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NCE (fays an Author, where I need not fay)
Two Travellers found an Oyster in their way;
Both fierce, both hungry; the dispute grew ftrong,
While Scale in hand Dame Juftice paft along.

Before her each with clamour pleads the Laws,
Explain'd the matter, and would win the cause.
Dame Juftice weighing long the doubtful Right,
Takes, opens, swallows it, before their fight.
The cause of ftrife remov'd fo rarely well,
There take (fays Justice) take you each a Shell.
We thrive at Westminster on Fools like you :
'Twas a fat Oyster-Live in peace-Adieu.

ANSWER to the following Queftion of Mrs. HowE.


Seen with Wit and Beauty feldom.

'Tis a Beldam,

'Tis a fear that starts at fhadows.
'Tis (no, 'tis'nt) like Mifs Meadows.
'Tis a Virgin hard of Feature,
Old, and void of all good-nature;
Lean and fretful; would feem wife;
Yet plays the fool before she dies,
'Tis an ugly envious Shrew,
That rails at dear Lepell and You,


Occafioned by some Verses of his Grace the Duke of BUCKINGHAM.

MUSE, 'tis enough: at length thy labour ends,

And thou shalt live, for Buckingham commends. Let Crowds of Critics now my verfe affail, Let Dennis write, and nameless numbers rail: This more than pays whole years of thankless pain, Time, health, and fortune, are not lost in vain. Sheffield approves, confenting Phoebus bends, And I and Malice from this hour are friends.



To a Play for Mr. DENNIS's Benefit, in 1733, when he was old, blind, and in great Diftrefs, a little before his Death.

AS when that Hero, who in each Campaign,

Had brav'd the Goth, and many a Vandal flain,

Lay Fortune-ftruck, a spectacle of Woe!
Wept by each Friend, forgiv'n by every Foe:
Was there a generous, a reflecting mind,

But pitied Belifarius old and blind ?


Was there a Chief but melted at the Sight?

A common Soldier, but who clubb'd his Mite?


Such, fuch emotions fhould in Britons rife,
When prefs'd by want and weakness Dennis lies;
Dennis, who long had warr'd with modern Huns,
Their Quibbles routed, and defy'd their Puns;
A desperate Bulwark, sturdy, firm, and fierce
Against the Gothic Sons of frozen verfe:


How chang'd from him who made the boxes groan, 15
And fhook the ftage with Thunders all his own!
Stood up to dafh each vain Pretender's hope,
Maul the French Tyrant, or pull down the Pope!
If there's a Briton then, true bred and born,
Who holds Dragoons and wooden fhoes in fcorn;
If there's a Critic of distinguish'd rage;

If there's a Senior, who contemns this age;
Let him to-night his juft affiftance lend,

And be the Critic's, Briton's, Old Man's Friend.


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HEN fimple Macer, now of high renown,
First fought a Poet's Fortune in the Town,
'Twas all th' Ambition his high foul could feel,
To wear red ftockings, and to dine with Steel.
Some Ends of verse his Betters might afford;
And gave the harmless fellow a good word.
Set up with these, he ventur'd on the Town,
And with a borrow'd Play out-did poor Crown.


There he ftopp'd fhort, nor fince has writ a tittle,
But has the Wit to make the most of little:
Like ftunted hide-bound Trees, that just have got
Sufficient fap at once to bear and rot.


Now he begs Verfe, and what he gets commends,
Not of the Wits his foes, but Fools his friends.
So fome coarfe Country Wench, almost decay'd, 15
Trudges to town, and first turns Chambermaid;
Awkward and fupple, each devoir to pay;
She flatters her good Lady twice a-day;

Thought wondrous honeft, though of mean degree,
And strangely lik'd for her Simplicity:

In a tranflated Suit, then tries the Town,
With borrow'd Pins, and Patches not her own:

But just endur'd the Winter fhe began,

And in four Months a batter'd Harridan.


Now nothing left, but wither'd, pale, and fhrunk, 25 To bawd for others, and go fhares with Punk.


To Mr. JOHN MOORE, AUTHOR of the celebrated WORM-POWDER.

OW much, egregious Moore, are we

H Deceiv'd by fhews and forms!

Whate'er we think, whate'er we fee,
All Humankind are Worms.

Man is a very Worm by birth,
Vile, reptile, weak, and vain!
A while he crawls upon the earth,
Then shrinks to earth again.

That Woman is a Worm, we find
E'er fince our Grandame's evil;
She first convers'd with her own kind,
That ancient Worm, the Devil.

The learn'd themselves we Book-worms name,
The Blockhead is a Slow-worm;
The Nymph whose tail is all on flame,

Is aptly term'd a Glow-worm :

The Fops are painted Butterflies,

That flutter for a day;

First from a Worm they take their rife,

And in a Worm decay.

The Flatterer an Earwig grows;

Thus Worms fuit all conditions;

Mifers are Muck-worms, Silk-worms Beaus,

And Death-watches Physicians.


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