Turns tail, and with uplifted heels,
Still aggravates his pains.

The lion sigh'd, and dying curst

The day that he was born;

Who'd wish to live, that once becomes

A senseless ass's scorn.

The Application.

WHEN fortune frowns and friends disdain us, Their censure's hard to bear;

But when a fool's reflections pain us

They drive us to despair.

The City Mouse and Country Mouse.

A MODERN mouse bred up at 'change

An active, airy cit;

Worth twice two plums, tho' more by chance,

Than by the dint of wit.

Took a short tour one leisure day

In all the pomp of pride;

His south-sea coach, six Flanders mares,

And sumpter horse beside.

To pay a visit to a friend,

An honest country yeoman,
A civil, modest, easy clown,
One that wish'd ill to no man.

At his approach Hob look'd aghast;
And stared with all his eyes;
Not thinking of his quondam friend,
In such a gay disguise.

But recollecting soon :-He said,
I hope you'll stay and eat:
My house and fare are mean 'tis true;
Yet decent, Sir, and sweet.

Although Sir Courtly's stomach stood,
To such good country feeding;
He would not make a hearty meal
To shew his city breeding.

So pick'd and piddled at a crust,
And turned it o'er and o'er :
No dainty toothless lady could
Mumble a sweet-meat more.

At last he mounts, and to his mouth,
Applies a gilt tooth-picker;

Split me cries he, Iv'e fed, methinks,

Like any country vicar.

Thank you dear friend, and then he bow'd, For this your plenteous treat;

Pray, come to town, my dear, and see

How we at London eat.

Soon after Hob to London went,

And found the best of cheer;

Roast beef, boiled fowl, and rich minced pies, French wine and humming beer.

But in the height of all their mirth,
In bounces one grimalkin;

A broker with a sour phiz,

And interrupts their talking.

Lord! Sir, says he, we're all undone!
There's dreadful mischief brewing;

Last Saturday's gazette will prove

One half of Britain's ruin.

3

Your *York is under twenty, Sir,

And South-sea but two hundred : Then farewell all my future hopes! S'death, I am broke, I'm plunder'd!

A thousand frantick tricks he play'd;
With patience could not bear it;
And thoughtless of his country friend,
Threw down a flask of claret.

Is this, says Hob, your city treat,
Your sauce to your nice diet?
Give me a homely dish of peas,
And let me dine in quiet.

A little plain but wholesome food,
Is better far than cramming:
And a small gain with honest care,
Than thousands got by gaming.

Grant me, ye Gods! a life sedate,
Tho' in an humble cell;
Rich discontent I see too plain,

Is but a glorious hell.

* The author had engaged large sums in the York-building

Company.

The Dog and the Shadow; or Esop in Change-alley.

In days of yore, a farmer's dog,-
To use fam'd Æsop's apologue,—

Took a sly tour around his kitchen,
As Joan her tatter'd gown was stitching,
And John was busy sitting nigh her,
Telling love-stories at the fire;

And squinted, east, west, north, and south,

To find out something for his mouth :
And in the pantry, on a hook,

He spy'd a leg of mutton stuck.
This, this must be the lucky minute,
Or else, quoth he, old Nick is in it.
he mounts on his fore-paws,
And gripes the joint between his jaws.

So

up

But now I've got, thinks he, my booty,

Lest Joan should scold, or John should shoot me, For preservation's sake 'tis better

To dine to-day across the water.

Now here 'tis proper to be noted,

That Towser's master's house was moated.

So in he jumps with his it-bit,

And long'd on t'other side to get,

3