For let folks only get a touch,
Its soporific virtue's such,

Though ne'er so much awake before,
That quickly they begin to snore.

Add too, what certain writers tell,

With this he drives men's souls to hell.
Now to apply, begin we then;
His wand's a modern author's pen;
The serpents round about it twin'd,
Denote him of the reptile kind;
Denote the rage with which he writes,
His frothy slaver, venom❜d bites.
An equal semblance still to keep,

Alike too both conduce to sleep:
This difference only, as the God

Drove souls to Tart'rus with his rod,

With his goose-quill the scribbling elf,

Instead of others, damns himself.

And here my simile almost tript,

Yet grant a word by way of postcript.

Moreover, Merc'ry had a failing:

Well! what of that? Out with it-Stealing;

But e'en this deity's existence

Shall lend my simile assistance.

Our modern bards! why what a pox

Are they but senseless stones and blocks?

AN ELEGY

ON THE

DEATH OF A MAD DOG.

GOOD people all, of every sort,

Give ear unto my song;

And if you find it wondrous short,
It cannot hold you long.

In Islington there was a man,
Of whom the world might say,

That still a godly race he ran,

Whene'er he went to pray.

A kind and gentle heart he had,

To comfort friends and foes;

The naked every day he clad,

When he put on his clothes.

And in that town a dog was found,
As many dogs there be,

Both mungrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,

And curs of low degree.

This dog and man at first were friends;

But when a pique began,

The dog, to gain his private ends,
Went mad, and bit the man.

Around from all the neighb'ring streets The wond'ring neighbours ran,

And swore the dog had lost his wits,

To bite so good a man.

I 2

The wound it seem'd both sore and sad, every christian eye;

Το

And while they swore the dog was mad, They swore the man would die.

But soon a wonder came to light,
That show'd the rogues they lied;

The man recover'd of the bite,

The dog it was that died.