"T The RAPE of the TRAP. A BALLA D, 1737. WAS in a land of learning, The mufes favourite city, Such pranks of late Were play'd by a rat, As-tempt one to be witty. All in a college study, Where books were in great plenty; This rat would devour More fenfe in an hour, Than I cou'd write-in twenty. Corporeal food, 'tis granted, Serves vermin lefs refin'd, Sir; But this, a rat of taste, All other rats furpafs'd; And he prey'd on the food of the mind, Sir; His breakfast, half the morning, He conftantly attended; And when the bell rung For evening fong, His dinner fcarce was ended! He fpar'd not ev'n heroics, On which we poets pride us; And And wou'd make no more Of king Arthur's *, by the score, In books of geo-graphy, He made the maps to flutter: A river or a fea Was to him a dish of tea; And a kingdom, bread and butter.. But if fome mawkish potion Might chance to over-dofe him, To check its rage, He took a page Of logic-to compose him— A trap, in hafte and anger, Was bought, you need not doubt on't ; And, fuch was the gin, Where a lion once got in, He could not, I think, get out on't. With cheese, not books, 'twas baited, Since none-I'll tell you that Mind books, when he has other diet. But more of trap and bait, Sir, Why should I fing, or either? Since the rat, who knew the flight, And dragg'd them away together: It now may feem, Had then-a dozen or more in. Then anfwer this, ye fages! Nor deem a man to wrong ye, That England 's topfy-turvy, Let fophs, by rats infested, Then truft in cats to catch 'em; Left Written at the time of the Spanish depredations, Left they grow as learn'd as we, No mortal fits to watch 'em. Good luck betide our captains; May quell the Spanish Don, And the other destroy our rats, Sir. On certain PASTORALS. So rude and tunelefs are thy lays, The weary audience vow, 'Tis not th' Arcadian fwain that fings, But 'tis his herds that low. On Mr. C of KIDDERMINSTER's Poetry. THY HY verfes, friend, are Kidderminster* ftuff, To the VIRTUOSOS. HAIL, curious wights! to whom so fair The form of mortal flies is! Who deem thofe grubs beyond compare, Whether *Famous for a coarfe woollen manufacture. Whether o'er hill, morafs, or mound, You make your sportsman fallies; Or that your prey in gardens found Is urg'd through walks and alleys. Yet, in the fury of the chace, No flope could e'er retard you; Bleft if one fly repay the race, Or painted wings reward you. Fierce as Camilla o'er the plain Purfued the glittering ftranger; Still ey'd the purple's pleasing stain, And knew not fear nor danger. 'Tis you difpenfe the favourite meat To nature's filmy people; Know what conserves they chuse to eat, And what liqueurs to tipple. And if her brood of infects dies, "Tis you protect their pregnant hour; Yet oh! howe'er your towering view Whate'er refinements you purfue, A friend, |