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Left they grow as learn'd as we,
In our ftudies; where, d' ye fee,

No mortal fits to watch 'em.

Good luck betide our captains;
Good luck betide our cats, Sir:
And grant that the one

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.




HY verfes, friend, are Kidderminster stuff,
And I must own you've meafur'd out enough.



AIL, curious wights! to whom fo fair
The form of mortal flies is!

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;
Bleft if one fly repay the race,

Or painted wings reward you.
Fierce as Camilla o'er the plain
Purfued the glittering stranger;
Still ey'd the purple's pleafing ftain,
And knew not fear nor danger.
'Tis you difpenfe the favourite meat
To nature's filmy people;

Know what conferves they chuse to eat,
And what liqueurs to tipple.

And if her brood of infects dies,

You fage affiftance lend her;
Can stoop to pimp for amorous flies,
And help them to engender.

'Tis you protect their pregnant hour;
And when the birth's at hand,
Exerting your obstetric power,
Prevent a mothlefs land.

Yet oh! howe'er your towering view
Above grofs objects rifes,

Whate'er refinements you purfue,
Hear, what a friend advifes:

A friend,

A friend, who, weigh'd with yours,

Domitian's idle paffion;

must prize

That wrought the death of teazing flies,

But ne'er their propagation.

Let Flavia's eyes more deeply warm,
Nor thus your hearts determine,
To flight dame nature's faireft form
And figh for nature's vermin.

And speak with fome refpect of beaux,
Nor more as triflers treat 'em :
'Tis better learn to fave one's cloaths,
Than cherish moths, that eat 'em.

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!


A Common CASE.

"Suade, nam certum eft."

SAYS Richard to Thomas (and seem'd half afraid)
"I am thinking to marry thy miftrefs's maid:
Now, because Mrs. Lucy to thee is well known,
I will do 't if thou bidst me, or let it alone.

Nay don't make a jeft on't; 'tis no jest to me;
For 'faith I'm in earnest, so pr'ythee be free.

I have no fault to find with the girl fince I knew her,
But I'd have thy advice, ere I tye myself to her."

Said Thomas to Richard," To fpeak my opinion.
There is not fuch a bitch in king George's dominion,
And I firmly believe, if thou know'ft her as I do,
Thou wouldst chufe out a whipping-poft, first to be ty`d to.

She'e peevish, fhe's thievith, the's ugly, fhe's old,
And a liar, and a fool, and a flut, and a fcold.”
Next day Richard haften'd to church and was wed,
And ere night had inform'd her what Thomas had said.



«Trahit fua quemque voluptas.”

ROM Lincoln to London rode forth our young squire,
To bring down a wife, whom the swains might admire :
But, in spite of whatever the mortal could say,
The goddefs objected the length of the way!

To give up the opera, the park, and the ball,
For to view the ftag's horns in an old country-hall;
To have neither China nor India to fee!

Nor a laceman to plague in a morning-not she!

To forfake the dear play-houfe, Quin, Garrick, and Clive,
Who by dint of mere humour had kept her alive;
To forego the full box for his lonesome abode,

O heavens the fhould faint, the fhould die on the road;
To forego the gay fashions and geftures of France,
And leave dear Auguste in the midst of the dance,
And Harlequin too!-'twas in vain to require it ;
And the wonder'd how folks had the face to defire it.
She might yield to refign the fweet-fingers of Ruckholt,
Where the citizen-matron feduces her cuckold;

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.


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