And look'd, fince he has got his with,
As if he had threaun deson a difh.
Yet this I dare foretel you from it,
. He'll foon return to his own vomit.
WHIG. Befides, this horrid plot was found
By Neynoe, after he was drown'd.

TORY. Why then the proverb is not right,
Since you can teach dead dogs to bite.
WHIG. I prov'd my propofition full:
But jacobites are firangely dull.
Now let me tell you plainly, Sir,
Our witnefs is a real cur,

A dog of fpirit for his years,

Has twice two legs, two hanging cars;
His name is Harlequin, I wot,
And that's a name in every plet:
Refolv'd to fave the British nation,
Though French by birth and education;
His correfpondence plainly dated,
Was all decypher'd and tranflated:
His answers were exceeding pretty
Before the fecret wife committee:
Confefs'd as plain as he could bark;
Then with his fore-foot fet his mark.

A haunch of venifon made her sweat,
Unless it had the right fumette.
Don Carlos carneilly would beg,
Dear madam, try this pigeon's leg;
Was happy, when he could prevail
To make her only touch a quail.
Through candle-light fhe view'd the wine,
To fee that every glafs was fine.
At laft, grown prouder than the devil
With feeding high and treatment civil,
Don Carlos now began to find
His malice work as he def gr'd.
The winter-fy began to frown;
Poor Stella muft pack of to town:

From purling frea.ns and fountain's bubbling,
To Liffy's ftinking tide at Dublin;
From whole fome exercife and air,
To foffing in an eafy chair;

From ftomach arp, and hearty feeding,
To piddle like a lady breeding;

From ruling there the houfhold fingly,
To be directed here by Dingley*;
From every day a lordly banquet,
To half a joint, and God be thanked;

bled,

I thought it was a dog in doublet:
The matter now no longer fticks;
For statesmen never want deg-trichs.
But fince it was a real cur,
And not a dog in metaphor,
I give you joy of the report,

That he 's to have a place at court.

To half a piat one day in twenty;
From Ford attending at her call,
To vifits of

From Ford who thinks of nothing mean,
To the poor doings of the Dean;

From growing richer with good chear,
To running-out by ftarving here.

But now arrives the difinal day:

A turn-fpit in the royal kitchen.
Sir, to be plain, I tell you what,
We had occafion for a plot :

And, when we found the dog begin it,
We guefs'd the bishop's foot was in it.

TORY. I own it was a dangerous project;
And you have prev'd it by deg-logick.
Sure fuch intelligence between
A dig and bishop ne'er was feen,
Till you began to change the breed;
Your bishops all are degs indeed!

The coachman flopt; the look'd and swore
The rafcal had miftook the door:

At coming in, you faw her ftoop;
The entry bruid against her hoop:
Fach moment riding in her airs,
She curit the narrow winding flairs;
Began a thousand faults to fpy:
The cieling hardly fx feet high;
The fmutty wainfcot full of cracks:
And half the chairs with broken backs:
Per quarter 's out at Lady-day;
She vows the will no longer ftay.
In lodgings like a poor Grizette,
While there are lodgings to be let.

Howe'er, to keep her fpirits up,
She fent for company to fup:
When all the while you might remark,
She Prove in vain to ape Wood-park.
Two bottles call'd for (half her store;
The cupboard could contain but four):
A fapper worthy of herfelf,
Five nothings in five plates of delf.

Thus for a week the farce went on;
When, all her country-favings gone,
She fell into her former fcene,
Small beer, a herring, and the Dean.
Thus far in jeft: though now, I fear,
You think my jefting too fevere;

* The conflant companion of Stella.

† Where the two ladies lodged

But poets, when a hint is new, No matter whether falfe og true: Yet raillery gives no offence, Where truth has not the leaft pretence ; Nor can be more fecurely plac'd Than on a nymph of Stella's tate. 1 muft confefs, your wine and vittle I was too hard upon a little : Your table neat, your linen fine; And, though in miniature, you fhine: Yet, when you figh to leave Wood-park, The fcene, the welcome, and the spark, To languish in this odious town, And pull your haughty ftomach down ; We think you quite miftake the cafe, The virtue lies not in the place: For, though my raillery were true, A cottage is Wood-park with you.

COPY OF THE BIRTH-DAY VERSES
ON MR. FORD.

COME, be content, five per trun

NOME, be content, fince out it muft,

And, whispering, charg'd me not to fay
That Mr Ford was born to-day;
Or, if at laft I needs muft blab it,
According to my ufual habit,
She bid me, with a ferious face,
Be fure conceal the time and place;
And not my compliments to fpoil,
By calling this your native foil;
Or vex the ladies, when they knew
That you are turning forty-two:
But, if thefe topicks hall appear
Strong arguments to keep you here,
I think, though you judge hardly of it,
Good-manners must give place to profit.
The nymphs with whom you first began
Are each become a hurrid‹n;
And Montague fo far decay'd,
Her lovers now must all be paid;
And every belle that fince arofe
Has her contemporary beaux.
Your former comrades, or ce fo bright,
With whom you toatted half the night,
Of rheumatifm and pox complain,
And bid adieu to dear champaign.
Your great protectors, once in power,
Are now in exile or the Tower.
Your foes triumphant o'er the laws,
Who hate your perfon and your caufe,
If once they get you on the fpot,
You must be guilty of the plot,
For, true or falfe, they'll ne'er enquire,
But ufe you ten times worse than Prior*.

In London! what would you do there?
Can you, my friend, with patience bear
(Nay, would it not your paflion raise
Worfe than a pun, or Irish phrafe?)
To fee a scoundrel ftrut and hector,
A foot-boy to fome rogue director,

To look on vice triumphant found, And virtue trampled on the ground? Gbferve where bloody * * * * * stands With torturing engines in his hands; Hear him blafpheme, and fwear, and rail, Threatening the pillory and jail: If this you think a pleafing fcene, To London ftraight return again; Where, you have told us from experience, Are fwarms of bugs and prefbyterians.

331

I thought my very spleen would burst, When fortune hither drove me firft; Was full as hard to please as you, Nor perfons 'names nor places knew: But now I act as other folk, Like prifoners when their jail is broke. If you have London still at heart, We'll make a fmall one here by art: The difference is not much between St. James's Park, and Stephen's Green; And Dawfon-ftreet will ferve as well To lead you thither as Pall-Mall. Nor want a paffage through the palace, To choque your fight, and raife your malice & The Deaury-houfe may well be match'd, Under correction, with the Thatcht. Nor fhall I, when you hither come, Demand a crown a quart for ftum. Then, for a middle-aged charmer, Stella may vie with your Monthermer ; She's now as handfome every bit, And has a thousand times her wit. The Dean and Sheridan, I hope, Will half fupply a Gay and Pope. Corbett, though yet I know bis worth not, No doubt will prove a good Arbuthnot. I throw into the bargain Tim; In London can you equal him? What think you of my favourite clan, Robin and Jack, and Jack and Dan,, Fellows of modeft worth and parts, With cheerful looks and honeft hearts? Can you on Dubl n look with fcorn?. Yet here were you and Ormond born. Oh! were but you and I fo wife, To fee with Robert Grattan's eyes! Robin adores that fpot of earth, That literal fpot which gave him birth; And fwears, "Belcamps is, to his tafte, "As fine as Hampton-court at leaft." When to your friends you would enhance The praife of Italy or France, For grandeur, clegance, and wit, We gladly hear you, and submit: Bat then, to come and eep a clutter, For this or that fide of the gutter, To live in this or t' other isle, We cannot think it worth your while; For, take it kindly or amifs,

The difference but amounts to this:

7

We bury on our fide the channel
In linen; and on yours in flannel*.
You for the news are ne'er to feek;
While we, perhaps, may wait a week:
You happy folks are fure to meet
An hundred whores in every street;
While we may trace all Dublin o'er
Before we find out half a score.

You fee my arguments are strong;
I wonder you held out fo long:
But, fince you are convinc'd at latt,
We'll pardon you for what is past.
So let us new for whift prepare;
Twelve-pence a corner, if you dare.

JOAN CUDGELS NED. 1723.
JOAN cudgels Ned, yet Ned's a bully;

Will cudgels Befs, yet Will 's á cully.
Die Ned and Befs; give Will to Joan,
She dares not fay her life's her own.
Die-Joan and Will; give Befs to Ned,
And every day the combs his head.

Charon in him will ferry fouls to hell;
A trade our Boar* hath practis'd here fo well:
And Cerberus hath ready in his paws
Both pitch and brimftone, to fill up his flaws.
Yet, fpite of death and fate, I here maintain
We may place Beat in his old poft again.
The way is thus; and well deferves your thanks:
Take the three frongeft of his broken planks,
Fix them on high, confpicuous to be feen,
Form'd like the triple-tree near Stephen's-greent;
And, when we view it thus with thief at end on',
We'll cry, Look, here 's our Boat, and there's
the pendant!

Why should he fink, where nothing feem'd to prefs,

His lading little, and his ballat lefs?

Teft in the waves of this tempestuous world,
At length, his anchor fixt and canvas furld,
To Lazy-hill retiring from his court,
At his Ring's-end he founders in the port.
With water fil'd, he could no longer float,
The common death of many a ftronger boat.

A poft fo fill'd on nature's laws entrenches:
Benches on beats are plac'd, not beats on benches,
And yet our Beat (how fhall I reconcile it?)
Was both a Boat, and in one fenfe a pilet.
With every wind he fail'd, and well could tack;
Had many pendents, but abhorr'd a F ck§.'
He's gone, although his friends began to hope
That he might yet he lifted by a rote.

Dehold the awful berch, on which he fat!
He was as hard and ponderous wood as that:
Yet, when his fand was out, we find at last,
That death has everfet him with a bla?.
Our Boat is now faid to the Stygian ferry,
There to fupply old Charon's leaky wherry :

*The law for burying in woollen was extended to Ireland in 1733.

Tago villages near the fea.

It runs faid he died of a dropfy § 4 cent word for a fucolite,

PETHOX✶ THE GREAT. ROM Venus born, thy beauty shows; Nor can the skilful herald trace The founder of thy ancient race; Whether thy temper, full of fire, Difcovers Vulcan for thy fire, The god who made Scamander boil, And rourd his margin fing'd the foil (From whence, philofophers agree, An equal power defcends to thee); Whether from dreadful Mars you claim The high defcent from whence you came, And, as a proof, fhew numerous scars By fierce encounters made in wars, Thofe honourable wounds you bore From head to foot, and all before, And ftill the bloody field frequent, Familiar in each leader's tent; Or whether, as the learn'd contend, You from the neighbouring Gaul descend; Or from Parthenope the proud, Where numberlefs thy votaries croud; Wether thy great forefather came From realms that bear Vefputio's name (For fo conjecturers would obtrude, And from thy painted skin conclude); Whether, as Epicurus fhows, The world from juftling feeds arose, Which, mingling with prolific ftrife In chaos, kindled into life: So your production was the fame, And from contending atoms came.

*In condemning malef Hors, as a judge, Where the Dublin gallows flands.

*This name is plainly an anagram.

Thy fair indulgent mother crown'd
Thy head with sparkling rubies round:
Beneath thy decent fteps the road
Is all with precious jewels ftrow'd.
The bird of Pallas knows his poft,
Thee to attend, where'er thou goeft.

Byzantians boaft, that on the clod
Where once their Sultan's horfe had trod,
Grows neither grafs, nor fhrub, nor tree:
The fame thy fubjects boaft of thee.

The greatest lord, when you appear,
Will deign your livery to wear,
In all the various colours feen
Of red and yellow, blue and green.
With half a word, when you require,
The man of bufinefs must retire.

The haughty minifter of state
With trembling mutt thy leifure wait;
And, while his fate is in thy hands,
The butinefs of the nation ftands.

Thou dar'ft the greatest prince attack,
Canft hourly fet him on the rack;
And, as an inftance of thy power,
Inclofe him in a wooden tower,
With pungent pains on every fide:
So Regulus in torments dy'd,

From thee our youth all virtues learn,
Dangers with prudence to difcern;
And well thy fcholars are endued
With temperance, and with fortitude;
With patience, which all ills fupports;
And fecrefy, the art of courts.

The glittering beau could hardly tell,
Without your aid, to read or fpell;
But, having long convers'd with you,
Knows how to write a billet-doux.

With what delight, methinks, I trace
Your blood in every noble race!
In whom thy features, fhape, and mien,
Are to the life ansactly feen!

The Britons, once a fare kind,
By you were brighten'd and red,
Defcendants to the barbarous Hans,
With limbs robust, and voice that fluns
But you have moulded them afresh,
Remov'd the tough fuperfluous flesh,
Taught them to modulate their tongues,
And fpeak without the help of lungs.

Proteus on you beftow'd the boon
To change your vifage like the moon;
You fometimes half a face produce,
Keep t'other half for private ufe.

How iam'd thy conduct in the fight
With Hermes, fon of Pleias bright!
Out-number'd, half encompafs'd round,
You ftrove for every inch of ground;
Then, by a foldierly retreat,
Retir'd to your imperial feat.

The victor, when your fteps he tracʼd,'
Found all the realms before him wafte?
You, o'er the high triumphal arch
Pontific, made your glorious march;
The wondrous arch behind you fell,
And left a chafm profound as hell:
You, in your capitol fecur'd,
Afege as long as Troy endur'd,

my mother bound my head!

You a gentleman! marry come up! I wonder where you were bred.

I'm fure fuch words do not become a man of your cloth;

I would not give fuch language to a dog, faith and trotb.

Yes, you call'd my

mafter a knave: fie, Mr. Sheridan is a fhame

For a parfon, who fhould know better things, to Come out with fuch a rame.

Krave in your teeth, Mr. Sheridan! 'tis both a fhame and a fin;

And the Deap, my after, is an honester man than you and all your kin:

He has more goodness in his little finger, than you have in your whole body:

My after is a parforable man, and not a spindlefrank'd hoddy-doddy.

And now, whereby I find you would fain make an excufe,

Because my mafter one day, in anger, call'd you goofe;

Which, and I am fure I have been his fervant

four years fince October,

And he never call'd me worfe than fweet-heart, drunk or fober:

Not that I know his reverence was ever concern'd to my knowledge,

Though you and your come-rogues keep him out fo late in your college.

You fay you will eat grafs on his grave: a chrif tian eat grass!

Whereby you now confefs yourself to be a goofe or an afs;

But that's as much as to fay, that my mater fhould die before ye;

Well, well, that's as God pleases; and I don't believe that's a true ftory:

fo fay I told you fo, and you may go tell my And I don What care I?

Mary.

who knows it; 'tis all one to

Every body knows th

fhame the devil:to tell truth, and

I am but a poor fervant; but I th fhould be civil.

lefolks

Befdes, you found fault with our victuals o

day that you was here:

I remember it was on a Tuefday of all days in

in the year.

And Saunders the man fays you are always jefting and mocking :

Mary, faid he, (one day as I was mending my matter's flocking)

My master is fo fond of that minifter that keeps, the school

I thought my mafter a wife man, but that man makes him a fool,