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Imprimis, pray observe his hat, Wings upon either side....mark that.
Well! what is it from thence we gather?
Why, these denote a brain of feather.
A brain of feather! very right,
Such as to modern bard's decreed.
A just comparison .......proceed.
In the next place, his feet peruse,
Wings grow again from both his shoes;
Design'd, no doubt, their part to bear, And waft his godship through the air;
To wit....most wondrously endu'd,
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,
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.
In which all modern bards agree,
Being each as great a thief as he:
Our modern bards! why what a pox
Are they but senseless stones and blocks?
ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG.
GOOD people afl, 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 mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,
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.
The wound it seem'd both sore and sad,
And while they swore the dog was mad,
They swore the man would die.