Brought in Ufe as a Covert to Nonfenfe, I'll tell ye,
As that righteous Queen's Drefs was to hide a Great Belly.
But tho the loud Rabble fhould never deny ye;
Confirm'd in their Purpose, and refolv'd to stand by ye;
Tho' the poor Ones fhould murmur, and doat on your Senfe,
For want of due Thinking, and for want of the Pence ;
Tho' the stiff Parish-Clerks, with their Bands and their
[Gowns,

Read the New Pfalms with Hums, and with Ha's, and
[with Frowns,
'Cause the Levites, their Mafters, by Chance are afraid
Innovation fhould turn to a Practice and Trade;
And by thofe Means the Godly Wife-Acres be driven
From their Desks and their Pulpits, their Sloth and their

[Heaven; Tho' the Stationers ftrive, all they can, to decry 'em, And Took fwears that Thoufands of old Ones lie by 'em : Tho' the late Verfion fails of the Spirit and Force Of DAVID's Rejoycings, or DAVID's Remorse;

Yet I'm not fuch a Coxcomb, 'fted of new Pfalms to learn

[old,

Or to quit TATE and BRADY for Hopkins and Sternhold.

A Translation of Lefbia, Mi dicit femper male. Out of Catullus.

I.

Ach Moment of the long-liv'd Day,'

E Lesbia for me does backward pray,

Aud rails at me fincerely;

Yet I dare pawn my Life, my Eyes,
My Soul, and all that Mortals prize,
That Lesbia loves me dearly,

II.

Why fhou'd you thus conclude, you'll fay,
Faith 'cis my own beloved Way,

And

And thus I hourly prove her;
Yet let me all thofe Curses share

That Heav'n can give, or Man can bear,
If I don't ftrangely love her.

5

A Song in Ridicule of a famous Musician, who was caught ferenading his Miftrefs with his BafeViol in a very frofty Night.

L

OOK down, fair Garretteer, beftow
One Glance upon your Swain,

Who ftands below, in Froft and Snow,
And, fhaking, 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,

Thrum, thrum, thrum, thrum,
Come, come, come, come,

My Deareft, be not coy;

For if you are, (Zit, zan, zounds) 1
Muft, without your Favours, die.

Behold me from your lofty Tow'r,

And to your Lover fhew

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.

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 fince you're coy, I know not what
To farther fing or fay;

My Love, 'tis true, is very hor,

Yet I'm too cold to stay.

Chorus, as going off,

Thrum, thrum, thrum, thrum,

Home, home, home, home,

I hate a Whore that's coy;

But fince you are, (Zit, zan, zounds) 1
Muft, without your Favours, die.

The Good Fellow.

I.

While the pious grave sot does amufe half the Na

[tion With impertinent Scruples, and Zeal out of Fashion ; While Harangues, that at Church made us piously sleep, 'Mongft Prieft-ridden Cullies, fuch a Pother do keep; We'll, with trufty Champain, our Devotion refine, And thew a good Confcience by drinking our Wine.

II.

Let the motly dull Herd for Religion engage;
Let 'em urge the Difpute with vile Clamour and Rage;
Let your Authors keep on the dull Method of Writing,
And purfue 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 adjourn,
Or rot in Duck Lane, or in Coffee-Houfe 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 abroad for to roam,
So he lets his boon Claret but crofs the kind Main,
We fhall never be angry, we shall never complain.

V.

Neer tell me of those, that with factious Notion
Infect the wild Rabble, and poifon Devotion;
That Mortal is guilty of a far greater Sin,

That prefumes, with vile Stum, to debauch honest Wine. Such impious Wretches may Poverty feize on, 'Tis against our Liege Bacchus the highest of Treafon.

Commendatory Verfes on the Author of the Two Arthurs, and the Satyr against Wit. By feveral Hands, and collected by Mr. Brown.

A fhort and true Hiftory of the Author of the Satyr against Wit. By Col. Codrington.

Y Nature meant, by Want à Pedant made,

BY Bl-re at first profefs'd the Whipping Trade;

Grown ond of Buttocks, he would lash no more,
But kindly cur'd the A- he gall'd before:

So Quack commenc'd; then fierce with Pride, he fwore,
That Tooth-ach, Gripes, and Corns thould be no more.

E 2

In

In vain his Drugs, as well as Birch, he try'd;
His Boys grew Blockheads, and his Patients dy❜d.
Next, he turn'd Bard, and mounted on a Cart,
Whofe hideous Rumbling made Apollo ftart;
Burlefqu'd the braveft, wifeft Son of Mars,
In Ballad-Rhimes, and all the Pomp of Farce.
Still he chang'd Callings, and at length has hit
On Bus'nefs for his matchlefs Talent fit,

To give us Drenches for the Plague of Wit.

}

燒燒弟弟蕊

Upon the Author of the Satyr against Wit.

A

By Sir Charles Sidley.

Grave Phyfician, 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 thought true Wit and Senfe were ty'd
To Men in Place, like Avarice, or Pride.
But, in their Praife, fo like a Quack he talks,
You'd fwear he wanted for his Christmas-Box.
With mangl'd Names old Stories he pollutes,
And to the present Time paft Actions fuits.
Amaz'd, we find, in ev'ry Page he writes,
Members of Parliament with Arthur's Knights.
It is a common Paftime to write ill;

And, Doctor, with the reft, e'en take thy fill.
Thy Satyr's harmlefs; 'tis thy Profe that kills,
When thou prefcrib'ft thy Potions and thy Pills.

Το