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And in that town a dog was found,

As many dogs there be, Both mungrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,

And curs of low degree.
This dog and man at first were friends,

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

Went mad and bit the man.
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, 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 ly’d; The man recover'd of the bite,

The dog it was that dy'd.

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, To give repentance to her lover,

And wring his bosom-is to die.

THE GIFT.

TO IRIS,

IN BOW-STREET, COVENT GARDEN.

SAY, cruel Iris, pretty rake,

Dear mercenary beauty,
What annual off'ring shall I make

Expressive of my duty.

My heart, a victim to thine eyes,

Should I at once deliver,
Say, would the angry fair-one prize

The gift who slights the giver?

A bill, a jewel, watch, or toy,

My rivals give-and let 'em. If gems, or gold, impart a joy,

I'll give them—when I get 'em.

I'll give but not the full blown rose,

Or rose-bud more in fashion ;
Such short-liv'd off'rings but disclose

A transitory passion.

I'll give thee something yet unpaid,

Not less sincere than civil :
I'll give thee-ah! too charming maid,

I'll give thee-to the devil.

EPITAPH

ON

DR. PARNELL

This tomb inscrib'd to gentle PARNELL's namac,
May speak our gratitude, but not his fame.
What heart but feels his sweetly moral lay,
That leads to truth through pleasure's flowery way!
Celestial themes confess'd his tuneful aid ;
And heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid.
Needless to him the tribute we bestow,
The transitory breath of fame below:
More lasting rapture from his works shall rise;
While converts thank their poet in the skies.

EPILOGUE

TO THE

COMEDY OF THE SISTERS.

What? five long acts and all to make us wiser!
Our authoress sure has wanted an adviser.
Had she consulted me, she should have inade
Her moral play a speaking masquerade ;
Warm'd

up each bustling scene, and in her rage,
Have emptied all the green room on the stage.
My life on't, this had kept her play from sinking;
Have pleas'd our eyes, and sav'd the pain of thinking.
Well, since she thus has shown her want of skill,
What if I give a masquerade ?-I will.

But how ? ay, there's the rub! [fausing]----I've got.

my cue : The world's a masquerade! the masquers, you, yoll, you.

[To Boxes, Pit, and Gallery. Lud! what a group the motley scene discloses ! False wits, false wives, falsc virgins, and false spouses! Statesmen with bridles on; and, close beside 'em, Patriots in party-colour'd suits that ride 'em. There Hebes, turn’d of fifty, try once more To raise a flame in Cupids of threescore. These in their turn, with appetites as keen, Deserting fifty, fasten on fifteen. Miss, not yet full fifteen, with fire uncommon, Flings down her sampler, and takes up the woman ; The little urchin smiles, and spreads her lure, And tries to kill, ere she's got power to cure : Thus 'tis with all their chief and constant care Is to seem every thing—but what they are. Yon broad, bold, angry spark, I fix my eye on, Who seems t'have robb'd his vizor from the lion; Who frowns, and talks, and swears, with round parade,

| Mimicking. Looking, as who should say, dam'me! who's afraid? Strip but this vizor off, and sure I am You'll find his lionship a very lamb. Yon politician, famous in debate, Perhaps to vulgar eyes, bestrides the state; Yet, when he deigns his real shape t'assume, He turns old woman, and bestrides'a broom. Yon patriot, too, who presses on your sight, And seems to every gazer, all in white, If with a bribe his candour

you

attack, He bows, turns round, and whip--the inan in black ! Yon critic, too but whither do I run ? If I proceed, our bard will be undone ! Well then a truce, since she requests it too : Po you spare her, and I'll for once spare yot.

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SPOKEN BY MRS. BULKLEY AND MISS CATLEY:

Enter Mrs. Bulkley, who curtsies very low as beginning

to speak. Then enter Miss Catley, who stands full before her, and curtsies to the Audience.

Mrs. BULKLEY. HOLD Ma'am, your pardon. What's your business here?

Miss CATLEY. The Epilogue.

Mrs. BULKLEY. The Epilogue ?

Miss CATLET. Yes, the Epilogue, my dear.

Mrs. BULKLEY.
Sure you mistake, Ma'am. The Epilogue I bring it.

Miss CATLEY.
Excuse me, Ma'am. The Author bid me sing it.

RECITATIVE.
Ye beaux and belles, that form this splendid ring,
Suspend your conversation while I sing.

Mrs. BULKLET.
Why sure the Girl's beside herself: an Epilogue of

singing,
A hopeful end indeed to such a blest beginning.
Besides, a singer in a comic set!
Excuse me, Ma'am, I know the etiquette.

Miss CATLEY.
What if we leave it to the House ?

Mrs. BULKLEY. The House-Agreed.

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