Who, in your book, of Doctor Johnson begs?
Most seriously to know if Cats laid Eggs'

MADAME Piozzi.

Who told of Mistress Montague the lie, So palpable a falsehood ?-Bozzy, fy!

Bozzy.

Who, maddening with an Anecdotic itch, Declared that Johnson called his Mother bitch?

MADAME PIOZZI.

Who, from Macdonald's rage to save his snout, Cut twenty lines of Defamation out?

Bozzy.

Who would have said a word about Sam's Wig;
Or told the story of the Peas and Pig?

Who would have told a tale so very flat,
Of Frank the Black, and Hodge the mangy Cat?

MADAME Piozzi.

Good me! you're grown at once confounded tender; Of Doctor Johnson's fame a fierce defender : I am sure you've mentioned many a pretty Story Not much redounding to the Doctor's Glory. Now for a saint upon us you would palm him; First murder the poor man and then embalm him!

Bozzy.

Why truly, Madam, Johnson cannot boast; By your acquaintance he hath rather lost. His Character so shockingly you handle, You've sunk your Comet to a Farthing Candle. Your vanities contrived the sage to hitch in, And bribed him with your cellar and your kitchen : But luckless Johnson played a lasing game; Though Beef and Beer he won, he lost his Fame.

MADAME PIOZZI.

One quarter of your Book had Johnson read,
First-criticism had rattled round your head.
Yet let my satire not too far pursue;

It boasts some merit, give the Devil his due.
Where Grocers and where Pastry-cooks reside,
Thy Book, with triumph, may indulge its pride;
Preach to the Pattypans sententious stuff,
And hug that Idol of the nose called Snuff;
With all its stories Cloves and Ginger please,
And pour its wonders to a pound of Cheese.

Bozzy.

Madam, your irony is wondrous fine;
Sense in each thought, and wit in every line :
Yet, Madam, when the leaves of my poor Book
Visit the Grocer or the Pastry-cook,
Yours, to enjoy of fame the just reward,
May aid the Trunk-maker of Paul's Church-yard;
In the same alehouses together used,

By the same fingers they may be amused;
The greasy snuffers yours perchance may wipe,
While mine, high honoured, lights a toper's pipe.
The praise of Courtenay* my Book's fame secures :
Now who the devil, Madam, praises yours?

MADAME Prozzi.

Thousands, you Blockhead: no one now can doubt it;
For not a soul in London is without it.
The folks were ready Cadell to devour,
Who sold the first edition in an hour.
So, Courtenay's praises save you? Ah! that Squire
Deals, let me tell you, more in Smoke than Fire.

The lively Rattle of the House of Commons, indeed its Momus; who seems to have been selectel by his Constituents more for the purpose of laughing at the misfortunes of his Country, than healing the wounds. He is the Author of a Poem lately published, that endeavours, totis viribis to prove that Doctor Johnson was a brute as well as a moralist

Bozzy.

Zounds! he has praised me in the sweetest line

MADAME PIOZZI.

Ay, ay; the Verse and subject equal shine.
Few are the mouths that Courtenay's wit rehearse;
Mere cork in Politics, and lead in Verse.

Bozzy.

Well, Ma'am, since all that Johnson said or wrote
You hold so sacred, how have you forgot

To grant the wonder-hunting World a reading
Of Sam's Epistle just before your Wedding;
Beginning thus (in strains not form'd to flatter)
"MADAM,

If that most ignominious matter

Be not concluded,"

Farther shall I say?! No; we shall have it from yourself some day, To justify your passion for the Youth

With all the charms of eloquence and truth.

MADAME PIOZZI.

What was my Marriage, Sir, to you or him? He tell me what to do! a pretty whim!

He to propriety (the beast) resort!

As well might Elephants preside at Court.

Lord! let the World to damn my Match agree;

Good God, James Boswell, what's that world to me?
The folks who paid respects to Mistress Thrale
Fed on her Pork, poor souls! and swill'd her Ale,
May sicken at Piozzi, nine in ten;

Turn up the nose of Scorn: good God! what then?
For me, the Devil may fetch their souls so great:
They keep their Homes; and I, thank God, my Meat.
When they, poor Owls! shall beat their Cage, a Jail,
I unconfined shall spread my Peacock Tail;

Free as the birds of air, enjoy my ease,

Choose my own food, and see what climes I please.
I suffer only, if I'm in the wrong:

So now, you prating Puppy, hold your tongue.

For shame, for shame! for Heaven's sake, both be
quiet;

Not Billingsgate exhibits such a riot:
Behold, for scandal you have made a feast,
And turn'd your Idol, Johnson, to a beast.
'Tis plain that tales of ghosts are arrant lies,
Or instantaneously would Johnson's rise;
Make you both eat your paragraphs so evil;
And, for your treatment of him, play the devil.
Just like two Mohawks, on the man you fall;
No murderer is worse served at Surgeon's Hall.
Instead of adding splendour to his name,
Your books are downright gibbets to his fame.
Of those your Anecdotes, may I be curst
If I can tell you which of them is worst.
You never with posterity can thrive :
Tis by the Rambler's death alone you live;
Like wrens (as in some volume I have read)
Hatch'd by strange fortune in a Horse's Head.
Poor Sam was rather fainting in his glory,
But now his fame lies foully dead before ye:
Thus to some dying man (a frequent case)
Two Doctors come and give the coup de grace.
Zounds, Madam! mind the duties of a wife,
And dream no more of Doctor Johnson's Life:
A happy knowledge in a pie or pudding

Will more delight your friends than all your studying;
One cut from venison, to the heart can speak

Stronger than ten quotations from the Greek;
One fat sirloin possesses more sublime
Than all the airy castles built by rhyme;
One nipperkin of stingo with a toast,

Beats all the Streams the Muses' Fount can boast;
Blest in one pint of porter, lo! my belly can
Find raptures not in all the floods of Helicon.
Enough those Anecdotes your powers have shown:
Sam's Life, dear Ma'am, will only damn your own.

For thee, James Boswell, may the hand of Fate
Arrest thy Goose-quill and confine thy Prate :
Thy Egotisms the World disgusted hears;
Then load with vanities no more our ears,
Like some lone Puppy, yelping all night long,
That tires the very echoes with his tongue.
Yet, should it lie beyond the powers of Fate
To stop thy pen, and still thy darling prate;
To live in solitude, oh! be thy luck,
A chattering Magpie on the Isle of Muck.

Thus spoke the Judge; then, leaping from the chair, He left, in consternation lost, the Fair:

Black Frank* he sought, on Anecdote to cram,
And vomit first a Life of Surly Sam.t
Shock'd at the little manners of the Knight,
The Rivals marvelling mark'd his sudden flight;
Then to their pens and paper rush'd the Twain,
To kill the mangled Rambler o'er again.

[N. B. The Quotations from Mr. Boswell are made from the second edition of his Journal; those from Mrs. Piozzi, from the first edition of her Anecdotes.]

• Doctor Johnson's Negro Servant.

The Knight's Volume is reported to be in great forwardness, and likely to distance his formidable Competitors.