THE LOGICIANS REFUTED. IN IMITATION OF DEAN SWIFT. LOGICIANS have but ill defin'd Have ftrove to prove with great precision, Homo eft ratione preditum ; But for my foul I cannot credit 'em, Than reason, boafting mortal's pride; And that brute beafts are far before 'em Deus eft anima brutorum. Who ever knew an honest brute At law his neighbour profecute, Bring action for assault and battery, Or friend beguile with lies and flattery? 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 draw the quill to write for Bob. At court, the porters, lacqueys, waiters, AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG. GOOD people all, of every fort, In Iflington there was a man, Of whom the world might say, A kind and gentle heart he had, And in that town a dog was found, Both mongrel, 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, Around, from all the neighbouring streets, The wondering neighbours ran, And swore the dog had lost his wits, To bite fo good a man. The wound it feem'd both fore and fad To every christian eye; And while they fwore the dog was mad, But foon a wonder came to light, AN ELEGY ON THE GLORY OF HER SEX, GOOD people all, with one accord, Lament for madam Blaize, Who never wanted a good word- The needy feldom pafs'd her door, She ftrove the neighbourhood to please, At church, in filks and fatins new, Her love was fought, I do aver, The king himself has follow'd her- But now her wealth and finery fled, The doctors found, when he was dead- Let us lament, in forrow fore, For Kent-street well may fay, That had she liv'd a twelvemonth moreShe had not dy'd to-day. STANZAS. ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH STRUCK BLIND BY LIGHTENING. SURE 'twas by Providence defign'd, Rather in pity, than in hate, That he should be, like Cupid, blind, ON WOMAN. WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly, And finds too late that men betray, What charm can foothe her melancholy,, What art can wash her guilt away? The only art her guilt to cover, To hide her shame from every eye, |