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On a Bowl of Punch.

WHENE'ER a bowl of punch we make,
Four striking opposites we take;

The strong, the small, the sharp, the sweet,
Together mix'd, most kindly meet;
And when they happily unite,
The bowl" is pregnant with delight."
In conversation thus we find,
That four men, differently inclin'd;
With talents each distinct, and each
Mark'd by peculiar pow'rs of speech;
With tempers too as much the same
As milk and verjuice, frost and flame;
Their parts by properly sustaining,
May all prove highly entertaining..

A Description of London.
HOUSES, churches, mix'd together,
Streets unpleasant in all weather;
Prisons, palaces contiguous,
Gates, a bridge, the Thames irriguous ;
Gaudy things enough to tempt ye,
Showy outsides, insides empty;
Babbles, trades, mechanic arts,
Coaches, wheelbarrows, and carts;
Warrants, bailiffs, bills unpaid,
Lords of laundresses afraid;

Rogues that nightly rob and shoot men,
Hangmen, aldermen, and footmen;
Lawyers, poets, priests, physicians,
Noble, simple, all conditions;
Worth beneath a threadbare cover,
Villainy bedaub'd all over;
Women black, red, fair, and grey;
Prudes, and such as never pray;
Handsome, ugly, noisy, still,
Some that will not, some that will;
Many a beau without a shilling,
Many a widow not unwilling,
Many a bargain if you strike it:
This is London:-how d'ye like it?

On a young Lady.

BEHOLD a nymph with ev'ry virtue graced, Minerva's head on Venus' shoulders placed! Kind nature here displays her nicest art, With sweet relievos hides the soundest heart; But while it hides, it elegantly tells With what benevolence her bosom swells; Here's beauty mental, moral, and divine,

To charm the lover, and his thoughts refine.

Paradox.

FOUR people sat down in one evening to play, They play'd all that eve, and parted next day; Could you think, when you're told, as thus they all sat,

No other play'd with them, nor was there one bet;

Yet, when they rose up, each gained a guinea, Though none of 'em lost to the amount of a penny?

Answer.

Four merry fidlers play'd all night, To many a dancing ninny;

And the next morning went away, And each receiv'd a guinea.

On the Fifth of November.
By an Irish Bellman.

TO-NIGHT's the day, I speak it with great

sorrow,

That we were all t' have been blown up to

morrow;

Therefore, take care of fire, and candle-light; "Tis a cold frosty morn, and so good night.

Reflections over a Pipe of Tobacco and a Pinch of Snuff.

WHILST Smoke arises from my pipe,

Thus to myself I say:

Why should I anxious be for life,
Which vanishes away?
Our social snuff-boxes convey
The same ideas just;

As if they silently would say,
Let's mingle dust to dust.

A Country Quarter Session.

THREE or four parsons full of October, Three or four squires between drunk and sober; Three or four lawyers, three or four liars ; Three or four constables, three or four criers ; Three or four parishes bringing appeals; Three or four writings, and three or four seals; Three or four bastards, three or four whores; Tag, rag, and bobtail, three or four scores; Three or four statutes misunderstood, Three or four paupers all praying for food; Three or four roads that never were mended, Three or four scolds-and the session is ended.

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Epitaph on a Blacksmith.

My sledge and hammer lie declin'd,
My bellows too have lost their wind;
My fire's extinct, my forge decay'd,
My vice is in the dust all laid;
My coal is spent, my iron gone,
My nails are drove, my work is done.
My fire-dried corpse here lies at rest,
My soul, smoke-like, soars to be blest.

To-morrow. An Epigram.
TO-MORROW you will live, you always cry:
In what far country does to-morrow lie,
That 'tis so mighty long ere it arrive?
Beyond the Indies doth this morrow live?
'Tis so far fetch'd, this morrow, that I fear
"Twill be both very old, and very dear.
To-morrow I will live, the fool does say.
To-day's too late the wise liv'd yesterday.

Spoken extempore by the Earl of Rochester to
a Parish Clerk.

STERNHOLD and Hopkins had great qualmis,
When they translated David's Psalms,
To make the heart full glad :
But had it been poor David's fate,
To hear thee sing, and them translate,
By Jove, 'twould have made him mad.

Rhyme to Lisbon. By the same.
HERE's a health to Kate,
Our Sovereign's mate,
Of the Royal House of Lisbon :
But the devil take Hyde,
And the Bishop beside

That made her bone of his bone.

On Punch.

HENCE, restless care, and low design!
Hence, foreign compliments and wine;
Let generous Britons, brave and free,
Still boast their punch and honesty.
Life is a bumper, fill'd by fate,
And we the guests who share the treat:
Where strong, insipid, sharp, and sweet,

A whimsical Epitaph, taken from a Stone in a Each other duly temp'ring, meet.

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Who draws instruction from a game of cards.
What tho' Quadrille perplex you? here is shown
How hard the task for her who plays alone.
But would you then consent to be a wife,
Think first, O think! you play your cards for
life!

Should sordid friends control your right good
will,

Beware the wretched state of forced Spadille.
Should man, by grandeur, strive your heart to
fire,

A cross fish well denotes a purse-proud squire.
Then pass by wealth and power; for better sure
It is, with some kind swain to play secure ;
And he, dear girl, who does your charms
adore,

Now asks your leave; O! let him soon say more.

A while with joy the scene is crown'd,
A while the catch and toast go round;
And when the full carouse is o'er,
Death puffs the lights, and shuts the door.
Say then, physicians of each kind,
Who cure the body or the mind,
What harm in drinking can there be,
Since punch and life so well agree?

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A CERTAIN priest had hoarded up
A secret mass of gold;
But where he might bestow it safe,
By fancy was not told.

At last it came into his head

To lock it in a chest Within the chancel; and he wrote Thereon, Hic Deus est. A merry grig, whose greedy mind Long wish'd for such a prey, Respecting not the sacred words

That on the casket lay,

Took out the gold; and blotting out The priest's inscript thereon; Wrote, Resurrexit, non est hic,

"Your god is ris'n and gone."

On the Death of Dr. Secker, late Archbishop of Canterbury.

WHILE Secker liv'd, he show'd how seers should live;

While Secker taught, heaven open'd to our

eye;

When Secker gave, we knew how angels give; When Secker died, we knew e'en Saints must die.

Epigram.

Occasioned by the Words "ONE PRIOR.” in Burnet's History.

ONE PRIOR!-and is this, this all the fame The Poet from th' Historian can claim? No; Prior's verse posterity shall quote, When 'tis forgot one Burnet ever wrote.

On Content. An Epigram. It is not youth can give content, Nor is it wealth's decree; It is a gift from heaven sent,

Though not to thee or me.

It is not in the monarch's crown,

Though he'd give millions for 't: It dwells not in his lordship's frown, Nor waits on him to court. It is not in a coach and six,

It is not in a garter;

'Tis not in love or politics,

But 'tis in Hodge the carter.

The First Pair.

ADAM alone could not be easy, So he must have a wife, an' please ye; And how did he procure this wife, To cheer his solitary life? Out of a rib, Sir, from his side, Was form'd this necessary bride. But how did he the pain beguile? How!-he slept sweetly all the while. And when this rib was re-applied, In woman's form, to Adam's side, How then, I pray you, did it answer?— He never slept so sweet again, Sir.

Similes to Molly.

My passion is as mustard strong;
I sit all sober sad;
Drunk as a piper all day long,

Or like a March hare mad.
Round as a hoop the bumpers flow,
I drink, yet can't forget her;
For, though as drunk as David's sow,
I love her still the better.

Pert as a pear-monger I'd be,
If Molly were but kind;
Cool as a cucumber could see
The rest of womankind.

Like a stuck pig I gaping stare,
And eye her o'er and o'er;
Lean as a rake with sighs and care,
Sleek as a mouse before.

Plump as a partridge was I known,
And soft as silk my skin;
My cheeks as fat as butter grown;
But as a groat now thin!
I, melancholy as a cat,

Am kept awake to weep;
But she, insensible of that,
Sound as a top can sleep.

Hard is her heart as flint or stone,
She laughs to see me pale;
And merry as a grig is grown,
And brisk as bottled ale.

The god of love at her approach
Is busy as a bee;

Hearts sound as any bell or roach
Are smit, and sigh like me.

Ah me! as thick as hops or hail
The fine men crowd about her;
But soon as dead as a door-nail

Shall I be, if without her.
Straight as my leg her shape appears;
O! were we join'd together,
My heart would be scot-free from cares,
And lighter than a feather.

As fine as fivepence is her mien,
No drum was ever tighter;
Her glance is as a razor keen,
And not the sun is brighter.

As soft as pap her kisses are,
Methinks I taste them yet;
Brown as a berry is her hair,
Her eyes as black as jet.

As smooth as glass, as white as curds,
Her pretty hand invites;

Sharp as a needle are her words,
Her wit like pepper bites.
Brisk as a body-louse she trips,
Clean as a penny drest;
Sweet as a rose her breath and lips,
Round as a globe her breast.
Full as an egg was I with glee,
And happy as a king!

Good Lord! how all men envied me!
She lov'd like any thing:
But false as hell, she like the wind
Chang'd as her sex must do ;
Though seeming as the turtle kind,
And like the Gospel true.

If I and Molly could agree,

Let who would take Peru;
Great as an emperor should I be,
And richer than a Jew.

Till you grow tender as a chick,
I'm dull as any post;
Let us like burrs together stick,
And warm as any toast.

You'll find me truer than a die;

And wish me better sped, Flat as a flounder when I lie, And as a herring dead. Sure as a gun she'll drop a tear, And sigh perhaps, and wish, When I am rotten as a pear, And mute as any fish.

On the Word REPRESENTATIVE.

To represent is but to personate, Which should be truly done at any rate. Thus they who're fairly chose without a fee, Should give their votes, no doubt, with liberty. But when a seat is sold by th' venal tribe, He represents them best-who takes a bribe.

On the Shortness of Human Life. LIKE as a damask rose you see, Or like the blossom on a tree; Or like the dainty flower in May, Or like the morning to the day; Or like the sun, or like the shade, Or like the gourd which Jonas had; E'en such is man, whose thread is spun, Drawn out and cut, and so is done: Withers the rose, the blossom blasts, The flower fades, the morning hastes; The sun doth set, the shadows fly, The gourd consumes, and mortals die.

Like to the grass that's newly sprung, Or like a tale that's new begun; Or like a bird that's here to-day, Or like the pearled dew of May; Or like an hour, or like a span, Or like the singing of a swan; E'en such is man, who lives by breath, Is here, now there, in life and death: The grass decays, the tale doth end, The bird is flown, the dews ascend; The hour is short, the span not long, The swan's near death, man's life is done.

Like to the bubble in the brook, Or in a glass much like a look: Or like the shuttle in the hand, Or like the writing in the sand; Or like a thought, or like a dream, Or like the gliding of the stream; E'en such is man, who lives by breath, Is here, now there, in life and death: The bubble's burst, the look's forgot, The shuttle's flung, the writing's blot; The thought is past, the dream is gone, The water glides, man's life is done.

Epitaph on Captain Jones, Who published some marvellous Accounts of his Travels, the Truth of all which he thought proper to testify by affidavit.

TREAD Softly, mortals, o'er the bones Of the world's wonder, Captain Jones!

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COME Sit by my side while this picture I draw:
In chatt'ring a magpie, in pride a jackdaw;
A temper
the devil himself could not bridle,
Impertinent mixture of busy and idle;
As rude as a bear, no mule half so crabbed,
She swills like a sow, and she breeds like a
rabbit;

A housewife in bed, at table a slattern,
For all an example, for no one a pattern;
Now tell me, friend Thomas*, Fordt, Grat-
tan, † and merry Dan †,
Has this any likeness to good Madam Sheridan?

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SAY, is there aught that can convey

An image of its transient stay?
'Tis a hand's breadth; 'tis a tale;
'Tis a vessel under sail;

'Tis a courser's straining steed
'Tis a shuttle in its speed;
"Tis an eagle in its way,
Darting down upon its prey;
"Tis an arrow in its flight,
Mocking the pursuing sight;
'Tis a vapour in the air;
"Tis a whirlwind rushing there;
"Tis a short-liv'd fading flow'r;
"Tis a rainbow on a show'r;
"Tis a momentary ray
Smiling in a winter's day;
'Tis a torrent's rapid stream;
'Tis a shadow; 'tis a dream;
'Tis the closing watch of night;
Dying at approaching light,

* Dr. Sheridan.

'Tis a landscape vainly gay,
Painted upon crumbling clay;
'Tis a lamp that wastes its fires;
"Tis a smoke that quick expires;
'Tis a bubble, 'tis a sigh:
Be prepar'd, O Man ! to die.

An Anatomical Epitaph on an Invalid.
Written by HIMSELF.

HERE lies a head that often ach'd;
Here lie two hands that always shak'd;
Here lies a brain of odd conceit;
Here lies a heart that often beat;
Here lie two eyes that daily wept,
And in the night but seldom slept;
Here lies a tongue that whining talk'd,
Here lie two feet that feebly walk'd;
Here lie the midriff and the breast,
With loads of indigestion prest;
Here lies the liver, full of bile,
That ne'er secreted proper chyle;
Here lie the bowels, human tripes,
Tortur'd with wind and twisting gripes;
Here lies the livid dab, the spleen,
The source of life's sad tragic scene,
That left-side weight that clogs the blood,
And stagnates nature's circling flood;
Here lie the nerves, so often twitch'd
With painful cramps and poignant stitch;
Here lies the back, oft rack'd with pains,
Corroding kidneys, loins, and reins;
Here lies the skin by scurvy fed,
With pimples and eruptions red;
Here lies the man, from top to toe,
That fabric fram'd for pain and woe.

A Poem,

By Sir WALTER RALEIGH. SHALL I like an hermit dwell On a rock or in a cell, Calling home the smallest part That is missing of my heart, To bestow it where I may Meet a rival ev'ry day? If she undervalue me, What care I how fair she be?

Were her tresses angel-gold;
If a stranger may be bold,
Unrebuked, unafraid,

To convert them to a brayde,
And, with little more ado,
Work them into bracelets too;
If the mine be grown so free,
What care I how rich it be?

Were her hands as rich a prize
As her hair, or precious eyes;
If she laid them out to take
Kisses, for good manners' sake,
And let ev'ry lover skip
From her hand unto her lip;
If she seem not chaste to me,
What care I how chaste she be?

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