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them gone ;

Now, all in haste they huddle on Their hoods and cloaks, and

get But first the winner must invite The company to-morrow night.

UNLUCKY Madam, left in tears, Who now against Quadrille forswears), With empty purse and aching head, Steals to her deeping spouse to bed.

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Bart of a summer spent at the house of GEORGE


Wrtiten in the year 1723.

HALIAj tell in fóber lays,

How George, Ním, Dan. Dean pass their days.
Begin, my muse. First from our bow'rs
We sally.forth at diff'rent hours ;
At seven the Dean, in night-gown drest,

5 Goes round the house to wake the rest; At nine, grave Nim and George facetious Go to the Dean to read Lucretius ; At ten, my Lady comes and hectors, And kisses George, and ends our lectures ; 10 And when she has him by the neck fast, Hawls him, and scolds us down to breakfast. We squander there an hour or more, And then all hands, boys, to the oar, All, heteroclite Dan except,

Who neither time nor order kept;
But, by peculiar whimfies drawn,
Peeps in the ponds to look for spawn' ;.
O'ersees the work, or Dragon * rows,
Or mars a text, or mends his hose ;

My Lord Chicf Baron's smaller boato.




Or- but proceed we in our journal-
At two, or after, we return all :
From the four elements assembling,
Warn’d by the bell, all folks come trembling :
From airy garrets fome descend,
Some from the lake's remoteft end :
My Lord and Dean the fire forsake,
Dan leaves the earthly spade and rake:
The loit’rers quake, no corner hides them,
And Lady Betty foundly chides them.
Now water's brought, and dinner's done :
With church and king the Lady's gone;
(Not reck’ning half an hour we pass
In talking o'er a mod’rate glass).
Dan, growing drowsy, like a thief
Steals off to dose away his beef;
And this must pass for reading. Hammond
While George and Dean go to backgammon.
George, Nim, and Dean set out at four,
And then again, boys, to the oar.,
But when the sun goes to the deep,
(Not to disturb him in his sleep,
Or make a rumbling o’er his head,
His candle out, and he abed),
We watch his motions to a minute,
And leave the flood, when he goes in it.
Now ftinted in the short'ning day,
We go to pray'rs, and then to play,
Till fupper comes; and after that
We fit an hour to drink and chat.
'Tis late -- the old and younger pairs,
By Adam * lighted, walk up stairs.

to his chamber;
And Nim and Dan to garret clamber.
So when the circle we have run,
The curtain falls, and all is done.

# Tbc butler.

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I might have mention'd sev'ral facts,
Like episodes between the acts ;
And tell who loses and who wins,
Who gets a cold, who breaks his shins ;
How Dan caught nothing in his net,
And how the boat was overset.
For brevity I have retrench'd
How in the lake the Dean was drench'd :
It would be an exploit to brag on,
How valiant George rode o'er the Dragon,
How steady in the storm he fat,
And sav'd' his oar, but lost his hat :
How Nim (no hunter e'er could match him)
Still brings us hares, when he can catch 'em :
How skilfully Dan mends his nets ;
How fortune fails him when he sets :
Or how the Dean delights. to vex
The ladies, or lampoon the sex:
Or how our neighbour lifts his nose,
To tell what ev'ry schoolboy knows ;
Then with his finger on his thumb
Explaining, strikes opposers dumb:
Or how his wife, that female pedant,
(But now there need no more be faid on't),
Shews all her secrets of housekeeping ;
For candles how the trucks her dripping ;
Was forc'd to send three miles for yeast,
To brew her ale, and raise her paste ;
Tells every thing that you can think of,
How she curd Tommy of the chincough ;
What gave her brats and pigs the measles,
And how her doves were kill'd by weasels;
How Jowler howl'd, and what a fright
She had with dreams the other night.

But now, since I have gone so far on,
word or two of Lord Chief Baron

Mr Rocbfort's father.








And tell how little weight he fets
On all Whig papers, and gazettes ;
But for the politics of Pue *
Thinks ev'ry fyllable is true.,
And since he owns the King of Sweden
Is dead at last, without evading,
Now all his hopes are in the Czar:

Why Mufcovy is not so far:
« Down the Black fea, and up the Streights,
« And in a month he's at your gates ;
“ Perhaps, from what the packet brings,
“ By Christmas we fhall fee ttrange things."
Why should I tell of ponds and drains,
What carps we met with for our pains ;
Of sparrows tam’d, and nuts innumerable
To choak the girls, and to consume a rabble ?

you, who are a feholar, know
How transient all things are below,..

prone to change is human life!
Last night arriv'd Clem. + and his wife.
This grand event hath broke our measures ;
Their reign began with cruel seizures :
The Dean muft with his quilt fupply
The bed in which those tyrants lie:
Nim lost his wig-block, Dan his jordan,
(My Lady fays, she can't afford one);
George is half fcard out of his wits,
For Clem. gets all the dainty bits.
Henceforth expect a diff'rent survey,
This house will soon turn topsy-turvey:
They talk of further alterations,
Which causes many speculations.

• A Tory News writer.
+ Ms Clement Barıy-

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Written in the year 1728.


A Nymph and fwain, Sheelab and Dermot hight,

Who wont to weed the court of Gosford Knight*, While each with stubbed knife remov'd the roots That rais'd between the ftones their daily shoots ; As at their work they fat in counter view,

5 With mutual beauty smit, their passion grew. Sing heav nly muse ! in sweetly flowing ftrain, The soft endearments of the nymph and fwain.

Der. My love to Sheelah is more firmly fixt, Than strongest weeds that grow those fones betwixt : My spud these netiles from the stones can part, No knife so keen to weed thee from my heart.

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Sbe. My love for gentle Dermot fafter grows, Than


tall dock that rises to thy nose. Cut down the dock, 'twill sprout again ; but oh! 35. Love rooted out, again will never grow.

Der. No more that brier thy tender legs shall rake; I spare the thistle for Sir Arthur's † fake). Sharp as the stones ; take thou this rulhy mat; The hardest bum will bruise with fitting squat.


She. Thy breeches torn behind stand gaping wide This petticoat fall fave thy dear backfide : Nor need I blush, altho? you feel it wet ; Dermot, I vow, tis nothing else but sweat.

• Sir Arthur Acheson, whose great-grandfather was Sir Archi bald of Gosford in Scotland.

t Wba is a great lover of Scotland.

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