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An ELEGY.

Suppos'd to be written by Stephen Switch, upon
Dobbin a Coach-Horfe, who departed this
Mortal Life on Saturday the 8th of April.

Ο

H! cruel Death! whofe Rage without Remorfe is,
Why should'st thou perfecute poor harmless Horses?
Whofe righteous Blood, as faid a Spokefman wife,
Against thy Malice will in Judgment rise.
On Courtiers thou'ft my Leave to be fevere,
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,'
Confidering thoud'ft a Whale the other Day,
Then, why the Plague muft thou on Horseflesh prey
It grieves my Confcience, and difturbs my Quier,
To fee thee giv'n to fuch Tartarian Diet

Poor two-leg'd Beafts thou think'ft 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 ferve instead of Sallad,
Fat Draymen's Chines fhould be a standing Dish:
I'd have an Admiral, when I din'd on Fish.
If nought but tender Morfels 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!

Oh! Dobbin, thou wert hurry'd off the Stage, Juft in the prime and Vigour of thy Age.

Howe'er, dear Beaft, 'tis to thy Friends fome Eafe,
Thou fell'ft by a Right Worshipful Difeafe.
Instead of Clyfter, Balls, and Farriers Phyfick,
Thy Days, alas! were fhorten'd by the Ptifick.
And all Men know (I fpeak it without fcoffing)
That many an Alderman has dy'd of Coughing.
But if Heav'ns Juftice will endure Inspection,
What had thy Lungs done to deferve Infection?.
For I can fwear thou ne'er had'ft the Ambition,
To talk Profanenefs, Bawdy, or Sedition.

Once more farewel, my dear belov'd Qradruped,
The Lofs of thee has plainly made me ftupid.
I knew thy Dad, thy Mother, and thy Grandfir,
But thou return'ft 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.

To Mr. Juftice Higden, upon the ill Succefs of bis Play

TO longer your expected Play conceal,

N

But to a more impartial Court appeal.
The Righteous few, true to the Caufe of Wit,
Will foon reverse the Sentence of the Pit.
Why should their Cenfüre Men of Senfe alarm?
Thofe Sons of Muggleton can do no Harm.
The Wit, that oft their Malice dooms,
Outlives its Judges, nay, outlafts 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 Parfon, and prepare to die.

In

In vain the help of Phyfick you implore,
Art has been try'd, but Art can do no more.
With this the angry Patient rais'd his Head,
And, Doctor, do you
then conclude me dead?
Peace, you grave Sot, elfewhere your Cant beftow,
I'll bury half the College e'er I go.

And spite of that learn'd Phiz, and rev'rend Beard,
Will live to fee your Rafcalthip interr'd.
Thus he run on, and as his Stars decreed,
Was foon from his unkind Diftemper freed:
Left his vain gaping Kindred in the Lurch,
And faw the Velvet Fop borne decently to Church.

To the fame, upon his Play's being damn'd, for having too much Eating and Drinking in it.

Riend Harry, fome furious Pretenders to thinking,

rating

(ing, That too oft in all Confcience thy Table's brought out, And unmerciful Healths fly like Hail-fhot 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 fpruce Beaus found a new Recreation ? Elfe why fhould these Fops be fo monftrous uncivil, As to damn at a Play what they like at the Devil?

*******

***************

Upon perfecuting it with Cat-calls.

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

WH

The

The Priesthood with Trumpets and Drums made a (Noife,

To ftifle his Groans, and extinguish his Cries.
Thus our fierce modern Heroes, thofe Jews of the Pit,
When to damn a poor Author's Attempt, they think fit,
With Cat-calls fo dreadful the Houfe they alarm,
Left the Wit of the Play should their Fury difarm;
Howe'er, they may pass with the rest of the Nation,
Tho' their Malice I blame, I commend their Difcretion,
For 'tis but convenient, you'll readily own,
That the Beast should perform what the Man would

(difown.

A Paftoral on the Death of Queen MARY. SHE's gone! the brightest Nymph that blefs'd the

(Green,

No more the Beauty of her Eyes is feen.
Who can from Grief's Extremities refrain,
Or in due Bounds the fwelling Tide contain?
Who can behold this difmal Scene pafs by
With an unmov'd and unrelenting Eye?
London! thou Pride and Glory of our Ifle,
Tho' in thy Bofom both the Indies smile;
Oh! ne'er forget that unaufpicious Day,
Which thy beft Treasure rudely fnatch'd away.
Thy bufy Change be for a Seafon dumb,
No fawcy Mirth within thy Mansions come;
Let all thy Sons in mourning Weeds appear;
Each Face fhew Sorrow, and each Eye a Tear.
T'express their Duty, let all Hearts combine,
And on this black, this fad Occafion join.
Mourn, drooping Britain, mourn from Shore to Shore,
Thy beft belov'd MARIA is no more.

Ye beauteous Virgins, that in moving Strains
Were used to fing her Vertues on the Plains:

Ye

Ye Shepherds too, who out of pious Care,
Taught ev'ry Tree MARIA's Name to wear;
Your rural Sports and Garlands lay afide,
This is no Time for ornamental Pride;

But bring, oh ! bring the Treasures of your Fields,
That fhort-liv'd Wealth which unbid Nature yields.
The mourning Hyacinth infcrib'd with Woe,
The beauteous Lillies that in Valleys grow,
And all the Flowers that scatter'd up and down,
Or humble Mead or lofty Mountains crown;
Then gently throw them all upon her Herfe;
To thefe join lafting Bays and living Verse.
Mourn, drooping Britain, mourn from Shore to Shore,
Thy beft belov'd MARIA is no more.

Ye dauntless Hearts, that for your Country's Good
All Dangers fcorn, and wade thro' Seas of Blood,
In heavy Silence march around her Tomb,
And then lament your own and England's Doom :
For Death has by this fingle Stroke done more

Than when (ten Thoufand flain) he stalks in Gore.
Ye penfive Matrons, who by Fortune croft,
In foreign Fields have dear Relations loft,
Now give a free and open Vent to Grief,
Banish all Hopes, and think of no Relief;
That bounteous Princes, who fo juftly knew
What was to blooming Worth and Merit due,
Who as the lov'd on Valour ftill to fmile,
Ne'er fail'd to recompenfe the Soldier's Toil;
Is now (malicious Fate wou'd have it fo)
Hurry'd, alas! to the dark Shades below.
Mourn, drooping Britain, mourn from Shore to Shore,
Thy best belov'd MARIA is no more.

Ye miter'd Heads, and likewife you that wait
Upon the Altar in a lower State,

Bewail the Lofs of fo divine a Prize,

And open
all the Sluices of your Eyes.
Rome's gaudy Ponips her Mind could ne'er allure;
Firm to her Word, and in her Faith fecure.
The facred Scriptures were her daily Care,
Her only Exercife and Food, was Prayer.

Where