No more presuming on her sway,
She learns good-nature every day.
Serenely gay, and strict in duty,

Jack finds his wife a perfect beauty.

TO IRIS, IN BOW STREET, COVENT GARDEN.

SAY, cruel Iris, pretty rake,

Dear mercenary beauty,

What annual off'ring shall I make
Expressive of my duty.

My heart, a victim to thine eyes,
Should I at once deliver,

Say, would the angry fair-one prize
The gift, who slights the giver?

A bill, a jewel, watch, or toy,
My rivals give and let 'em.
If gems, or gold, import a joy,
I'll give them-when I get 'em.

I'll give-but not the full-blown rose,

Or rose-bud more in fashion

;

Such short-liv'd off'rings but disclose A transitory passion.

7. I'll give thee something yet unpaid,
Not less sincere, than civil:

I'll give thee-ah! too charming maid,
I'll give thee to the devil,

LOGICIANS have but ill defin'd

As rational the human mind;

Reason, they say, belongs to man,
But let them prove it if they can.

Wise Aristotle and Smiglesius,

By ratiocinations specious,

Have strove to prove with great precision,

With definition and division,

Homo est ratione preditum ;

But for my soul I cannot credit 'em;
And must, in spite of them, maintain,
That man and all his ways are vain ;

And that this boasted lord of nature

Is both a weak and erring creature ;
That instinct is a surer guide

Than reason, boasting mortals' pride;

And that brute beasts are far before 'em

Deus est anima brutorum.

Who ever knew an honest brute,

At law his neighbour prosecute,

Bring action for assault and battery,

Or friend beguile with lies and flattery? O'er plains they ramble unconfin'd;

No politics disturb their mind;

They eat their meals, and take their sport,

Nor know who's in or out at court;

They never to the levee go,

To treat as dearest friend, a foe ;

They never importune his grace,

Nor ever cringe to men in place;
Nor undertake a dirty job,

Nor draw the quill to write for Bob;
Fraught with invective they ne'er go
To folks at Paternoster Row.