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Bidding loud defiance
To politeness and the fashion,
Dared let a f-t.
To a FRIEND.
HAVE you ne'er feen, my gentle squire,
The humours of your kitchen fire?
Says Ned to Sal, "I lead a fpade,
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 studying, 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:
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 strange heats his bofom glows,
And myftic flames the God bestows.
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 he 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 chufe,
But think or not think-fome must lose.
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.
"Tis all by luck that things are carry'd― He'll fuffer for it, when he 's marry'd."
Thus Sal, with tears in either eye;
While victor Ned fat tittering by.
Thus I, long envying your fuccefs,
And bent to write and ftudy lefs,
Sate down, and fcribbled in a trice,
you fee-and you despise.
You, who can frame a tuneful fong,
And hum it as you ride along;
And, trotting on the king's high-way,
Snatch from the hedge a sprig of bay;
Accept this verfe, howe'er it flows,
From one that is friend in profe.
What is this wreath, fo green! fo fair!
Which many wifh, and few must wear?
Which fome men's indolence can gain,
And fome men's vigils ne'er obtain ?
For what muft Sal or poet fue,
Ere they engage with Ned or you ?
For luck in verfe, for luck at loo?
Ah no! 'tis genius gives you fame,
And Ned, through skill, fecures the game.
The POET and the DUN. 1741.
"That feelingly perfuade me what I am." SHAKESP.
NOMES a dun in the morning and raps at my door
"I made bold to call-'tis a twelvemonth and moreI'm forry, believe me, to trouble you thus, Sir,But Job would be paid, Sir, had Job been a mercer.** My friend have but patience-"Ay these are your ways.” I have got but one fhilling to ferve me two daysBut Sir-pr'ythee take it, and tell your attorney, If I han't paid your bill, I have paid for your journey.
Well, now thou art gone, let me govern my paffion, And calmly confider-confider? vexation!
What whore that must paint, and must put on falfe locks,
And counterfeit joy in the pangs of the pox!
What beggar's wife's nephew,now ftarv'd,and now beaten,
Who, wanting to eat, fears himself fhall be eaten !
What porter, what turnfpit, can deem his cafe hard!
Or what dun boast of patience that thinks of a bard!
Well, I'll leave this poor trade, for no trade can be poorer,
Turn fhoe-boy, or courtier, or pimp, or procurer;
Get love, and respect, and good living, aud pelf,
And dun fome poor dog of a poet myself.
One's credit, however, of courfe will grow better;
Here enters the footman, and brings me a letter.
"Dear Sir? I receiv'd your obliging epistle,
Your fame is fecure-bid the crities go whittle.
I read over with wonder the poem you fent me;
And I must speak your praises, no foul fhall prevent me.
The audience, believe me, cry'd out every line
Was strong, was affecting, was just, was divine;
All pregnant, as gold is, with worth, weight, and beauty,
And to hide fuch a genius was- -far from your duty.
I foresee that the court will be hugely delighted:
Sir Richard, for much a lefs genius, was knighted.
Adieu, my good friend, and for high life prepare ye;
I could fay much more, but you're modeft, I spare ye."
Quite fir'd with the flattery, I call for my paper,
And waste that, and health, and my time, and my taper :
I fcribble till morn, when, with wrath no small store,
Comes my old friend the mercer, and raps at my
"Ah! friend, 'tis but idle to make fuch a pother,
Fate, fate has ordain'd us, to plague one another."
Written at an Inn at HENLEY.
O thee, fair freedom! I retire
From flattery, cards, and dice, and din; Nor art thou found in mansions higher
Than the low cott, or humble inn.
'Tis here with boundless power I reign;
And every health which I begin,
Converts dull port to bright champaigne ;
Such freedom crowns it, at an inn.