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IV. 37
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.

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Sgrim with Hunger prest, one Day

As chro' the Woods he posted,
A Porcupine found on the Way,
And in these Terms accolted.

Our Wars are ended, Heav'n be prais'd,

Then let's sit down and pratele
Of Towys invested, Sieges rais'd,
And what we did in Burrel.

The Plains a pleasing Prospect yield,

No Fire; nor Desolation;
While Plenty, reigns in every Field,
And Trade restores the Nation.

Yet you your Quills erected wear,

And tho' none seeks to harm ye,
In Time of Peace, about you bear,
Methinks, a Standing Army.

Friend, quoth the Porcupine, 'uis true,

The War's at length decided,
Buc 'gainst such cricking Blades as yon,

Tis good to be provided.

VI. Cen.

VI. Cenforious Fame shall never fay

That too much Faith betray'd me;
Who thinks of me to make a Prey,
Must 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. occouscoocooooooooooooooooo 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 Çurse,
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 throʻ the Passage a Cart.
But the silly coy Maid, to the Gods great Amazement,
Sprung away from his Arms, and leapt thro the Care-


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 Designs on your

I'm a God by my Trade,
Young, plump, and wellmade,
Then let me caress thee, and be not afraid.
But still she kept running, and few like the Wind,
While the poor pursy God came panting behind.

I'm the Chief of Physicians; and none of the College
Must be mention' with me for Experience and Knowa

vi fledge í Each Herb, Flower, and Plant, by its Name I can call, And do more tlan the best Seventh Son of 'em all,


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With my Powders and Pills,

I cure all the Ills,
That sweep off such Numbers each week in the Bills.
But ftill fhe kept running, and flew like the Wind,
While the poor pursy God came panting behind.

Besides, 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 set my own Sonnets, and sing to my Kit.

I'm at Will's all the Day,

And each Night at the Play ; And Verses I make fast as Hops, as they say.. When the heard him talk thus, the redoulld her Speed, And flew like a Whore from a Constable free'd.


Now had our wife Lover (bur Lovers are blind)
In the Language of Lombard-Street told her his Mind;
Look, Lady, what here is, 'tis Plenty of Money,
Odbobs I must swinge thee, my Joy and my Honey ::

I fit next the Chair,

And fall shortly be Mayor,
Neither Clayton nor Duncomb with me can compare.
Tho', as wrinkl'd as Prian, deform'd as the Devil,
The God had fucceeded, the Nymph had been Civil.

MISCELLANI E S. An Elegy on that most Orthodox and Pains

taking Divine, Mr. Sam. Smith, Ordinary of Newgate, who dy'd of a Quinsey, on St. Bartholomew's Day, the 24tb of August, 1698. Yburn, lament, in pensive Sable mourn, T

For from the World thy ancient Priest 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.


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Thou Rev'rend Pillar of the Triple-Tree,
I would say Poft, for it was propp'd by thee ;.
Thou Penny-Chronicler of hafty Fate,
Death's Annalist, Reformer of the State ;
Cut-throat of Texts, and Chaplain of the Halterg-
111 whose fage Presence Vice itself did faulter.
How many Criminals, by thee aflifted,
Old Smith, have been most orthodoxly cwisted?
And when they labourd with a dying Qualmg,
Were decently suspended to a Pialm
How oft haft thou set harden'd Rogues a Squeaking,
By urging the great Sinof Sabbath-breaking;
And fav'd Delinquents from old Nick's Embraces,
By Aashing Fire and Brimftone in their faces ?

Thou wast a Gospel-Smith, and after Sentenceg.
Brought'st Sinners to the Anvil of Repentance ;
And tho' they provod obdurate at the Seslions,
Could'st hammer out of them moft strange Confession,
When Plate was stray'd, and Silver Spoons were mising,
And Chamber. maid betray'd by Judas Kissing.

Thy Christian Bowels chearfully extended
Towards fuch, as by their Mammon were befriendede.
Tho' Culprit in enormous Acts was taken,
Thou woulf devise a Way, to save his Bacon j,
And, if his Purse 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 Speechesa
But who'd refuse, that has a Taste of Writing,
To hang, for one learn's Speech of thy inditing.
Thou alıvay'st had'It a conscientious Itching,
To refcue Penitents from Pluto's Kitchen ;
And haft committed upon many a Soul
A pious Theft, but fo St. Austin stole.
And Shoals of Robbers, purg'd of sifül Leaven,
By thee were fer in the High Road to Heaven.

With sev'ral Mayors hast thou eat Beef and Mustardy.
And frail Mince-pyes, and transitory, Custard...
But now that learned Head in. Duft is laid,
Which has fo sweetly sung, and sweetly pray'd :


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Yet, tho'thy out ward Man is gone and rotten,
Thy better Part shall never be forgotten.
While Newgate is a Manfion for good Fellows,
And Sternbold's Rhimes are murder'd at the Gallows;
While Ho born Cits at Execution gape,
And Cut-purse follow'd is by Man of Crape;
While Grub.Street Muse, in Garrets so fublime,
Trafficks in Doggrel, and aspires to Rhime;
Thy Deathless Name and Memory shall reign,
From fam'd St. Giles, to Smitlfield, and Duck-lane.
But since thy Death does general Sorrow give,
We hope thou in thy Successor will live,
Newgate and Tyburn jointly give their Votesy.
Thou may'st succeeded be by Dr. Oetes,

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An EPITAPH upon that profound and learneda
Casuift, the late Ordinary of Newgate.

Nder this Stone

Lies Reverend Drone,
To Tyburn well-known

Who preach'd against Sin

Wich a terrible Grin,
111 which some may think, that he asted. but odly,.
Since he liv'd by the Wicked, and not by the Godly.

In Time of great Need,
In Case 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,
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 disarm in a Trice ;


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