The meagre chop'd us'rer, who on hundreds gets twenty,

But ftarves in his wealth, and pines in his plenty, Lays up for a feafon he never, will fee,

The year of one thousand nine hundred and three: He must change all his houses, his lands, and his

rents,

For a worm eaten coffin an hundred years hence.

The learned divine, with all his pretenfions To knowledge fuperior, and heavenly manfions; Who lives by the tithe of other folks labour, Yet expects that his bleffing be receiv'd as a favour; Tho' he talks of the fpirit, and bewilders our fenfe, Knows not what will come of him an hundred years hence.

The poet himself, who fo loftily fings,

And fcorns any fubject but heroes or kings,
Muft to the capricio of fortune fubmit,

Which will make a fool of him, in fpite of his wit; Thus health, wealth and beauty, wit, learning and fenfe,

Muft all come to nothing an hundred years hence.

Why fhould we turmoil then in cares and in fears,

By converting our joys into fighs and to tears? Since pleasures abound, let us ever be tafting, And drive away forrow, while vigour is lafting,

We'll kifs the brifk damfels, that we may from thence

Have brats to fucceed us an hundred years hence.

The true hearted mafon, who acts on the fquare, And lives within compass, by rules that are fair; Whilft honour and confcience, approve all his deeds,

As virtue and prudence directs, he proceeds, With friendship and love, difcretion and fenfe, Leaves a pattern for brothers, an hundred years hence.

SONG 108.

HODGE of the Mill, and buxom NELL.

YOUNG Roger of the mill,

One morning very foon,

Put on his best apparel,

New hofe and clouted fhoon:

And he a-wooing came

To bonny buxom Nell,

Dear lafs, cries he, cou'dft fancy me!

I like thee wondrous well.

My horfes I have dress'd,

And gi'en them corn and hay,

Put on my beft apparel;

And having come this way,

Let's fit and chat a while

With thee, my bonny Nell:

Dear lafs, cries he, cou'dft fancy me, l'fe like thy person well.

Young Roger, you're miftaken,
The damfel then reply'd,
I'm not in fuch a hafte,

To be a ploughman's bride:
Know I then live in hopes

To marry a farmer's fon;
If it be fo, fays Hodge, I'll go,
Sweet miftrefs I have done.

Your horfes you have dress'd,
Good Hodge, I heard you fay,

Put on your beft apparel,

And being come this way;

Come fit and chat a while.

"O! no indeed, not I,

"I'll neither wait, nor fit, nor prate, I've other fish to fry."

Go take your farmer's fon,
With all my honeft heart:
What tho' my name be Roger,
That goes at plough and cart?
I need not tarry long,

I foon may gain a wife:

There's buxom Joan, it is well known,

She loves me as her life.

Pray, what of buxom Joan?
Can't. I please you as well?
For fhe has ne'er a penny,
And I am buxom Nell:
And I have fifty fhillings.

(The money made him fmile.) Oh! then, my dear, I'll draw a chair, And chat with thee a while.

Within the space of half-an-hour,
This couple a bargain ftruck;
Hoping that, with their money,
They both would have good luck.
To your fifty I've forty,

With which a cow we'll buy;
We'll join our hands in wedlock-bands,
Then who but you and I?

SONG 109.

GENTLY touch the warbling lyre,

Chloe feems inclin'd to reft,

Fill her foul with fond defire,

Softeft notes will footh her breaft;

Pleafing dreams affift in love,

Let them all propitious prove.

On the moffy bank she lyes,
(Nature's verdant velvet bed,)
Beauteous flowers meet her

eyes,

Forming pillows for her head:

Zephyrs waft their odours round,
And indulging whispers found.

SONG IIO.

In Imitation of the foregoing.

GENTLY ftir and blow the fire,

Lay the mutton down to roaft,
Get me, quick, 'is my defire,
In the dreeping-pan a toaft;
That my hunger may remove;
Mutton is the meat I love.

On the dreffer, fee, it lyes:

Oh! the charming white and redi.

Finer meat ne'er met my eyes,
On the fweeteft grafs it fed:
Swiftly make the jack go round,.
Let me have it nicely brown'd.

On the table spread the cloth,

Let the knives be fharp and clean :: Pickles get of every fort,

And a fallad crisp and

green