Page images





Pale Droply with a fallow face,
Her belly burst, and flow her pace :
And lordly Gout wrapt up in fur :
And wheezing Afbma, loath to ftir.
Voluptuous Ease, the child of Wealth,
Infecting thus our hearts by stealth ;
None seek thee now in open air,
To thee no yerdant altars. rear ;
But in their cells and vaults obscene
Present a sacrifice unclean ;
From whence unfav'ry vapours rose,
Offensive to thy nicer nose.
Ah! who in our degen'rate days,
As nature prompts, his off'ring pays ?
Here nature never diff'rence made
Between the sceptre and the spade.
Ye great ones, why will ye

*To pay your tribute on the plain?
Why will ye place in lazy pride
Your altars near your couches fide ?
* When from the homeliest earthen ware
Are sent up off ’rings more sincere,
Than where the haughty Duchess locks
Her filver vase in cedar-box.

Yet some devotion ftill remains
Among our harmless northern swainst,
Whose off'rings plac'd in golden ranks,
Adorn our crystal rivers banks ;
Nor feldom grace the flow'ry downs,
With spiral tops and copple-crowns ;
Or gilding in a funny morn
The humble branches of a thorn.
So, poets fing, with golden bough
The Trojan hero paid his vowi,
* Vide Virgil and Lucretius.
f The north of Ireland. 3 i :
# Virg. lib. 6.



[ocr errors]


Hither by luckless error led, The crude confiftence oft I tread;

310 Here when my shoes are out of case, Unweeting gild the tarnish'd lace; Here by the facred bramble ting'd, My petticoat is doubly fring'd. Be witness for me, nymph divine;

315 I never robb’d thee with design: Nor will the zealous Hannah * pout To wash thy injur'd off'rings out.

But stop, ambitious mufe, in time, Nor dwell on subjects too sublime..

320 In vain on lofty heels I tread, Aspiring to exalt my head ; With hoop expanded wide and light" In vain I'tempt too high a flight.. Me Phoebus + in a midnight-dreams

325 Accofting, faid, Go Make your cream|l. Be humbly minded, know your post; Sweeten your tea, and watch


toast. Thee best befits a lowly style : Teach Dennis how to stir the guilett:.

330 With Peggy Dixon Is thoughtful fit,, Contriving for the pot and fpit. Take down thy proudly-swelling fails, And rub thy teeth and pair thy nails: And nicely carving fhew thy wit ;

335 But ne'er presume to eat a bit : Turn ev'ry way thy watchful eye ; . And ev'ry guest be sure to ply :Let never at your

board be known An empty plate except your own.

340 * My Lady's woman. † Cynthius aurem vellit. Hor.

Cum fomnia vera. Idem.

In the bottle to make butter. ++ Guile, the quantity of ale or beer brewed at one time. # Mrs Dixon the housekeeper,

Be these thy arts * i nor higher aim
Than what befits a rural dame.

But Cloacina, goddess bright,
Sleek -claims her as his right:
And Smedley t, flow'r of all divines,
Shall fing the Dean in Smedley's lines.


[ocr errors][merged small][merged small]

Written in the year 1731.
WO college fophs of Cambridge growth,

Both special wits, and lovers both,
Conferring as they used to meet
On love, and books, in rapture Tweet ;
(Muse, find me names to fit my metre,

Calinus this, and t'other Peter).
Friend Peter to Caffinus goes,
To chat a while and warm his nose.
But such a sight was never seen,.
The lad lay iwallow'd up in spleen.

He seem'd as just crept out of bed ;
One greasy stocking round his head,
The other he sat down to darn
With threads of diff'rent-colour'd yarn ;
His breeches torn exposing wide

A ragged thirt and tawny hide.
Scorch'd were his shins, his legs were bare,
But well em brown'd with dirt and hair.
A rug was o'er his shoulders thrown;
A rug; for nightgown he had none.
* He tibi erunt artes. Virg.

. A very stupid, insolent, fa&tious, deformed, conceited parson, a vile pretender to poetry, preferred by the Duke of Grafton for his wit,

[ocr errors]




His jordan-stood in manner fitting
Between his legs to fpue or spit in.
His ancient pipe in fable dy'd,
And half unsmok'd lay by his fide.
| Him thus accoutred Peter found,
With eyes in smoke and weeping drown'd:
*The leavings of his last night's pot
On embers plac'd to drink it hot.

Why, Caffy, thou wilt doze thy pate ;
What makes thee lie a bed so late ?
The finch, the linnet, and the thrush,
Their mattins chant in ev'ry buth :1.
And I have heard thee oft falute
Aurora with thy early flute.
Heav'n send thou haft not got the hyps!
How! not a word come from thy lips?

him fome familiar thumps ;A college-joke to cure the dumps.

The fwain at last, with grief oppreft, Cry'd, “ Cælia !" thrice, and figh'd the rest.

Dear Caffy, tho' to ask I dread, Yet alk I must. Is Cælia dead'?

How happy l, were that the worst?
But I was fated to be curft.

Come, tell us, has she plaid the whore?
OH Peter, would it were no more !

Why, plague confound her fandy locks :
Say, has the small or greater pox
Sunk down her nose, or seam'd her face?
Be easy, 'tis a common case.

O Peter! beauty's but a varnish,
Which time and accidents will tarnish:-





[ocr errors]
[ocr errors][merged small]

But Cælia has contriv'd to blast
Those beauties that might ever last.
Nor can imagination guess,
Nor eloquence divine express,
How that ungrateful charming maid
My purest passion has betray'd.
Conceive the most invenom'd dart
To pierce an injur'd lover's heart.

Why, hang her; tho' The seem'd so coy,
I know the loves the barber's boy.

FRIEND Peter, this I could excuse;
For ev'ry nymph has leave to chuse ;
Nor have I reason to complain,
She loves a more deserving (wain.
But Oh! how ill haft thou divin'd
A crime, that shocks all human kind;
A deed unknown to female race,
At which the sun should hide his face ;
Advice in vain


would apply
Then leave me to despair and die.
Ye kind Arcadians, on my urn
These elegies and sonnets burn ;
And on the marble grave these rhymes,
A monument to after times :
“ Here Caffy lies, by Cælia flain,
“ And dying never told his pain.”.

Vain empty world, farewel. But hark,
The loud Cerberian triple bark.
And there behold Alecto ftand,
A whip of fcorpions in her hand.
Lo, Charon from his leaky wherry
Beck’ning to waft me o'er the ferry.
I come, I come, Medusa! fee,
Her serpents hiss direct at me.
Begone; unhand me, hellish fry:
Avant t-ye cannot say 'tis I.

+ See Macbeth.




« PreviousContinue »