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With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scor'd, And five crack'd tea-cups dress'd the chimney
board; A night-cap deck'd his brows instead of bay, A cap by night stocking all the day!
THE CLOWN'S REPLY.
JOAN TROTT was desired by two witty peers, To tell them the reason why asses had ears? * An't please you, (quoth John) I'm not given to
letters, Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters; Howe'er, from this time, I shall ne'er see your
graces, As I hope to be sav’d! without thinking on Asses.?
THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG.
(From the Vicar af Wakefield).
Good people all, of every sort,
Give ear unto my song;
It cannot hold you long.
And in that town a dog was found,
As many dogs there be,
And curs of low degree.
This dog and man at first were friends ;
But when a pique began,
Went mad, and bit the man.
Around from all the neighbouring streets
The wondering neighbours ran, And swore the dog had lost his wits,
To bite so good a man.
The wound it seem'd both sore and sad
To every christian eye ;
They swore the man would die.
But soon a wonder came to light,
That show'd the rogues they ly'd ; The man recover'd of the bite,
The dog it was that died.
ON THE GLORY OF HER SEX,
MRS. MARY BLAIZE.
Good people all, with one accord,
Lament for Madam Blaize,
From those who spoke her praise.
The needy seldom pass'd her door,
And always found her kind; She freely lent to all the poor
Who left a pledge behind.
She strove the neighbourhood to please,
With manners wondrous winning, And never follow'd wicked ways
Unless when she was sinning,
At church, in silks and sattins new,
With hoop of monstrous size; She never slumber'd in her pew-
But when she shut her eyes.
Her love was sought, I do aver,
By twenty beaux and more;
When she has walk'd before.
But now her wealth and finery fled,
Her hangers-on cut short-a/l; The doctors found, when she was dead,
Her last disorder mortal.
Let us lament, in sorrow sore,
For Kent street well may say,
She had not died to-day.
A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH,
STRUCK BLIND BY LIGHTNING.
Imitated from the Spanish.
SURE 'twas by Providence design'd,
Rather in pity, than in hate,
To save him from Narcissus' fate.
IRIS, IN BOW-STREET, COVENT-GARDEX.
Say, cruel Iris, pretty rake,
Dear mercenary beauty,
Expressive of my duty ?
My heart, a victim to thine eyes,
Should I at once deliver,
The gift who slights the giver?
A bill, a jewel, watch, or toy,
My rivals give—and let 'em ; If gems of gold, impart a joy,
I'll give them—when I get 'em.
l'll give—but not the full-blown rose,
Or rose-bud more in fashion ;
A transitory passion.
I'll give thee something yet unpaid,
Not less sincere than civil :
I'll give thee-to the devil.*
STANZAS ON WOMAN.
(FROM THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD.)
When lovely woman stoops to folly,
And finds too late that men betray; What charm can sooth her melancholy,
What art can wash her guilt away?
The only art her guilt to cover,
To hide her shame from every eye, To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom—is, to die !
* These verses appear to be imitated from the French of Grecourt, a witty but grossly indecent writer. VOL. XXX.