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

Split me cries be, 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 Æsop 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.
So up he mounts on his fore-paws,
And gripes the joint between his jaws.

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 tit-bit,

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

3

The famed Leander could not more
Desire to land on Hero's shore.

But as the moat was smooth and clear,
And gilt with sun-beams here and there,
The shadow of his new got prize
Presents itself before his eyes,

Bless me, quoth he, here's noble luck!
Here's profit! Here's increase of stock!
Here's cent per cent. got in a trice;
This stock jobbing's a rare device!
He said,—and at the shadow snaps;
And down the leg of mutton drops.
Too late he finds what he has done,
And sees at once his dinner gone.
Speechless awhile the puppy stood,
And lour'd on the deceitful flood:
But at the last, all drown'd in tears,
He curs'd his fate, and shook his ears.

MORAL.

Was ever senseless dog so bit;

Had ever whelp so little wit?
T'involve himself in so much trouble,

For a mere shadow, a mere bubble.

EVAN LLOYD.

1734-1776.

Oh! pleasing Poet, friend for ever dear,
Thy memory claims the tribute of a teary
In thee were join'd, whate'er mankind admire,
Keen wit, strong sense, the Poet's, Patriot's fire,
Temper'd with gentleness such gifts were thine,-
Such gifts with heartfelt anguish we resign.

J. WILKES.

This Epitaph is inscribed upon the tomb of this Poet in Llanyhill church, on the banks of Bala Lake. It is some honour to have been praised by Wilkes, even in such verses as these.

Evan Lloyd was of Jesus College, Oxford; he published, 1. The Powers of the Pen. 2. The Curate. 3. The Methodist. 4. Conversation. 5. An Epistle to David Garrick. 6. An Ode on opening the new exhibition room of the Royal Incorporated Society of Artists of Great Britain; each seperately in quarto.

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