The first the cate-devouring mice destroy'd, Thieves heard the last, and from his threshold fled:

All in the sun-beams basked the lazy cat,

Her mottled length in couchant posture laid; On one accustomed chair while Pompey sat,

And loud he bark'd should Puss his right invade. The human pair oft mark'd them as they lay, And haply sometimes thought like cat and dog were they.

A room he had that faced the southern ray,
Where oft he walk'd to set his thoughts in tune,
Pensive he paced its length an hour or tway,
All to the music of his creeking shoon.
And at the end a darkling closet stood,

Where books he kept of old research and new,
In seemly order rang'd on shelves of wood,
And rusty nails and phials not a few:

Thilk place a wooden box beseemeth well, And papers squar'd and trimm'd for use unmeet to tell.

For still in form he placed his chief delight,
Nor lightly broke his old accustom❜d rule,
And much uncourteous would he hold the wight
That e'er displaced a table, chair, or stool;
And oft in meet array their ranks he placed,
And oft with careful eye their ranks review'd;
For novel forms, tho' much those forms had graced,
Himself and maiden-minister eschew'd:

One path he trod, nor ever would decline A hair's unmeasur'd breadth from off the even line.

A Club select there was, where various talk
On various chapters pass'd the ling'ring hour,
And thither oft he bent his evening walk,
And warm'd to mirth by wine's enlivening
pow'r.

And oft on politics the preachments ran
If a pipe lent its thought-begetting fume,
And oft important matters wou'd they scan,

And deep in council fix a nation's doom,
And oft they chuckled loud at jest or jeer,
Or bawdy tale the most, thilk much they lov'd to
hear.

For men like him they were of like consort,

Thilk much the honest muse must needs condemn,

Who made of women's wiles their wanton sport, And bless'd their stars that kept the curse from

them!

No honest love they knew, no melting smile
That shoots the transports to the throbbing

heart!

Thilk knew they not but in a harlot's guile

Lascivious smiling through the mask of art: And so of women deem'd they as they knew, And from a Demon's traits an Angel's picture drew.

But most abhorr'd they Hymeneal rites,

And boasted oft the freedom of their fate; Nor 'vail'd, as they opin'd, its best delytes

Those ills to balance that on wedlock wait; And often would they tell of hen-peck'd fool

Snubb'd by the hard behest of sour-ey'd dame, And vow'd no tongue-arm'd woman's freakish rule Their mirth should quail, or damp their generous flame:

Then pledged their hands, and toss'd their bumpers

o'er,

And Io! Bacchus! sung, and own'd no other pow'r.

If e'er a doubt of softer kind arose

Within some breast of less obdurate frame, Lo! where its hideous form a Phantom shows Full in his view, and Cuckold is its name. Him Scorn attended with a glance askew, And Scorpion Shame for delicts not his own, Her painted bubbles while Suspicion blew,

And vex'd the region round the Cupid's throne: "Far be from us," they cry'd, "the treach'rous bane, "Far be the dimply guile, and far the flow'ry chain!"

JOHN ARMSTRONG.

BORN 1709.-DIED 1779.

JOHN ARMSTRONG was born in Roxburghshire, in the parish of Castleton, of which his father was the clergyman. He completed his education, and took a medical degree, at the university of Edinburgh, with much reputation, in the year 1732. Amidst his scientific pursuits, he also cultivated literature and poetry. One of his earliest productions in verse, was an "Imitation of the Style of Shakespeare," which received the approbation of the poets Young and Thomson; although humbler judges will perhaps be at a loss to perceive in it any striking likeness to his great original. Two other sketches, also purporting to be imitations of Shakespeare, are found among his works. They are the fragments of an unfinished tragedy. One of them, the "Dream of Progne," is not unpleasing. In the other, he begins the description of a storm by saying, that

"The sun went down in wrath, the skies foam'd brass.”

It is uncertain in what year he came to London; but in 1735 he published an anonymous pamphlet, severely ridiculing the quackery of untaught practitioners. He dedicated this performance to Joshua Ward, John Moore, and others, whom he styles "the Antacademic philosophers, and the generous "despisers of the schools." As a physician he never obtained extensive practice. This he himself

imputed to his contempt of the little artifices, which, he alleges, were necessary to popularity: by others, the failure was ascribed to his indolence and literary avocations; and there was probably truth in both accounts. A disgraceful poem, entitled, "The Economy of Love," which he published after coming to London, might have also had its share in impeding his professional career. He corrected the nefarious production, at a later period of his life, betraying at once a consciousness of its impurity, and a hankering after its reputation. So unflattering were his prospects, after several years residence in the metropolis, that he applied (it would seem without success) to be put on the medical staff of the forces, then going out to the West Indies. His "Art of Preserving Health" appeared in 1744, and justly fixed his poetical reputation. In 1746 he was appointed physician to the hospital for sick soldiers, behind Buckingham House. In 1751 he published his poem on "Benevolence;" in 1753 his " Epistle on Taste;" and in 1758 his prose "Sketches, by Launcelot Temple." Certainly none of these productions exalted the literary character, which he had raised to himself by his "Art of preserving Health." The poems "Taste" and "Benevolence" are very insipid. His "Sketches" have been censured more than they seem to deserve for "oaths and exclamations, and for a constant struggle to say smart things." They contain indeed some expressions which might be wished away, but these are very few › Chalmers's Biographical Dictionary.