ON BISHOP ATTERBURY'S BURYING THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM, MDCCXX. "I HAVE no hopes," the duke he says, and dies; "In sure and certain hopes," the prelate cries: Of these two learned peers, I prithee, say, man, Who is the lying knave, the priest or layman? The duke he stands an infidel confest, "He's our dear brother," quoth the lordly priest. The duke, tho' knave, still "brother dear," he cries; And who can say, the reverend prelate lies? UPON HONOUR. A FRAGMENT. HONOUR, I say, or honest fame, I mean the substance, not the name; 1 Titles of honour. 2 Order of the Garter. ENIGMA. By birth I'm a slave, yet can give you a crown, your own hearts. ANOTHER. FORM'D half beneath, and half above the earth, THE OLD GENTRY. THAT all from Adam first began, Each, when his rustic pains began, But coronets we owe to crowns, By nature we are Adam's sons, Kingsale! eight hundred years have roll'd, Since thy forefathers held the plough; When this in story shall be told, Add, that my kindred do so now. The man who by his labour gets His bread, in independent state, Who never begs, and seldom eats, 1 Garter King at Arms. THE INSATIABLE PRIEST. LUKE PREACH-ILL admires what we laymen can mean, That thus by our profit and pleasure are sway'd: He has but three livings, and would be a dean; His wife died this year, he has married his maid. To suppress all his carnal desires in their birth, At all hours a lusty young hussy is near: And, to take off his thoughts from the things of this earth, He can be content with two thousand a-year. A FRENCH SONG IMITATED. WHY thus from the plain does thy shepherdess rove, Forsaking her swain, and neglecting his love? You have heard all my grief, you see how I die, Oh! give some relief to the swain whom you fly. How can you complain, or what am I to say, Since my dog lies unfed, and my sheep run astray? Need I tell what I mean, that I languish alone! When I leave all the plain, you may guess 'tis for one. A CASE STATED. Now how shall I do with my love and my pride; Dear Dick,1 give me counsel, if friendship has any; Prithee purge, or let blood! surly Richard replied, And forget the coquette in the arms of your Nanny.2 While I pleaded with passion how much I deserv'd, For the pains and the torments of more than a year; She look'd in an almanac, whence she observ'd, That it wanted a fortnight to Bart'l'mew-fair. My Cowley and Waller how vainly I quote, While my negligent judge only hears with her eye! In a long flaxen wig, and embroider'd new coat, Her spark saying nothing talks better than I. UPON PLAYING AT OMBRE WITH TWO LADIES. I KNOW that fortune long has wanted sight, And therefore pardon'd when she did not right; But yet till then it never did appear, That, as she wanted eyes, she could not hear; 1 Mr. Shelton. 2 Mrs. Durham. |