Mind neither good nor bad, nor right nor wrong;
But eat your pudding, slave; and hold your tongue.
A rev'rend prelate stopt his coach and fix,
To laugh a little at our Andrew's tricks.
But when he heard him give this golden rule;
Drive on; (he cry'd,) this fellow is no fool.

DE

A SIMILE.

EAR Thomas, didst thou never pop
Thy head into a tin-man's shop?
There, Thomas, didst thou never fee
('Tis but by way of fimile)
A Squirrel fpend his little rage,
In jumping round a rowling cage?
The cage, as either fide turn'd up,
Striking a ring of bells a-top-

Mov'd in the orb, pleas'd with the chimes,

The foolish creature thinks he climbs:
But here or there, turn wood or wire,
He never gets two inches higher.

So fares it with those merry blades,
That frisk it under Pindus' fhades.
In noble fongs, and lofty odes,

They tread on stars, and talk with gods.
Still dancing in an airy round,

Still pleas'd with their own verfes found,
Brought back, how fast foe'er they go,
Always afpiring, always low.

THE FLIES.

SAY, fire of infects, mighty Sol,
(A fly upon the chariot-pole
Cries out) what blue bottle alive
Did ever with such fury drive?
Tell Belzebub, great father, tell,
(Says t'other, perch'd upon the wheel)
Did ever any mortal fly

Raife fuch a cloud of duft, as I?

My judgment turn'd the whole debate:
My valour fav'd the sinking state.
So talk two idle buzzing things;

Tofs up their heads, and stretch their wings.
But let the truth to light be brought:
This neither spoke, nor t'other fought:
No merit in their own behav'our:
Both rais'd, but by their party's favour.

From the GREEK.

GREAT Bacchus, born in thunder and in fire

By native heat afferts his dreadful fire.

Nourish'd near fhady rills and cooling streams,
He to the nymphs avows his am'rous flames.
To all the breth'ren at the Bell and Vine,
The moral fays; mix water with your wine.

EPIGRAM.

RANK carves very ill, yet will palm all the meats:

FRAN

He eats more than fix; and drinks more than he eats. Four pipes after dinner he constantly smokes; And feafons his whifs with impertinent jokes, Yet fighing, he says, we must certainly break;. And my cruel unkindness compells him to fpeak: For of late I invite him- but four times a week.

ANOTHER.

TO John I ow'd great obligation;
But John, unhappily, thought fit

To publish it to all the nation:
Sure John and I are more than quit.

ANOTHER.

'ES, every poet is a fool:

YE

By demonftration Ned can show it:

Happy, could Ned's inverted rule
Prove every fool to be a poet.

THY

ANOTHER.

HY nags (the leanest things alive)!
So very hard thou lov'ft to drive;
I heard thy anxious coach-man fay,
It cofts thee more in whips, than hay.

}

To a perfon who wrote ill, and spake worse against me.

LYE, Philo, untouch'd on my peaceable flielf;

Nor take it amifs, that fo little I heed thee:

I've no envy to thee, and fome love to myself:
Then why shou'd I answer; since first I must read thee?
Drunk with Helicon's waters and double brew'd bub,
Be a linguift, a poet, a critic, a wag;

To the folid delight of thy well-judging club,
To the damage alone of thy bookseller Brag.
Pursue me with fatyr; what harm is there in't?
But from all viva voce reflection forbear:

There can be no danger from what thou shalt print:
There may be a little from what thou may'st swear.

On the fame person.

WHILE fafter than his coftive brain indites,

WHI

Philo's quick hand in flowing letters writes;
His cafe appears to me like honest Teague's,
When he was run away with, by his legs.
Phoebus, give Philo o'er himself command;
Quicken his fenfes, or restrain his hand;
Let him be kept from paper, pen, and ink:
So may he cease to write, and learn to think.

Quid fit futurum cras fuge quaerere.

OR what to-morrow fhall disclose,

Fo

May spoil what you to-night propose: England may change; or Cloe ftray:

Love and life are for to-day.

The NUT-BROWN MAID.

A POEM, written three hundred years fince.

BE it right or wrong, thefe men among

On women do complayne; Affyrmynge this, how that it is

A labour spent in vaine,

To love them wele; for never a dele
They love a man againe.

For lete a man do what he can,
Ther favour to attayne ;

Yet yf a new do them pursue,

Ther furft trew lover than

Laboureth for nought; for from her thought
He is a banishyd man.

I fay not nay, but that all day
. It is bothe writ and fayde,

That woman's fayth is, as who faythe;
All'utterly decayed.

But nevertheless right good witness

I' this cafe might be layde,

That they love trewe, and contynewe,
Record the Nut-brown Mayde.
Which from her love (whan her to prove,
He came to make his mone)

Wold not depart; for in her herte
She lovyd but him alone.

Than betwene us, lettens difcuffe,
What was all the maner

Between them too: we wyle also
Telle all the peyne and fere