I

The PRICE of an EQUIPAGE.

"Servum fi potes, Ole, non habere, "Et regem potes, Ole, non habere."

Afk'd a friend amidst the throng,

Whofe coach it was that trail'd along : "The gilded coach there-don't ye mind? That with the footmen ftuck behind."

O Sir! fays he, what! han't you seen it? 'Tis Damon's coach, and Damon in it. 'Tis odd, methinks, you have forgot

MART.

Your friend, your neighbour, and-what not!
Your old acquaintance Damon!
« True;

But faith his equipage is new."

"Blefs me, faid I, where can it end?
What madness has poffefs'd my friend?
Four powder'd flaves, and thofe the tallest,
Their ftomachs doubtlefs not the fmalleft!
Can Damon's revenue maintain

In lace and food, fo large a train?
I know his land-each inch of ground-
"Tis not a mile to walk it round-
If Damon's whole eftate can bear
To keep his lad and one-horse chair,
I own 'tis past my comprehenfion."
Yes, Sir, but Damon has a penfion-

Thus

Thus does false ambition rule us, Thus pomp delude, and folly fool us; To keep a race of flickering knaves, He grows himself the worst of flaves.

HINT from VOITURE.

ET Sol his annual journeys run,

LE

And when the radiant task is done,

Confefs, through all the Globe, 'twould pofe him,

To match the charms that Celia fhews him.

And fhould he boaft he once had feen
As just a form, as bright a mein,
Yet must it still for ever pofe him,
To match-what Celia never fhews him.

INSCRIPTION,

To the memory

Of A. L. Efquire,

Justice of the peace for this county; Who, in the whole courfe of his pilgrimage Through a trifling ridiculous world, Maintaining his proper dignity, Notwithstanding the fcoffs of ill-difpofed perfons, And wits of the age,

That ridiculed his behaviour,

Or cenfured his breeding;

Following the dictates of nature,
Defiring to eafe the afflicted,
Eager to fet the prifoners at liberty,
Without having for his end

The noife, or report fuch things generally cause
in the world,

(As he was feen to perform them of none)
But the fole relief and happiness,

Of the party in distress;
Himself refting eafy,

When he could render that fo;

Not griping, or pinching himself,
To hoard up fuperfluities;

Not coveting to keep in his poffeffion
What gives more difquietude, than pleasure;
But charitably diffusing it

To all round about him:

Making the most sorrowful countenance
To fimile,

In his prefence;

Always bestowing more than he was asked,
Always imparting before he was defired;
Not proceeding in this manner,
Upon every trivial fuggeftion,

But the most mature, and folemn deliberation;
With an incredible prefence and undauntedness

of mind;

With an inimitable gravity and œconomy

of face;

Bidding

AVE

HA

Bidding loud defiance

To politeness and the fashion,
Dared let a f-t.

To a FRIEND.

you ne'er feen, my gentle fquire,
The humours of your kitchen fire?

Says Ned to Sal, "I lead a fpade,
Why don't ye play the girl's afraid-
Play fomething-any thing-but play-
'Tis but to pafs the time away-
Phoo-how the ftands-biting her nails-
As though the play'd for half her vails-
Sorting her cards, hagling and picking-
We play for nothing, do us, chicken?-
That card will do-'blood never doubt it,
It's not worth while to think about it."

Sal thought, and thought, and mifs'd her aim," And Ned, ne'er ftudying, won the game.

Methinks, old friend, 'tis wondrous true,
That verfe is but a game at loo.

While many a bard, that fhews fo clearly
He writes for his amufement merely,
Is known to study, fret, and toil;
And play for nothing, all the while:

Or praise at moft; for wreaths of yore
Ne'er fignify'd a farthing more:
N 2

Till

Till, having vainly toil'd to gain it,
He fees your flying pen obtain it.

Through fragrant fcenes the trifler roves,
And hallow'd haunts that Phoebus loves:
Where with ftrange heats his bofom glows,
And myftic flames the God beftows.
You now none other flame require,
Than a good blazing parlour fire;
Write verfes-to defy the fcorners,
In fhit-houfes and chimney-corners.

Sal found her deep-laid fchemes were vain-
The cards are cut-come deal again-
No good comes on it when one lingers-
I'll play the cards come next my fingers-
Fortune could never let Ned loo her,

When she had left it wholly to her.

Well, now who wins?-why, ftill the fameFor Sal has loft another game.

"I've done; (the mutter'd) I was faying,

It did not argufy my playing.

Some folks will win, they cannot chuse,

But think or not think-fome muft lofe.

I

may have won a game or fo

But then it was an age ago

It ne'er will be my lot again

I won it of a baby then

Give me an ace of trumps and fee,
Our Ned will beat me with a three.

2

'Tis