make a bishop's throne your feat,
One only thing can keep you down,
For your great foul too mean;
You'd not, to mount a bishop's throne,
See the hiftory of this epigram, Gent. Mag. 1774,
+ Mr. Prior, though he paid a becoming deference to the Master of St. John's as a Fellow of that College, thought fome refpect was due to the public character which he had just before sustained in France.
AND JOH N.
WHEN Nell, given o'er by the Doctor, was dying,
And John at the chimney ftood decently crying; 'Tis in vain, faid the woman, to make fuch ado, For to our long home we must all of us go!
True, Nell, reply'd John; but, what yet is the worst
white heifer, and I my brown mare!
HEN Bibo thought fit from the world to retreat, As full of champagne as an egg 's full of meat, He wak'd in the boat; and to Charon he faid, He would be row'd back, for he was not yet dead. Trim the boat, and fit quiet, ftern Charon reply'd: You may have forgot, you was drunk when you dy'd.
WIVES by the Dozen.
DEATH! how thou spoil'ft the best project of life!
He still marry'd on till his number was nine,
OOR Hal caught his death, standing under a fpout, Expecting till midnight, when Nan would come out; But fatal his patience, as cruel the dame,
And curs'd was the weather that quench'd the man's flame.
Whoe'er thou art, that read'ft thefe moral lines, Make love at home, and go to bed betimes.
UOTH Richard in jeft, loeking wiftly at Nelly,
"Nell anfwer'd him fnappifhly, How can that be,
On a FART, let in the Houfe of Commons.
READER, I was born, and cry'd;
I crack'd, I fmelt, and fo I dy'd.
Like Julius Cæfar's was my death,