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Vile wretch, thou'rt much too silly for my son, Born on Baotian bogs, away, begone,

"Go and reserve the squeezings of thy brains

"To brew small beer, and feed the pigs with

grains."

Abash'd he stood-shame fluster'd him all o'er, And he once blusht, who never blusht before; Fear made him fly, and with amazing art,

He took three strides, and jump'd into a cart.

PAUL HIFFERMAN.

County of Dublin, 1719—1777.

Hifferman's parents designed him to be a Popish Priest ; he was sent to France to finish his education, but after remaining there seventeen years, he took a batchelor's degree in physic and returned to Dublin to practise. He left that city in consequence of having unsuccessfully written against Dr. Lucas, and repaired to London to live by his wits. Here he obtained a dirty livelihood by writing pamphlets, levying contributions upon his friends, and extorting money from the actors.

An amusing account of this eccentrick and despicable scoundrel, who attracted considerable notice in his day, may be found in the European Magazine. His Miscellanies in Prose and Verse, 1754, entitle him to a place in this series.

The Author on himself.

THE author, I, to reason's dictates true,
Love all mankind, a Deist, Turk, or Jew,

No matter what your faith or country be,
If a good fellow, 'tis all one to me.

Our life's so short, for sects why should we justle,
In the great day Heaven will decide the bustle.
While in this world to all I'd civil be,
And would from all require civility.

Four lustres and one annual orb have run,
Since in this world existence I begun.
And now behold the sad result of all,

My travelling, studying, labours, great or small,
Heaven for past sins, to avert all future pain,
Has plagued, not bless'd me with a scribbling vein.

'Tis not, I swear, for sordid gain I chuse,
But for herself I woo the lovely Muse.
Tis she that tunes, that animates my lyre,
Warms my gay soul, and sets me all on fire.

Of what I trifle, learn the mighty ends,
To please myself, divert good humour'd friends.
I'll therefore scorn all envious criticks slight;
For 'tis amusement-in my mirth I write ;
But still jog on, and follow my own ways,
Careless of partial censure, deaf to praise.

Perhaps some curious would my person know;

I humbly answer, 'tis but so and so;

Not over tall, nor despicably low.

Black frowning brows my deep-sunk eyes o'ershade,
They were I fear for a physician made.
Foreseeing nature gave this anti-grace,
And mark'd me with a medical grimace.
In limbs proportion'd, body somewhat gross,
In humour various, affable, morose ;
The ladies servitor-in health a king;
Good natured, peevish, gay phantastic thing:
That like friend Horace, grey before his time,
Seek fame in loose-paced Prose, and fetter'd Rhime.
Whose highest wish's a meer absurdity;

Nothing to do, and learndly idle be:

Like to myself to have a Muse-bit friend,
My vain chimeras to review and mend.
The day to write, by night in fancy stray;
So, like true Poets dream my life away.

His Epitaph.

READER,

HERE lies the man that to his end,

Good Books, good Wine adored, the Fair-Sex and

his Friend.

THOMAS DENTON.

1777.

The pupil of Josiah Relph, and the first editor of his work.

The House of Superstition a Vision.

WHEN Sleep's all-soothing hand with fetters soft Ties down each sense, and lulls to balmy rest; The internal power, creative Fancy, oft

Broods o'er her treasures in the formful breast. Thus when no longer daily cares engage,

The busy mind pursues the darling theme; Hence angels whisper'd to the slumbering sage, And gods of old inspired the hero's dream; Hence as I slept, these images arose

To Fancy's eye, and join'd, this fairy scene compose.

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