If the lay them out to take Kiffes, for good manners fake; And let ev'ry lover skip From her hand unto her lip; If the feem not chafte to me, What care I how chafte fhe be? No, the must be perfect fnow In effect, as well as fhow; Warming but as fnow-balls do, Not like fire, by burning too; But when the by change hath got To her heart a fecond Lot, Then, if others fhare with me, Farewel her, whate'er fhe be!

A Poem

occafioned by the foregoing.

PAINT, paint no more, no more with blots,
Or chequer fo thy face with fpots,
That I muft view thee, as men strive
To fee eclipfes, through a fieve;
Be thou but pleafing unto me,
What care I what elfe thou be?

Be thou fatter than a hog,
A butcher's doublet, or his dog;
Be thy cheeks butter, thy nofe grease;
May we make brewis on thy face;
Yet if thou do not melt to me,
What care I haw fat thou be?

Be thy nofe like fiery coals,
Or a grater, full of holes,
Let it turn up, or elfe hook in,
And fo be clafp'd unto thy chin;
Yet, if it turn not unto me,
What care I how crook'd it be?

e;

Though reading, thou must look fo clofe,
As thou wert reading with thy nose
From thine eyes let filth run more
Than broken boil, or plaguy fore;
Yet, if they do not look on me,
What care I how foul they be?

Canft thou outfcold a butter wench,
Or a fresh lawyer at the bench?
Canft thou the noife of thunder drown,
Sour all the beer about the town?
Yet, if thou wilt not fpeak to me,
What care I how loud thou be?

Be thy mouth like jaws of death,
That they who kiss, must kiss thy teeth;
And hold by th' handle of thy chin,
Left their foot flip, and they fall in;
Yet, if thou wilt not gape on me,
What care I how broad it be?

Smells thy breath like nurse's clout,
Or a candle jul burnt out;
Or fo, that men mistake the place,
And, untrufs coming near thy face!
Yet, if it fmell not to to me,
What care I how strong it be?

Women, like paper, whilft they're white,
Are fit for ev'ry man to write;
I'd have a miftrefs fuch a one,
I might be fure fhe was my own;

I rife,

Yawning, ftretch out my arms, half clos'd my eyes;
By fteps and lanthorn enter the machine,
And take my place, how cordially! between
Two aged matrons of exceffive bulk,
To mend the matter too, of meaner folk;
While in like mode jamm'd in on t' other fide
A bullying Captain and a fair-one ride;
Fcolifh as fair, and in whole lap a boy-
Our plague eternal, but her only joy;
At last, the glorious number to complete,
Steps in my landlord for that bodkin feat:
When foon by ev'ry hillock, rut, and fione,
Into each other's face by turns we're thrown;
This grannam fcolds, that coughs, and Captain
fwears,

The fair-one fcreams, and has a thoufand fears;
While our plump landlord, train'd in other lore,
Slumbers at eafe, nor yet afham'd to fnore;
And after Dicky, in his mother's lap,
Squalling brings up at once three meals of pap;
Sweet company! next time I do proteft, Sir,
I'll walk to Dublin, ere I'd ride to Chefter.

bim an

Mr. Garrick being ofked by a Nobleman if he did
not intend to fit in Parliament?
gave
Anfiver in the following Lines.
ORE than content with what my talents gain
M
Of public favour though a little vain,
Yet not to vain my mind, fo madly bent,
To wish to play the fool in Parliament;
In each dramatic unity to err,
Miftaking time, and place, and character:
Were it my fate to quit the mimic art,
I'd" ftrut and fret" no more in any part;
No more in public fcenes would I engage,
Or wear the cap and mafk on any stage.

The Thought; or, a Song of Similies.

I'VE thought; the fair Narcilla cries,
What is it like, Sir?- "Like your eyes-
"'Tis like a chair-tis lie a key-
"Tis like a purge-'tis like a fica-
"'Tis like a beggar-like the fun-

""Tis like the Dutch-'tis like the moon-
"Tis like a kilderkin of ale-
"'Tis like a Doctor-like a whale--
Why are my eyes, Sir, like a Sword?
For that's the Thought, upon my word.

y

"Ah!

"Ah! witnefs every pang I feel,
"The deaths they give the likeness tell:
"A fword is like a chair, you ll find,
"Becaufe 'tis moft an end behind.
"Tis like a key, for 'twill undo one;
"'Tis like a purge, for 'twill run thro' one;
'Tis like a Hea, and reafon good,
"Tis often drawing human blood.”
Why like a beggar" You shall hear;
"'Tis often carried 'fore the May'r;
"'Tis like the fun, becaufe 'tis gilt,
"Befides, it travels in a belt.
"'Tis like the Dutch, we plainly fee,
"Because that ftate, whenever we
"A puth for our own int'reft make,
"Does inftantly our fides forfake.”

The moon? Why when all's faid and donc,
"A Sword is very like the moon;
"For if his Majuity (God blefs him)

When County Sheriff comes t' address him, Is pleas'd his favours to beftow "On him, before him kneeling low, “This o'er his shoulders glitters bright,

And gives the glory to the Knight (night): ""Tis like a kilderkin, no doubt, "For its not long in drawing out. "'Tis like a Doctor, for who will "Difpute a Doctor's pow'r to kill?'' But why a Sword is like a whale Is no fuch cafy thing to tell.

"But fince all Swords are Swords, d'ye fee,
"Why, let it then a backfword be;
"Which, if well us'd, will feldom fail
"To raife up fomewhat like a whale."

The Aftronomer's Room. ONE day I call'd, and, PHILO out,

I op'd the door, and look'd about; When, all his goods being full in view, I took this inventory true:

Item, a bed without a curtain, A broken jar to empty dirt in; A candlestick, a greaty night-cap, A fpitting pot to catch what might hap; Two ftockings darn'd with numerous ftitches, A piece of fhirt, a pair of breeches; A three-les g'd ftool, a four-legg'd table, Were fill'd with book unfit for rabble; Sines, tangents, fecants, radius, co-fines, Subtangents, fegments, and all thofe figns; Enough to fhew the man who made 'em, Was full as mad as he who read 'em : An almanack of fix years ftanding, A cup with ink, and one with fand in; One corner held his books and cheft, And round the floor were ftrew'd the reft; That all things might be like himself, He'd neither clofet, drawer, or shelf; Here pifs-pot, fauce-pot, broken platter, Appear'd like heterogeneous matter. In ancient days the walls were white, But who 'gainft damps and fnails can fight? They're now in wreathy ringlets bound, Some fquare, fome oval, and fome round;

Genius and virtue, ftrength with foftness joint,
Devotion undebas'd by pride or art,
With meek fimplicity, and joy of heart;
Tho' fprightly, gentle; tho' polite, fincere;
And only of thyself a judge fevere;
Unblam'd, unequall'd in cach sphere of life,
The tendercft daughter, ifter, parent, wife;
In thee their patronefs th' afflicted loft;
Thy friends, their patron, ornament, and beaf;
And I-but ah! can words my lofs declare,
Or paint th' extremes of tranfport and despair?
O thou, beyond what verfe or speech can tell,
My guide, my friend, my beft belov'd, farewe!!

On feeing a Great Commander feminately dref at a Ball.

"TIS faid that our foldiers fo lazy are grewa, With pleasure and plenty undone,

That they more for their carriage than courage

are known,

And fearce know the ufe of a gun.

Let them fay what they will, fince it nobody gall
And exclaim out ftill louder and louder;
But there ne'er was more money expended in tail,
Or a greater confumption of powder.

An Original Epitaph.

HERE lics, faft afleep, awake me who can > That medley of pallions and follies, a Met; Who fometimes lov'd licence, and fometimes reftraint,

Too much of the finner, too little of faint;
From quarter to quarter I fhifted my tack;
'Gainft the evils of life a most notable quack;
But, alas! I foon found the defects of my skill,
And my noftrums in practice prov'd treacherous
ftill;

From life's certain ills 'twas in vain to feek ease,
The remedy oft prov'd another difeafe;
What in rapture began often ended in forrow,
And the pleafure to-day brought reflection to
morrow;

When cach action was o'er, and its errors were feen, Then I view'd with furprize the ftrange thing I had been;

My body and mind were fo oddly contriv'd, That at each other's failing both parties conniv'd; Imprudence of mind brought on fick nefs and pain, The body difcas'd paid the debt back again: Thus coupled together life's journey they pafs, Till they wrangled and jangled, and parted at laft;

An-Infcription over a Gentleman's Chimney-Piece near Barnfley.

To my beft my friends are free;

Free with that, and free with me;
Free to pass the harmlefs joke,

And the tube fedately fmoke ;
Free to drink just what they please,
As at home, and at their cafe;
Free to speak, and free to think-
No informers with me drink;
Free to ftay a night, or fo;
When uneafy, free to go.

The Character.

For nobody cares for thee;

Looks which at once each winning grace
exprefs,

A life where love and truth are ever join'd,
A nature ever great and ever kind,
A wifdom folid, and a judgment clear,
The fmile indulgent, and a foul fincere;
Meek without meannefs, gentle and humane;
Fond of improving, but yet never vain;
So juftly good, fo faithful to his friend,
Ever obliging, cautious to offend;
A mind where gen'rous pity ftands confefs'd,
Ready to eafe and fuccour the distress'd:

If these refpect and admiration raife,
They furely muft demand our greateft praife;
In one bright view th' accomplith'd youth we fee
Thefe virtues all are thine-and thou art he.

'T

Poverty and Poetry.

WAS fung of old, how one Amphion
Could by his verfes tame a Lion,

And by his ftrange enchanting tunes

With the felf fame repartee;

Look to thyfelf, or look not to thyself,

'Tis the felf fame thing to me.

To-Day and To-Morrow.

O-Day man's drefs'd in gold and filver bright, Wrapp'd in a fhroud before to-morrow night; To-Day he's feeding on delicious food, To-Morrow dead, unable to do good; To-Day he's nice, and fcorns to feed on crumbs, 'To-Morrow he's himfelf a difh for worms; To-Day he's honour'd, and in vast esteem, To-Morrow not a beggar values him;. To-Day he rifes from a velvet bed, To-Morrow lics in one that's made of lead; To-Day his houfe, tho' large, he thinks but fmall, To-Morrow no command, no houfe at all; To-Day has forty fervants at his gate, To-Morrow fcorn'd, not one of them will wait! To-Day perfum'd as fweet as any rofe, To-Morrow ftinks in every body's nofe; To-Day he's grand, majestic, all delight, Ghaftful and pale before to-morrow night; True, as the fcripture fays, "man's life's a fpan," The prefent moment is the life of man.

His fongs could call the timber down,
And form it into houfe or town.
But it is plain, now in these times,
No houfe is rais'd by poet's rhymes;
They for themfelves can only rear
A few old caftles in the air.

Poor are the brethren of the Bays,
Down from high ftrains to ekes and ayes;
The mufes too are virgins yet,
And may be till they portions get.
Yet ftill the doating rhymer dreams,
And fings of Helicon's bright ftreams:
But Helicon, for all his clatter,
Yields nothing but infipid water;
Yet, even athirft, he fweetly fings
Of Nectar and Elyfian fprings.
The grave phyfician, who by phyfic,
Like death, difpatches him that is fick,
Purfues a fure and thriving trade;
Tho' patients die, the doctor's paid:
Licens'd to kill, he gains a palace
For what another mounts a gallows.

In fhady groves the mufes play, And love in flow'ry meads to stray; Pleas'd with a bleaky barren ground, Where rip'ning fruits are never found.

But

But then, fome fay, you purchase fame,
And gain a never dying name;
Great recompence for real trouble!
To be rewarded with a bubble..

Thus foldiers, who in many battles

Get bangs and blows, and God knows what else,
Are paid with fame and wooden leg,
And gain a pafs, with leave to beg.

A

On Bribery.

Poor man once a Judge befought
To judge aright his caufe;
And with a pet of oil falutes

This judger of the laws.

My friend, quoth he, thy caufe is good;
He glad away did trudge :

Anon his wealthy foe did come
Before this partial Judge.

A hog well fed this churl prefents,

And craves a strain of law;

The hog receiv'd, the poor man's right

Was judg'd not worth a fraw. Therewith he cried, O partial judge,

Thy doom has me undone, When oil I gave, my caufe was good,

But now to ruin rưa.

Poor man, quoth he, I thee forgot,
And fee thy caufe of foil;

A hog came fince into my houfe,
And broke thy pot of oil.

Of thefe two learned peers, I prithee fay, mar,
Who is the lying knave, the pricft or layman
The Duke he ftands an infidel confeft;
"He's our dear brother," quoth the lordly pret
The duke, the knave, ftill brother dear he cries,
And who can fay the reverend prelate lyes?

Written under a Lady's Name in a Windra.
THREE brilliants fair Celinda grac'd
(There love's artillery lies),
One from her fnowy finger blaz`d,
Two fparkled in her eyes.
The firft, which fhone with fainter rays,
Could here her name impart;
The others drew her charming face
More deeply on my heart.