Imatges de pÓgina

Nothing fhe thought could fooner gain him,
Than with her wit to entertain him.
She afk'd about her friends below;
This meagre fop, that batter'd beau ;
Whether fome late departed toafts
Had got gallants among the ghosts ?
If Chloe were a fharper ftill,
As great as ever at quadrille

(The ladies there muft needs be rooks,
For cards, we know, are Pluto's books)?
If Florimel had found her love,
Eor whom the hang'd herself above?
How oft a week was kept a ball
By Proferpine at Pluto's hall?
She fancied thofe Elyfan fhades
The sweetest place for masquerades:
How pleasant on the banks of Styx,
To troll it in a coach and fix!

What pride a female heart inflames! How endless are ambition's aims! Cease, haughty nymph; the fates decree Death must not be a fpoufe for thee: For when by chance the meagre shade Upon thy hand his finger laid, Thy hand as dry and cold as lead, His matrimonial spirit fled



He felt about his heart a damp,
That quite extinguifh'd Gupia's lamp:
Away the frighted spectre scuds,
And leaves my lady in the fuds.

On STEPHEN DUCK, the Thresher and favourite Poet.



Written in the Year 1730.

HE threfher Duck cou'd o'er the queen prevail,

The proverb fays, no fence against a flail. From threshing corn he turns to thresh his brains;

For which her majefty allows him grains. Though 'tis confeft, that thofe who ever faw His poems, think them all not worth a Straw!

Thrice happy Duck, employ'd in threshing ftubble!

Thy toil is leffen'd, and thy profits double.






in the Perfon of a Lady in the North*.


Written in the Year 1730.

ESOLV'D my gratitude to fhow, Thrice rev'rend dean, for all I owe, Too long I have my thanks delay'd; Your favours left too long unpaid; But now in all our fex's name My artless Muse shall fing your fame.

Indulgent you to female kind, To all their weaker fides are blind; Nine more fuch champions as the dean Would foon reftore our ancient reign. How well, to win the ladies hearts, You celebrate their wit and parts! How have I felt my fpirits rais'd, By you so oft, fo highly prais'd!

*The lady of Sir Arthur Acheson.


Transform'd by your convincing tongue
To witty, beautiful, and young,
I hope to quit that aukward fhame
Affected by each vulgar dame,
To modefty a weak pretence;
And foon grow pert on men of fense;
To fhew my face with scornful air;
Let others match it, if they dare.

Impatient to be out of debt,
O, may I never once forget

The bard, who humbly deigns to chuse
Me for the fubject of his Muse.
Behind my back, before my nose,
He founds my praise in verfe and prose.

My heart with emulation burns
To make you fuitable returns:
My gratitude the world fhall know:
And fee, the printer's boy below;
Ye hawkers all, your voices lift;
"A panegyrick on dean Swift !"
And then, to mend the matter still,
By lady Anne of Market-bill."

I thus begin my grateful Muse Salutes the dean in different views;


Dean, butler, ufher, jefter, tutor;
* Robert and Darby's coadjutor:
And as you in commiffion fit,
To rule the dairy next to + Kit.

In each capacity I mean

Nor of


To fing your praise. And first as dean:
Envy must own, you understand your
Precedence, and fupport your grandeur:
rank will bate an ace,
Except to give dean Daniel place.
In you fuch dignity appears;
So fuited to your state and years!
With ladies what a ftrict decorum !
With what devotion you adore 'em!
Treat me with fo much complaifance,
As fits a princefs in romance!
By your example and affiftance,

The fellows learn to know their distance.
Sir Arthur, fince you fet the pattern,
No longer calls me fnipe and flattern;
Nor dares he, though he were a duke,
Offend me with the leaft rebuke.

Proceed we to your ‡ preaching next; How nice you fplit the hardest text!


The names of two over

+ My lady's footman.

The author preached but once while he was there.


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