Nor had Sir Palfry much to brag
He got by his Adventure;
Since Man, from routing of the Stag,
Commenc'd perpetual Centaur.
The Fable of the Wolf and Porcupine.. In Answer to the Argument against a Standing Army.
Sgrim with Hunger preft, one Day
A Porcupine found on the Way,
And in these Terms accofted.
Our Wars are ended, Heav'n be prais’d,
Then let's fit down and prattle,
Of Towns invested, Sieges rais'd,
And what we did in Battel.
Friend, quoth the Porcupine, 'tis true,
The War's at length decided,
But 'gainst fuch tricking Blades as yon,
'Tis good to be provided.
Cenforious Fame fhall never fay
That too much Faith betray'd me;
Who thinks of me to make a Prey,
Muft at his Coft invade me.
Let him, that thinks it worth the While,
Tempt Knaves to make a Martyr ;
The Sharpers, that wou'd me beguile,
Shall find they've caught a Tartar.
The Fable of Apollo and Daphne.
Pollo once finding fair Daphne alone,
Discover'd his Flame in a paflionate Tone, He told her, and bound it with many a Curse, He was ready to take her for better for Worse. Then he talk'd of his Smart,
And the Hole in his Heart,
So large, one might drive thro' the Passage a Cart.
But the filly coy Maid, to the Gods great Amazement,
Sprung away from his Arms, and leapt thro' the Cafe-
(ment. He following, cry'd out, My Life and my Dear, Return to your Lover, and lay by your Fear.
You think me, perhaps, fome Scoundrel, or Whorefon, Alafs! I've no wicked Defigns on your Perfon.
I'm a God by my Trade,
Young, plump, and well-made,
Then let me carefs thee, and be not afraid.
But ftill the kept running, and flew like the Wind,
While the poor purfy God came panting behind.
I'm the Chief of Phyficians; and none of the College Must be mention'd with me for Experience and Know(ledge; Each Herb, Flower, and Plant, by its Name I can call, And do more than the best Seventh Son of 'em all.
With my Powders and Pills,
I cure all the Ills,
That fweep off fuch Numbers each Week in the Bills.
But ftill fhe kept running, and flew like the Wind,
While the poor purfy God came panting behind.
Befides, I'm a Poet, Child, into the Bargain,
And top all the Writers of fam'd Covent-Garden.
I'm the Prop of the Stage, and the Pattern of Wit,
I fet my own Sonnets, and fing to my Kit.
I'm at Will's all the Day,
And each Night at the Play;
And Verfes I make faft as Hops, as they fay
When she heard him talk thus, the redoubl'd her Speed,
And flew like a Whore from a Constable free'd.
Now had our wife Lover (but Lovers are blind)
In the Language of Lombard-Street told her his Mind;
Look, Lady, what here is, 'tis Plenty of Money,
Odfbobs I must swinge thee, my Joy and my Honey .
I fit next the Chair,
And fhall fhortly be Mayor,
Neither Clayton nor Duncomb with me can compare.
Tho', as wrinkl’d as Priam, deform'd as the Devil,
The God had fucceeded, the Nymph had been Civil.
MISCELLANIE S.
An ELEGY on that moft Orthodox and Painstaking Divine, Mr. Sam. Smith, Ordinary of Newgate, who dy'd of a Quinfey, on St. Bartholomew's Day, the 24th of August, 1698.
Yburn, lament, in penfive Sable mourn,
For from the World thy ancient Prieft is torn.
Death, cruel Death, thy learn'd Divine has ended,
And by a Quinfey from his Place fufpended.
Thus he expir'd in his old Occupation,
And as he liv'd, he dy'd, by Suffocation.
Thou Rev'rend Pillar of the Triple-Tree,
I would fay Poft, for it was propp'd by thee;.
Thou Penny-Chronicler of hafty Fate,
Death's Annalift, Reformer of the State;
Cut-throat of Texts, and Chaplain of the Halter,
In whofe fage Prefence Vice itself did faulter.
How many Criminals, by thee affisted,
Old Smith, have been moft orthodoxly twisted
And when they labour'd with a dying Qualm,
Were decently fufpended to a Pfalm
How oft haft thou fet harden'd Rogues a Squeaking,
By urging the great Sin of Sabbath-breaking;
And fav'd Delinquents from Old Nick's Embraces,
By flashing Fire and Brimftone in their Faces ?
Thou waft a Gofpel-Smith, and after Sentence,.
Brought'ft Sinners to the Anvil of Repentance;
And tho' they prov'd obdurate at the Seffions,
Could'ft hammer out of them most strange Confeffion,
When Plate was ftray'd, and Silver Spoons were mifling
And Chamber maid betray'd by Judas Kiffing.
Thy Chriftian Bowels chearfully extended
Towards fuch, as by their Mammon were befriended.
Tho' Culprit in enormous Acts was taken,
Thou woul'ft devife a Way to fave his Bacon ;,
And if his Purfe could bleed a half Pistole,
Legit, my Lord, He reads, upon my Soul.
Spite of thy Charity to dying Wretches,
Some Fools would live to bilk thy Gallows Speeches.
But who'd refufe, that has a Tafte of Writing,
To hang, for one learn'd Speech of thy inditing,
Thou alway'ft had'ft a confcientious Itching,
To refcue Penitents from Pluto's Kitchen;
And haft committed upon many a Soul
A pious Theft, but fo St. Austin ftole.
And Shoals of Robbers, purg'd of finful Leaven,
By thee were fet in the High Road to Heaven.
With fev'ral Mayors haft thou eat Beef and Mustard,
And frail Mince-pyes, and tranfitory Cuftard...
But now that learned Head in Duft is laid,
Which has fo fweetly fung, and fweetly pray'd:
Yet, tho' thy outward Man is gone and rotten,
Thy better Part fhall never be forgotten.
While Newgate is a Manfion for good Fellows,
And Sternhold's Rhimes are murder'd at the Gallows;
While Ho born Cits at Execution gape,
And Cut-purfe follow'd is by Man of Crape;
While Grub-Street Mufe, in Garrets fo fublime,
Trafficks in Doggrel, and aspires to Rhime;
Thy Deathless Name and Memory fhall reign,
From fam'd St. Giles, to Smithfield, and Duck-lane.
But fince thy Death does general Sorrow give,
We hope thou in thy Succeffor will live.
Newgate and Tyburn jointly give their Votes,
Thou may'st fucceeded be by Dr. Oates,
An EPITAPH upon that profound and learned Cafuift, the late Ordinary of Newgate.
Lies Reverend Drone,
To Tyburn well-known;
Who preach'd against Sin
With a terrible Grin,
In which fome may think, that he afted, but odly,.
Since he liv'd by the Wicked, and not by the Godly.
In Time of great Need,
In Cafe he were freed,
Heed teach one to read
Old Pot-hooks and Scrawls,
As ancient as Pauls.
But if no Money came,
You might hang for old Sam,
And, founder'd in Pfalter,
Be ty'd to a Halter.
This Priest was well hung,
I mean with a Tongue,
And bold Sons of Vice
Would difarm in a Trice ;
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