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NELL AND JOHN.

1 WHEN Nell, given o'er by the doctor, was dying, And John at the chimney stood decently crying; 'Tis in vain, said the woman, to make such ado, For to our long home we must all of us go!

2 True, Nell, replied John; but, what yet is the worst For us that remain, the best always go first; Remember, dear wife, that I said so last year, When you lost your white heifer, and I my brown

mare!

BIBO AND CHARON.

WHEN Bibo thought fit from the world to retreat,
As full of champagne as an egg's full of meat,
He waked in the boat; and to Charon he said,
He would be rowed back, for he was not yet dead.
Trim the boat, and sit quiet, stern Charon replied:
You may have forgot, you were drunk when you died.

WIVES BY THE DOZEN.

O DEATH! how thou spoil'st the best project of life! Said Gabriel, who still, as he buried one wife,

For the sake of her family, married her cousin;
And thus, in an honest collateral line,

He still married on till his number was nine,
Full sorry to die till he made up his dozen.

FATAL LOVE.

POOR Hal caught his death standing under a spout, Expecting till midnight, when Nan would come out, But fatal his patience, as cruel the dame,

And cursed was the weather that quenched the man's flame.

Whoe'er thou art, that read'st these moral lines, Make love at home, and go to bed betimes.

THE MODERN SAINT.

HER time with equal prudence Silvia shares,
First writes a billet-doux, then says her prayers;
Her mass and toilet; vespers and the play;
Thus God and Ashtaroth divide the day.
Constant she keeps her Ember-week and Lent,
At Easter calls all Israel to her tent;
Loose without bawd, and pious without zeal,
She still repeats the sins she would conceal.
Envy herself from Silvia's life must grant,
An artful woman makes a modern saint.

10

THE PARALLEL.

PROMETHEUS, forming Mr Day,

Carved something like a man in clay.
The mortal's work might well miscarry;
He, that does heaven and earth control,
Alone has power to form a soul,
His hand is evident in Harry.

Since one is but a moving clod, T'other the lively form of God; Squire Wallis, you will scarce be able To prove all poetry but fable.

10

TO A YOUNG LADY,

WHO WAS FOND OF FORTUNE TELLING.

You, madam, may with safety go,
Decrees of destiny to know;

For at your birth kind planets reigned,
And certain happiness ordained:
Such charms as yours are only given
To chosen favourites of heaven.

But, such is my uncertain state,
"Tis dangerous to try my fate;
For I would only know from art
The future motions of your heart,
And what predestinated doom
Attends my love for

years to come;
No secrets else, that mortals learn,
My cares deserve, or life concern;
But this will so important be,

I dread to search the dark decree;
For, while the smallest hope remains,
Faint joys are mingled with my pains;
Vain distant views my fancy please,
And give some intermitting ease:
But should the stars too plainly show
That you have doomed my endless woe,
No human force, or art, could bear
The torment of my wild despair.

This secret then I dare not know,

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And other truths are useless now.
What matters, if unblest in love,
How long or short my life will prove!
To gratify what low desire,

Should I with needless haste inquire,
How great, how wealthy, I shall be?
Oh! what is wealth or power to me!
If I am happy, or undone,

It must proceed from you alone.

26

A GREEK EPIGRAM IMITATED.

WHEN hungry wolves had trespassed on the fold,
And the robbed shepherd his sad story told,
'Call in Alcides,' said a crafty priest;

'Give him one half, and he'll secure the rest.'
No! said the shepherd, if the Fates decree,
By ravaging my flock, to ruin me,

To their commands I willingly resign,
Power is their character, and patience mine;
Though, troth! to me there seems but little odds,
Who prove the greatest robbers, wolves or gods! 10

THE WANDERING PILGRIM,

HUMBLY ADDRESSED TO SIR THOMAS FRANKLAND,
BART. POST-MASTER, AND PAYMASTER-

GENERAL TO QUEEN ANNE.

1 WILL PIGGOT1 must to Coxwould

To live, alas! in want,

go,

1 This merry petition was written to obtain the porter's place for Will Twelve miles north, beyond the city of York.

Piggot.

Unless Sir Thomas say, No, no;

The allowance is too scant.

2 The gracious knight full well does weet, Ten farthings ne'er will do

To keep a man each day in meat,
Some bread to meat is due.

3 A Rechabite poor Will must live,
And drink of Adam's ale,
Pure element no life can give,
Or mortal soul regale.

4 Spare diet, and spring-water clear,
Physicians hold are good;
Who diets thus, need never fear
A fever in the blood.

5 But pass-the Esculapian crew,
Who eat and quaff the best,
They seldom miss to bake and brew,
Or lin1 to break their fast.

6 Could Yorkshire-tyke but do the same,
Then he like them might thrive;
But Fortune, Fortune, cruel dame!
To starve thou dost him drive.

7 In Will's old Master's plenteous days,
His memory e'er be blessed!
What need of speaking in his praise?
His goodness stands confessed.

8 At his famed gate stood Charity,
In lovely sweet array;

1 'Lin:' forget.

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