"My kindred oft thine hide shall gall, 66 Thy gown and caffock oft be torn. "And thy confed'rate dame, who brags "That she condemn'd me to the fire, "Shall rent her petticoats to rags, "And wound her legs with ev'ry bri'r. "Nor thou, Lord Arthur *, fhalt escape: "Yet thou could'ft tamely fee me slain. "Or chid the Dean, or pinch'd thy spouse : "Since you could fee me treated fo, (An old retainer to your house), "May that fell Dean, by whofe command "Was form'd this Machi'vellian plot, "Not leave a thistle on thy land; "Then who will own thee for a Scot ? 66 Pigs and fanatics, cows and teagues, "Thro' all thy empire I foresee, "To tear thy hedges, join in leagues; "Sworn to revenge my thorn and me. "And thou the wretch ordain'd by fate, Neal Gahagan, Hibernian clown, "With hatchet blunter than thy pate To hack my hallow'd timber down, "When thou suspended high in air, Dy'ft on a more ignoble tree, "6 (For thou shalt fteal thy landlord's mare), "Then, bloody caitif, think on me.” † Sir Arthur Achefon. * 80 On the five LADIES at SOT'S-HOLE*, with the DOCTOR† at their head. N. B. The Ladies treated the Doctor." Sent as from an officer in the army. Written in the year 1728. FAir ladies, number five, Who in your merry freaks With little Tom contrive While he fits by a-grinning, To see you safe in Sot's-hole, Set up with greasy linen, And neither mugs nor pots whole. Alas! I never thought A priest would please your palate; Befides, I'll hold a groat, He'll put you in a ballad: Where I fhall fee your faces On paper daub'd fo foul, It fills my heart with woe To think, fuch ladies fine Should be reduc'd fo low To treat a dull divine. An alehouse in Dublin famous for beef-steaks. 15 20 Written in the year 1729. AN afs's hoof alone can hold That pois'nous juice which kills by cold. Methought when I this poem read, No veffel but an afs's head Such frigid fuftian could contain; 5 10 In hafte, with imprecations dire, I threw the volume in the fire: When, who could think? tho' cold as ice, Tho' born in fnow, it dy'd in flame. A LIBEL on the Reverend Dr DELANY, and his Excellency JOHN Lord CARTERET. To Dr DELANY, occafioned by his epistle to his Excellency JOHN Lord CARTERET. DE Written in the year 1729. Eluded mortals, whom the great SUPPOSE my Lord and you alone, Nor could the nicest artist paint FOR as, their appetites to quench, When weary'd with intrigues of state, THUS Congreve spent in writing plays, And one poor office, half his days: While Montague †, who claim'd the station For poets open table kept, But ne'er confider'd where they flept: Himself as rich as fifty Jews, Was eafy, tho' they wanted fhoes; And crazy Congreve fcarce could spare 20 25 30 35 45 |