In scraps of plays their passions they impart,
With all the awkward bows they learn from Hart.
'Tis here they learn their genius to improve,
And throw by Wingate for the Art of Love;
They frame the acrostick deep, and rebus terse,
And fill the day-book with enamour'd verse;
Even learned Fenning on his vacant leaves,
The ill-according epigram receives,
And Cocker's margin hobling sonnets grace
To Delia, measuring out a yard of lace.

PRUDENTIO.

'Tis true, my friend; and thus throughout the nation

Prevails this general love of dissipation:

It matters little where their sports begin,
Whether at Arthur's, or the Bowl and Pin ;
Whether they tread the gay Pantheon's round,
Or play at skittles at St. Giles's pound,
The self-same idle spirit drags them on,
And peer and porter are alike undone :
Whilst thoughtless imitation leads the way,
And laughs at all the grave or wise can say.

The prudent youth, whom some fond mother's

care

Had taught to dread the subtle gamester's snare,

The first half year improves his own estate,
And visits not the mansions of the great.
But thirst of pleasure lures him up to town,
And every sharper marks the pigeon down.
Destructive custom quickly draws him in,
He plays for trifles, and they let him win
He doubles stakes, still feels no fatal rub,
And now is ballotted at every club :

No more he dreads the rattling sound of dice,
And what was but amusement, turns to vice;
He views the Faro-bank without affright,
And all his acres tremble every night.
So have I seen the cautious maiden fair,
Bred up in innocence and country air,
Her first appearance make in this gay place,
And hang her head, and dread to shew her face;
A bashful, blushing, modest, timorous creature,
That fancies every man she meets will eat her:
But this improving air soon calms her fear,
She looks around and spies no dangers near,
In one short month learns how to play her cards,
And flirts it with an Ensign in the Guards.

AVARO.

All these are heavy truths

- what can we say?

Why nothing

PRUDENTIO.

let the children have their way. Our grave remarks will never make them wiser, And sad experience is their best adviser.

But, hark! the palace clock is striking three,

So even go home and eat your beef with me:

PAUL WHITEHEAD.

London, 1710,-1774.

An imitator of Pope, whose talents were so far successful that they raised him from obscurity to affluence.

VERSES,

On converting the Chapel to a Kitchen, at the seat of the Lord Donnerayle called The Grove, in Hertfordshire.

By Ovid, among other wonders we're told

What chanced to Philemon and Baucis of old; How their cot to a temple was conjured by Jove, So a chapel was changed to a kitchen at Grove.

The lord of the mansion most rightly conceiting, His guests loved good prayers, much less than good eating;

And possess'd by the devil, as some folks will tell

ye,

What was meant for the soul, he assign'd to the belly.

The word was scarce given-when down dropp'd the clock,

And straight was seen fixed, in the form of a jack; And shameful to tell! pulpits, benches, and pews, Form'd cupboards, and shelves for plates, saucepans, and stews.

Prayer-books turn'd into platters; nor think it a fable,

A dresser sprung out of the communion-table; Which instead of the usual repast, bread and wine, Is stored with rich soups, and good English sirloin.

No fire but what pure devotion could raise,

'Till now had been known in this temple to blaze: But, good lord! how the neighbours around did

admire,

When a chimney rose up in the room of a spire.

For a Jew many people the master mistook, Whose Levites were scullions, his high-priest a