We'll be merry and wife, but for Bloodshed we bar it,
No Red fhall be feen here but your Port and good Claret,
What a P.... fhould we fight for? No Bayonets here,
Put the Sconces all round and the Bottles appear.
Look, the Wine blushes for us! while it gently disgraces
Our unnatural Freaks and our mortify'd Faces.

Come let's do what we came for! let the Brimmers be

[crown'd,

ye,

And a Health to all quiet Good-fellows go round!
Muft I take off my Glafs too? Then, Jack, prithee tell us
Thy new Miftrefs's Name: What a Mifchief! art jealous ?
Must her Name be a Secret? Alons, then I've done,
Hang the greedy Curmudgeon that eats all alone;
Come difcover, you Block-head! I'm fure I miftook
Elfe in thefe Amours, Jack, was us'd to be lucky;
Well, but whifper it then! I'll keep Counsel, ne'er fear it,
Is it the? the damn'd Jitt! Gad let no Body hear it ม
Why, Faith Jack thou'rt undone then, 'twas fome Witch-
[craft I'm fure
Cou'd betray thee to th' Arms of a Pockify'd Whore,
Well, 'tis vain to repine, Boy, let us drink away Sorrow,
Ufe thy Freedom to Night, Man, let the Pank reign to
[Morrow,

An Imitation of the 14th Epod in Hor.

Mollis Inertia cur tantam diffuderit imis
Oblivionem fenfibus,

Pocula Lethaos ut fi ducentia Somnos

Arente Fauce traxerim,

Candide Macenas, occidis fæpe rogando, &c.

A

I.

SK me no longer, dear Sir John,

Why your Lampoon lies ftill undone, 'Fore George my Brain's grown addle;

Nor

Nor bid me Pegasus beftride ;

Why should you afk a Sot to ride
That cannot keep his Saddle?

II.

This was the poor Anacreon's Cafe,
When doating on a smooth-chinn'd Face,
He pin'd away his Carcafe.

To tune his Strings the Bard effay'd,
The Devil a String the Bard obey'd,
And was not this a hard Cafe?

If you a conftant Mifs have got, Thank Heaven devoutly for your Lot, Such Bleffings are not common. While I, condemn'd to endlefs Pain, Muft tamely drag Belinda's Chain, Yet know fhe's worfe than

-Woman.

III.

So poor Anacreon, as they fay,
Bewitch'd by powerful Love,
Complain'd him often of his Wound
In Melancholy Grove.

IV.

The Miftrefs that you court, my Friend,

'Tis fit you fould adore;

I, like a Fool, am Phygia's Slave,

Yet know he is a Whore.

M

! ! !

MAR

MARTIAL's

EPIGRAMS.

Tranflated by Mr. THO. BROWN.

The PREFACE

Ithout formal Petition

W Thus ftands my Condition:

I am clofely block'd up in a Garret,
Where I fcribble and fmoak,
And fadly invoke

The powerful Assistance of CLARET.
Four Children and a Wife,

'Tis hard on my Life,

Befide my Seif and a Mufe,
To be all cloath'd and fed,
Now the Times are fo dead,

By my fcribbling of Dogg'rel and News.

And what I fhall do,

I'm a Wretch if I know,

So hard is the Fate of a Poet ;
I must either turn Rogue,

Or, what's as bad, Pedagogue,

And dge like a Thing that has no Wit.

My

Kirkall Saulp

The Poets Condition

Vol N.p:24.