Her fpleen and fits recover'd quite,
Our madam can fit-up all night;
"Whoever comes, I'm not within.".
Quadrille's the word, and so begin.

How can the Muse her aid impart,
Unfkill'd in all the terms of art?
Or in harmonious numbers put
The deal, the fhuffle, and the cut?
The fuperftitious whims relate,
That fill a female-gamefter's pate?
What agony of foul fhe feels
To fee a knave's inverted heels!
She draws up card by card, to find
Good fortune peeping from behind ;
With panting heart, and earnest eyes,
In hope to see spadillo rife:

In vain, alas! her hope is fed;
She draws an ace, and fees it red;
In ready counters never pays,

But pawns her fnuff-box, rings, and keys;
Ever with fome new fancy ftruck,
Tries twenty charms to mend her luck.
"This morning, when the parfon came,
"I faid I fhould not win a game.

"This odious chair, how came I ftuck in't?
"I think I never had good luck in't.
"I'm fo uneafy in my stays;

"Your fan a moment, if you please.
"Stand farther girl, or get you gone;
"I always lofe when you look on."
“Lord! madam, you have loft codille :
"I never fay you play fo ill."

Nay,

"Nay, Madam, give me leave to fay,

" "Twas you that threw the game away:
"When lady Trickfey play'd a four,
"You took it with a mattadore;

"I faw you touch your wedding-ring
"Before my lady call'd a king;
"You spoke a word began with H,
"And I know whom you mean to teach,
"Because you held the king of hearts;
"Fie, madam, leave thefe little arts."
"That's not fo bad as one that rubs
"Her chair, to call the king of clubs;
"And makes her partner understand
"A mattadore is in her hand."
"Madam, you have no cause to flounce,
"I fwear I saw you thrice renounce."
“And truly, madam, I know when
"Instead of five, you foor'd me ten.

Spadillo here has got a mark;

"A child may know it in the dark:
"I gueft the hand; it feldom fails:
"I wifh fome folks would pair their nails."
While thus they rail, and fcold, and storm,
It paffes but for common form :

But, conscious that they all speak true,
And give each other but their due,

It never interrupts the game,
Or makes them fenfible of fhame,

The time too precious now to waste,
The fupper gobbled up in haste;
Again afresh to cards they run,
As if they had but just begun.

But I fhall not again repeat,

How oft' they fquabble, fnarl, and cheat.
At last they hear the watchman knock,
"A frosty morn-paft four o'clock."
The chairmen are not to be found,
"Come, let us play the other round.
Now all in hafte they huddle on

Their hoods, their cloaks, and get them gone;
But, firft, the winner must invite
The company to-morrow night.
Unlucky madam, left in tears,
(Who now again quadrille forfwears)
With empty purfe, and aching head,
Steals to her fleeping fpoufe to bed.

A DIALOGUE.

BETWEEN

MAD MULLINIX AND TIMOTHY.

1728.

M. LOWN, 'tis not my bread and butter ; But prythee, Tim, why all this clutter?

Why ever in these raging fits,

Damning to hell the Jacobites?
When, if you fearch the kingdom round,
There's hardly twenty to be found ;
No, not among the priests and friars-

T. 'Twixt you and me, G-d d-n the liars!
M. The Tories are gone every man over

To our illuftrious houfe of Hanover;

From

From all their conduct this is plain;
And then-

T. G-d d-n the liars again!
Did not an earl but lately vote,
To bring in (I could cut his throat)
Our whole accounts of public debts?

M. Lord! how this frothy coxcomb frets! [afide.
T. Did not an able statesman bishop
This dangerous horrid motion dish-up
As popish craft? did he not rail on't?
Shew fire and faggot in the tail on't?
Proving the earl a grand offender,
And in a plot for the Pretender;
Whose fleet, 'tis all our friends opinion,
Was then embarking at Avignon ?

M. These wrangling jars of Whig and Tory, Are stale and worn as Troy-town story: The wrong, 'tis certain, you were both in, And now you find you fought for nothing. Your faction, when their game was new, Might want such noify fools as you ; But you, when all the show is past, Refolve to ftand it out the last ; Like Martin Marral *, gaping-on, Not minding when the fong is done. When all the bees are gone to fettle, You clatter ftill your brazen kettle. The leaders whom you lifted under,

Have dropt their arms, and feiz'd the plunder; And when the war is paft, you come

To rattle in their ears your drum:

• A character in one of Dryden's comedies.

And

And as that hateful hideous Grecian
Therfites (he was your relation)

;

Was more abhorr'd and scorn'd by those
With whom he ferv'd, than by his foes
So thou art grown the deteftation
Of all thy party through the nation:
Thy peevith and perpetual teazing
With plots, and Jacobites, and treason,
Thy bufy, never-meaning face,

Thy fcrew'd-up front, thy ftate-grimace,
Thy formal nods, important fneers,
Thy whisperings foifted in all ears,
(Which are, whatever you may think,
But nonsense wrapt up in a ftink)
Have made thy prefence, in a true sense,
To thy own fide, so d---n'd a nuisance,
That, when they have you in their eye,
As if the devil drove, they fly.

T. My good friend Mullinix, forbear;
I vow to G---, you're too fevere:
If it could ever yet be known

I took advice, except my own,

It should be yours; but, d---n my blood!
I muft pursue the public good:
The faction (is it not notorious?)
Keck at the memory of Glorious *
'Tis true; nor need I to be told,
My quondam friends are grown fo cold,
That scarce a creature can be found
Το prance with me the ftatue round.

*King William III.

The