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Provided thou impart thy useful skill.—
Bow then, says Andrew; and, for once, I will.—
Be of your patron's mind, whate'er he says;
Sleep very much; think little; and talk less;
Mind neither good nor bad, nor right nor wrong,
But eat your pudding, slave; and hold your tongue.
A reverend prelate stopped his coach and six,
To laugh a little at our Andrew's tricks.
But when he heard him give this golden rule,
Drive on (he cried); this fellow is no fool.

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A SIMILE.

DEAR Thomas, didst thou never pop
Thy head into a tin-man's shop?
There, Thomas, didst thou never see
('Tis but by way of simile)

A squirrel spend his little rage,
In jumping round a rolling cage?
The cage, as either side turned up,
Striking a ring of bells a-top?—

Moved in the orb, pleased 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' shades,
In noble songs, and lofty odes,

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

Still pleased with their own verses' sound;
Brought back, how fast soe'er they go,
Always aspiring, always low.

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THE FLIES.

SAY, sire of insects, mighty Sol
(A Fly upon the chariot pole
Cries out), what Blue-bottle alive
Did ever with such fury drive?
Tell Beelzebub, great father, tell,
(Says t'other, perched upon the wheel)
Did ever any mortal Fly

Raise such a cloud of dust as I!

My judgment turned the whole debate:
My valour saved the sinking state.
So talk two idle buzzing things;

Toss 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 behaviour:
Both raised, but by their party's favour.

FROM THE GREEK.

GREAT Bacchus, born in thunder and in fire,
By native heat asserts his dreadful sire.
Nourished near shady rills and cooling streams,
He to the nymphs avows his amorous flames.
To all the brethren at the Bell and Vine,
The moral says; mix water with your wine.

EPIGRAM.

10

FRANK carves very ill, yet will palm all the meats:
He eats more than six, and drinks more than he eats.
Four pipes after dinner he constantly smokes,
And seasons his whiffs with impertinent jokes.

Yet sighing, he says, we must certainly break;
And my cruel unkindness compels him to speak;
For of late I invite him-but four times a week.

ANOTHER.

To John I owed great obligation;
But John unhappily thought fit
To publish it to all the nation:

Sure John and I are more than quit.

ANOTHER.

YES, every poet is a fool:

By demonstration Ned can show it;
Happy, could Ned's inverted rule
Prove every fool to be a poet.

ANOTHER.

THY nags (the leanest things alive),
So very hard thou lovest to drive;
I heard thy anxious coachman say,
It cost thee more in whips than hay.

TO A PERSON WHO WROTE ILL,

AND SPOKE WORSE AGAINST ME.

1 LIE, Philo, untouched on my peaceable shelf; Nor take it amiss, that so little I heed thee: I've no envy to thee, and some love to myself: Then why should I answer, since first I must read thee?

2 Drunk with Helicon's waters and double brewed bub,
Be a linguist, a poet, a critic, a wag;
To the solid delight of thy well-judging club;
To the damage alone of thy bookseller Brag.

3 Pursue me with satire: 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 mayest swear.

ON THE SAME PERSON.

WHILE, faster than his costive brain indites,
Philo's quick hand in flowing letters writes;
His case 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 senses, or restrain his hand;
Let him be kept from paper, pen, and ink:
So may he cease to write, and learn to think.

"QUID SIT FUTURUM CRAS FUGE
QUÆRERE."

FOR what to-morrow shall disclose,
May spoil what you to-night propose:
England may change; or Cloe stray:
Love and life are for to-day.

HENRY AND EMMA.

А РОЕМ.

FOUNDED ON THE ANCIENT BALLAD OF THE NUT-BROWN

MAID.1

TO CLOE.

THOU, to whose eyes I bend, at whose command
(Though low my voice, though artless be my hand)
I take the sprightly reed, and sing, and play,
Careless of what the censuring world may say:

1 A copy of this ballad will be found in our edition of 'Percy's Reliques,' Vol. II. p. 23.

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11

Bright Cloe, object of my constant vow,
Wilt thou awhile unbend thy serious brow;
Wilt thou with pleasure hear thy lover's strains,
And with one heavenly smile o'erpay his pains?
No longer shall the Nut-brown Maid be old;
Though since her youth three hundred years have roll'd:
At thy desire she shall again be raised;
And her reviving charms in lasting verse be praised.
No longer man of woman shall complain,
That he may love, and not be loved again;
That we in vain the fickle sex pursue,
Who change the constant lover for the new.
Whatever has been writ, whatever said,
Of female passion feigned, or faith decayed:
Henceforth shall in my verse refuted stand,
Be said to winds, or writ upon the sand.
And, while my notes to future times proclaim
Unconquered love, and ever-during flame;
O fairest of the sex! be thou my Muse:
Deign on my work thy influence to diffuse;
Let me partake the blessings I rehearse,
And grant me, love, the just reward of verse!

As beauty's potent queen, with every grace
That once was Emma's, has adorned thy face;
And as her son has to my bosom dealt
That constant flame, which faithful Henry felt;
O let the story with thy life agree,
Let men once more the bright example see;
What Emma was to him, be thou to me.
Nor send me by thy frown from her I love,
Distant and sad, a banished man to rove.
But oh! with pity, long-entreated, crown

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My pains and hopes; and when thou say'st that one Of all mankind thou lov'st, oh! think on me alone.

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