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To Town again disgrac'd I came,
For now 'tis vain to hide my Shame ;
Where since I sharp'd, and [pung’d, and tick’d,
Being always scorn'd, and fometimes kick'd.
And yet the worst is still behind,
Oh! hear me but, and you'll be kind.
For three long Weeks nay Muse and I
Had been shut up in Garret high :
The Cause, I think, I need not tell
Poet with P convertible ;
While thus I lay in defperate State,
In comes a Bawd, whose Name was Kate ;
A rampant Jade, where once I tabled,
Who finding me of Strength disabled,
Not Vows nor Promises could save me,
But off the tears the Cloaths she gave me.
And thus of Coat, e'en Shirt bereft,
Poor naked Tom in Bed was left.
In this most sharp and strange Distress,
'Twas then I thought on crusty Bess;
Who, tho' I knew she was but poor,
I always found a faithful Whore :
To her, without a long Petition,
I briefly told

my

fad Condition,
But I forgot to tell you how
With hot Ox-check, and Heel of Cow,
Wich Trotters neat, and Tripe like Jelly,
She oft had filld my empty Belly.
And one thing more I had forgot,
Hot Furmety and Rise-Milk hot
She never let me want ; for why,
It was her Trade the same to cry.
I thought (poor Fool) she'd pity me,
Who thus refolv'd to set me free,
With Twenty-pence which she had got,
And Shillings Four, for Loan of Pot,
To some convenient Bulk the hies,
And there a Coat and Breeches buys;
The want of Shirt too, to supply,
Sends me her Smock, tho' hardly dry.

And

Anå more, to fit me out compleat,
For c’other Three-pence buys a Cheat.
When thus equipp'd, Abroad I ventute,
Hoping on Sübiects new to enter ;
But all my Hopes proves vain, God wot,
Bess still must want her Porridge. Pot.
My Belly too grows lank, for the
Had no Rice-Milk nior Furmety.
All Friends I try'd, not one was willing
To credit inė with one poor Shilling:
Ili this Distress, without advising,
I fell to cursed Satyrising.
Oh! pity me, or I am lost,
Far worse than when in Blanket toss'd ;
And if this Time I'm fpar'd from whipping,
If e'er again you catch me tripping,
May all the Plagues that e'er befel
A Poet poor, on this Side Hell,
Seize me at once,

and
may

I be
A publick Mark of Infamy :
May all my Whores and Duns o’ertake me,
And all my Friends (even Bess) forsake me :
And may the pa with which I struggle,
Join'd with the Gout, afflict me double :
May I at last by Inches die,
First lose my Nose, and then an Eye ;
And when I'm dead, then may I have
A just Memento on my Grave.

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An

An E LE GY. Suppos’d to be written by Stephen Switch, upon Dobbin a Coach-Horse, who departed this Mortal Life on Saturday the 8th of April.

O

H! crnel Death! whose Rage without Remorse ise

Whose righteous Plood, as said a Spokesman wise,
Againft thy Malice will in Judgment rise.
On Courtiers thou'st my Leave to be severe,
For now and then I grudge thee not a Peer;
Spiritual or Temporal, no Matter whether,
Or a whole Corporation take together.
Such Gain, methinks, might thy keen Stomach ftay,
Considering thoud'ft a Whale the other Day,
Then, why the Plague must thou on Horseflesh prey ?
It grieves my Conscience, and disturbs my Quiet,
To see thee giv'n to such Tartarian Diet
Poor two-legd Beasts thou think it not worth a Groat,
But into Porter's foolish Sport art got,
And must be playing at All-Fours, God wot.
Were I t’advife a Dinner for thy Palate,
A well-cram'd Priest should serve indead of Sallad,
Fat Draymen's Chines should be a standing Dish:
I'd have an Admiral, when I din'd on Fish.
If nonght but tender Morsels wou'd go down,
Commend me to a Lady of the Town ;
But for a choice tough Bit t'employ the Maw,
I'd take a Scriv'ner, or a Man of Law.
But thou’rt, I find, a Stranger to good Breeding,
And doft not know the Methods of good Feeding.

Oh

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Oh! Dobbin, thou wert hurry'd off the Stage,
Just in the prime and Vigour of thy Age.
Howe'er, dear Beaft, 'tis to thy Friends fome Ease,
Thou fell'lt by a Right Worshipful Difeafe.
Instead of Clyster, Balls, and Farriers Physick,
Thy Days, alas ! were shorten'd by the Prisick.
And all Men know (I speak it without scoffing)
That many an Alderman has dy'd of Coughing.
But if Heav'n's Justice will endure Iufpection,
What had thy Lungs done to deferve Infection?
For I can fwear thou ne'er had'st the Ambition,
To talk Profanenefs, Bawdy, or Sedition.

Once more farewel, my dear belov'd bradruped,
The Loss of thee has plainly made me stupid.
I knew thy Dad, thy Mother, and thy Grandsır,
But thou return'st to my Complaints no Answer.
No Hugmatee, nor Flip, my Grief can smother ;
I'lov'd thee, Dobbin, better than my Brother.
Since then fo lame my Mufe, fo dull my Wit is;
I'll have thy Epitaph compos'd by Pettis.

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N

To Mr. Justice Higden, upon the ill Success of

bis Play.
FO longer your expected Play conceal,
But to a

.
The Righteous few, true to the Cause of wit,
will soon reverse the Sentence of the Pit.
Why should their Censüre Men of Sense aların ?
Those Sons of Muggleton can do no Harm.
The Wir, that ofc their Malice dooms,
Outlives its Judges, nay, outlasts their Tombs.
Thus 'twas my Fate to vifit once a Friend,
Whom dire foreboding Omens did attend :
The Doctor tells him, Sir, your Hour is nigh,
Send for the Parson, and prepare to die.

In

In vain the help of Physick you implore,
Art has been try'd, but Art can do no more.
With this the angry Patient rais'd liis Head,
And, Doctor, do you then conclude me dead?
Peace, you grave Sot, elsewhere your Cant bestow,
I'll bury half the College e'er I go.
And spite of that learn'd Phiz, and rev'rend Beard,
Will live to see your Rascalship interr'd.
Thus he run on, and as his Stars decreed,
Was soon from his unkind Diftemper freed :
Left his vain ga ping Kindred in the Lurch,
And saw the Velvet Fop borne decently to Church.

తీరం సికిం త ం తన తల తల తతంగం

To the same, upon his Play's beinig damn'd, for

having too much Eating and Drinking in it.

"Riend Harry, some furious Pretenders to thinking?

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(ing, That too oft in all Conscience thy Table's brought out, Aud un merciful Healchs fly like Hail-Mot about. Such a merry Objection who e'er could expect, That does on the Town, and its Pleasures reflect ? Are a Dish and a Bottle grown quite out of Fashion ? Or have the sprụce Beaus found a new Recreation ? Else why should thesë Fops be so monstrous uncivil, As to damn at a Play what they like at the Devil?i

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7HEN to Moloch of old, by way of Oblation, Any few of his Son made a wicked Donation.

The

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