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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,
Alike too both conduce to sleep.
This difference only as the God
Drove souls to Tartarus with his rod,
With his goosequill the scribbling elf,
Instead of others, damns himself.

And here my simile almost tript, Yet grant a word by way of postscript. Moreover, Mercury had a failing : Well! what of that? out with it-stealing; In which all modern bards agree, Being each as great a thief as he: But e'en this deity's existence Shall lend my simile assistance. Our modern bards! why what a pox Are they but senseless stones and blocks?

b our scribbling bards.


Good people all, 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 mungrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,

And curs of low degree.

See Vicar of Wakefield, c. xvii. In the Citizen of the World, vol. ii. lett. lxvi. is a paper on the 'Epidemic Terror, the dread of Mad Dogs, which now prevails; the whole nation is now actually groaning under the malignity of its influence.'

This dog and man at first were friends ;

But when a pique began,
The dog, to gain his private ends,

Went mad, and bit the man.

Around from all the neighbouring streets

The wondering 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

To every christian eye ; And while they swore the dog was mad,

They swore the man would, die.

But soon a wonder came to light,

That show'd the rogues they lied, The man recover'd of the bite,

The dog it was that died.


John Trott was desir’d by two witty peers To tell them the reason why asses had ears? * An't please you,' quoth John, “I'm not given to

letters, Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters; Howe'er, from this time I shall ne'er see your graces, As I hope to be sav'd! without thinking on asses.'

Edinburgh, 1753.


When lovely woman stoops to folly,

And finds too late that men betray, What charm can soothe her melancholy,

What art can wash her guilt away?

The only art her guilt to cover,

To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover,

And wring his bosom-is, to die.

i See Vicar of Wakefield, c. xxiv.



WHERE the Red Lion staring o'er the way, Invites each passing stranger that can pay; Where Calvert's butt, and Parson’s black cham

paign, Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury-lane ; There in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug, The Muse found Scroggen stretch'd beneath a rug; A window, patch'd with paper, lent a ray, That dimly show'd the state in which he lay; The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread; The humid wall with paltry pictures spread : The royal game of goose was there in view, And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew; The seasons, fram’d with listing, found a place, And brave prince William show'd his lampblack

face: The morn was cold, he views with keen desire The rusty grate unconscious of a fire : With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scor’d, And five crack'd teacups dress’d the chimney board; A nightcap deck'd his brows instead of bay, A cap by night—a stocking all the day!

These lines first appeared in the Citizen of the World, vol. i. letter xxix.

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