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Denote him of the reptile kind;
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?
AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG.:
Good people all, of every sort,
Give ear unto my song;
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,
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,
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.
THE CLOWN'S REPLY.
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.'
STANZAS ON WOMAN.
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,
And wring his bosom-is, to die.
i See Vicar of Wakefield, c. xxiv.
A DESCRIPTION OF AN AUTHOR'S
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.