Imatges de pàgina
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Or to Parnaffus, looking down,
Can pifs upon his laurel crown.

Fate never form'd the gods to fly;
In vehicles they mount the sky:
When JOVE would fome fair nymph

inveigle,

He comes full gallop on his eagle.
Though Venus be as light as air,

She must have doves to draw her chair..
Apollo ftirs not out of door

Without his lacker'd coach and four;
And jealous Juno, ever fnarling,
Is drawn by peacocks in her berlin :
But we can fly where'er we please,
O'er cities, rivers, hills, and feas:
From eaft to weft the world we roam,:
And in all climates are at home;
With care provide you as we go

With fun-fhine, rain, and hail, or fnow.
You, when it rains, like fools believe
JOVE piffes on you through a fieve:
An idle tale, 'tis no fuch matter;
We only dip a spunge in water;
Then fqueeze it close between our thumbs,
And shake it well, and down it comes.

As

As you fhall to your forrow know;
We'll watch your steps where'er you go:
And, fince we find you walk a-foot,
We'll foundly fouce your frize furtout.

"Tis but by our peculiar grace,
That Phoebus ever fhews his face:
For when we please we open wide
Our curtains blue from fide to fide:
And then how faucily he fhews
His brazen face, and fiery nofe;
And gives himself a haughty air,
As if he made the weather fair!

'Tis fung, wherever Calia treads, The vi'lets ope their purple heads; The roses blow, the cowflip fprings; 'Tis fung; but we know better things. 'Tis true, a woman on her mettle Will often pifs upon a nettle;

But, though we own fhe makes it wetter,
The nettle never thrives the better;
While we, by foft prolific fhow'rs,
Can ev'ry fpring produce you flow'rs.

Your poets, Chloe's beauty heightning, Compare her radiant eyes to lightning;

And

And yet I hope 'twill be allow'd,
That lightning comes but from a cloud.

But gods like us have too much fenfe
At poets flights to take offence:
Nor can hyperboles demean us;
Each drab has been compar'd to Venus.

We own your verfes are melodious; But fuch comparisons are odious.

TIM and the F A BLES.

From the Tenth Intelligencer.

Mr meaning will be beft unravel'd, When I premife that Tim has travel'd.

In Lucas's by chance there lay
The fables writ by Mr. Gay.
Tim fet the volume on a table,
Read over here and there a fable;
And found, as he the pages twirl'd,
The monkey who had feen the world.
(For Tonfon had, to help the sale,
Prefixt a cut to ev'ry tale).

The monkey was completely dreft,
The beau in all his airs exprest.
Tim, with furprize and pleasure staring,
Ran to the glass ; and then, comparing
His own fweet figure with the print,
Distinguish'd ev'ry feature in't,

The twift, the fqueeze, the rump, the fidge and all,

Juft as they lookt in the original.
By- says Tim, (and let a f—)
This graver understood his art.
'Tis a true copy, I'll say that for't;
I well remember when I fat for't.
My very face, as first I knew it ;
Just in this dress the painter drew it.
Tim, with his likeness deeply fmitten,
Wou'd read what underneath was writ-

ten,

The merry tale with moral grave.
He now began to storm and rave;
"The curfed villain! now I fee
"This was a libel meant at me;
"Those scriblers grow fo bold of late
Against us ministers of state,

"Such jacobites as he deserve,—
"Damme, I say, they ought to starve.

VOL. VII.

X

Dear

Dear Tim, no more fuch angry fpeeches,
Unbutton and let down your breeches,
Tear out the tale and wipe your a-
I know you love to act a farce*.

*Of the Xth [Intellig.] I writ only the verfes, and of thofe, not the four laft floven

ly lines. Letters to and from Dr. Swift. LXI.

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