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Brought in Use as a Covert to Nonsense, I'll tell ge,
As that righteous Queen's Dress was to hide a Great Belly.

But tho the loud Rabble should never deny ye;
Confirm'd in their Purpose, and resolv'd to stand by ye;
Tho' the poor Ones should murmur, and doat on your Sense,
For svant of due Thinking, and for want of the Pence ;
Tho' the stiff Paris-Clerks, with their Bands and their

[Gowns, Read the New Pfalms with Hums, and with Ha’s, and

[with Frowing, *Cause the Lerites, their Masters, by Chance are afraid Innovation should turn to a Practice and Trade; And by those Means the Godly Wise-Acres be driven From their Desks and their Pulpits, their Sloth and cheir

[Heaven ; Tho' the Stationers strive, all they can, to decry 'em, And Took swears that Thousands of old Ones lie by 'em : Tho' the late Version fails of the Spirit and Force OF DAVID's Rrjoycings, or DAVID's Remorse ; Yet I'm not such a Coxcomb, 'fted of nem Pfalmis to learn

[old, Or to quit TATE and BRADY for Hopkins and Sternhold.

A Translation of Lesbia, Mi dicit semper male.

Out of Catullus.

E

I.
Ach Moment of the long.liv'd Day,"

Lesbia for me does backward pray,
Aud rails at me sincerely;
Yet I dare pawn my Life, my Eyes,
My Soul, and all that Mortals prize,
That Lesbia loves me dearly,

II.
Why Mou'd you thus conclude, you'll say,
Faith 'ris my own beloved Way,

And

And thus I hourly prove her ;
Yet let me all those Curses share
That Heav'n can give, or Man can bear,

If I don't strangely love her.

000000000000000000000

A Song in Ridicule of a famous Musician, who

was caught serenading his Mistress with bis Base

Viol in a very frosty Night. L

OOK down, fair Garretteer, bestow

One Glance upon your Swain,
Who stands below, in Frost and Snow,

And, shaking, fings in Pain.
Thaw, with your Eyes, the frozen Street,

Or cool my hot Desire;
I burn within,

altho

my

Feet
Are numb'd for want of Fire.

Chorus, the Viol leading,
Tlrum, tlorum, thrum, thrum,
Come, come, come, come,

My Dearest, be not coy ;
For if you are, (Zit, zan, Zounds) I

Miji, without your Favours, die.
Behold me from your lofty Tow'r,

And to your Lover shew
Your Charms; and when it's in my Pow'r,

I'll be as kind to you.
Hither I came, with joyful Speed,

And fear'd no freezing Wind;
But as the Saint at Troas did,
Have left my Cloak behind,

Chorns.
Thrum, &c.
My Dear, wou'd

you
but
open

wide The Casement with your Hand, My Fiddle, and my felf beside,

Should be at your Command.
Vol. IV.

E

Could

.

Could I behold you in your Smock,

Tho' Dark, the luscious View
Would then embolden me to knock,
And ask you how you de.

Chorus.
Thrum, &c.
Or would you open but the Door,

As I have done the Cafe,
I've sweeter Instruments in Store;

To play a thorough Bafe.
But since you're coy, I know not what

To farther fing or say;
My Love, 'tis trúe, is very hor,
Yet I'm too cold to stay.

Chorus, as going off
Tlmim, thrum, tbrum, tlrum,
Home, 'home, home, honey

I hate a Whore that's coy;
But since you are, (Zit, zan, zounds) 1
Muji, without your Favours, dis.

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1.
Hile the pious grave Sot does amuse half the Na-

[tion
With impertinent Scruples, and Zeal out of Fashion;
While Harangues, that at Church made us piously sleep,
°Mongst Priest-ridden Cullies, such a Pother do keep;
We'll, with trusty Champain, our Devotion refine,
And shew a good Conscience by drinking our Wine.

II.
Let the motly dull Herd for Religion engage;
Let 'em urge the Dispute with vile Clamour and Rage ;
Let your Authors keep on the dull Method of Writing,
And pursue the curs'd Toil they fo much take Delight in;
We'll ne'er make Replies, but reft fully contented,
Tho' good Fellows and Drink have been mifreprefented.

III. May

III.
May their musty stift Volumes to Grub-Street adjairn,
Or rot in Duck-Lane, or in Coffee-House burn;
May they furnish no more empty Cits with Debate,
Or touch the Intrigues and Arcana's of State.
Wine does edify more than dull Canting of Vicar;
Tis our Freedom we owe to that orthodox Liquor.

IV.
I ne'er pall my Fancy, or trouble my Brain
With the Chances and Fate that our Starswill ordain;
Let the Monarch of France keep his Subjects at Home,
And forbid the mad Zealots a broad for to roam,
So he lets his boon Claret but cross the kind Main,
We Mall never be angry, we shall never complain.

·V. Ne er tell me of those, that with fa&tious Notion Infect the wild Rabble, and poison Devotion; That Mortal is guilty of a far greater Sin, That prefumes, with vile Stum, to debauch honeft Wine. Such impious Wretches may Poverty seize on, 'Tis againft our Liege Bacohus the highest of Treason.

Commendatory Verses on the Author of the Two Arthurs, and the Satyr against Wit

. By feveral Hands, and collected by Mr. Brown.

A short and true History of the Author of the

Satyr against Wit. By Col. Codrington,
BY
Y Nature meant, by Want à Pedant made,

Blare at first profess’d the Whipping Trade;
Grown ond of Buttocks, he would lath no more,
But kindly cur'd the Amhe galld before :
So Quack commenc'd ; then fierce with Pride, he swore,
That Tooth-ach, Gripes, and Corns thould be no more.

In

E 2

In vain his Drugs, as well as Birch, he try'd;
His Boys grew Blockheads, and his Patients dy'd.
Next, he turn's Bard, and mounted on a Cart,
Whofe hideous Rumbling made Apollo start;
Burlesqu'd the bravest, wiseft Son of Mars,
In Ballad-Rhimes, and all the Pomp of Farce.
Still he chang'd Callings, and at length has hit
On Bus’ness for his matchless Talent fit,
To give us Drenches for the Plague of Wit.

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Upon the Author of the Satyr against Wit.

By Sir Charles Sidley. A

Grave Physician, us'd to write for Fees,

And spoil no Paper but with Recipe's,
Is now turn'd Poet, rails against all wit,
Except that little found among the Great ;
As if he thoughe true Wit and Sense were tyd
To Men in Place, like Avarice, or Pride.
But, in their Praise, so like a Quack he talks,
You'd swear he wanted for his Christmas-Box.
With mangld Names old Stories he pollutes,
And to the present Time paft Actions suits.
Amaz'd, we find, in ev'ry Page he writes,
Meinbers of Parliament with Arthur's Knights.
It is a common Pastime to write ill;
And, Doctor, with the rest, e'en take thy fill.
Thy Satyr's harmless ; 'tis thy Prose that kills,
When thou prescrib'ft thy Potions and thy Pills.

TO

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