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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.
HY verfes, friend, are Kidderminster stuff,
To the VIRTUOSO S.
AIL, curious wights! to whom fo fair
Who deem thofe grubs beyond compare,
Which common fenfe defpifes.
Famous for a coarfe woollen manufacture.
Whether o'er hill, morafs, or mound,
You make your fportfman 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;
Or painted wings reward you.
Know what conferves they chuse to eat,
And if her brood of infects dies,
You fage affiftance lend her;
'Tis you protect their pregnant hour;
Yet oh! howe'er your towering view
Whate'er refinements you purfue,
A friend, who, weigh'd with yours,
Domitian's idle paffion;
That wrought the death of teazing flies,
But ne'er their propagation.
Let Flavia's eyes more deeply warm,
And speak with fome refpect of beaux,
The EXTENT of COOKERY. 66 Aliufque et idem.”
WHEN Tom to Cambridge firft was fent, A plain brown bob he wore;
Read much, and look'd as though he meant
To be a fop no more.
See him to Lincoln's Inn repair,
His refolution flag;
He cherishes a length of hair,
And tucks it in a bag.
Nor Coke nor Salkeld he regards,
But gets into the house,
And foon a judge's rank rewards
His pliant votes and bows.
Adieu, ye bobs! ye bags, give place!
Full bottoms come instead!
Good Lord! to fee the various ways
Of dreffing-a calve's head!
The PROGRESS of ADVICE.
A Common CASE.
"Suade, nam certum eft."
SAYS Richard to Thomas (and seem'd half afraid)
Nay don't make a jeft on't; 'tis no jest to me;
I have no fault to find with the girl fince I knew her,
Said Thomas to Richard," To fpeak my opinion.
She'e peevish, fhe's thievith, the's ugly, fhe's old,
A BALLA D.
«Trahit fua quemque voluptas.”
ROM Lincoln to London rode forth our young squire,
To give up the opera, the park, and the ball,
Nor a laceman to plague in a morning-not she!
To forfake the dear play-houfe, Quin, Garrick, and Clive,
O heavens the fhould faint, the fhould die on the road;
But Ranelagh soon would her footsteps recall,
And the music, the lamps, and the glare of Vauxhall. To be fure fhe could breathe no where elfe but in town, Thus fhe talk'd like a wit, and he lock'd like a clown; But the white honest Harry despair'd to fucceed,
A coach with a coronet trail'd her to Tweed.