Imatges de pÓgina
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Or to Parnassus, looking down,
Can piss upon his laurel crown.

Fate never form’d the gods to fly;
In vehicles they mount the sky:
When JOVE would some 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 stirs not out of door
Without his lacker'd coach and four;
And jealous Juno, ever snarling,
Is drawn by peacocks in her berlin :
But we can fly where'er we please,
O’er cities, rivers, hills, and seas:
From east to west the world we roam,
And in all climates are at home;
With care provide you as we go
With sun-shine, rain, and hail, or snow.
You, when it rains, like fools believe
JOVE pisses on you through a sieve:
An idle tale, 'tis no such matter;
We only dip a spunge in water ;
Then squeeze itclose between ourthumbs,
And shake it well, and down it comes.

As

As you shall to your sorrow know;
We'll watch your steps where'er you go:
And, since we find

you

walk a-foot, We'll foundly fouce your frize surtout.

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

'Tis sung, wherever Calia treads, The vi’lets ope their purple heads ; The roses blow, the cowslip springs ; ?Tis sung; but we know better things. 'Tis true, a woman on her mettle Will often piss upon a nettle ; But, though we own the makes it wettci, The nettle never thrives the better; While we, by soft prolific show'rs, Can ev'ry spring 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 verses are melodious ;
But such comparisons are odious.

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T I M and the F A B L E S.

From the Tenth Intelligencer.

Mr meaning will be beft unravel'd,

When I premise that Tim bas tra

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

pages twirlid,

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

fidge and all,
Just 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 sat for't.
My very face, as first I knew it;
Just in this dress the painter drew it.
Tim, with his likeness deeply smitten,
Wou'd read what underneath was writ-

ten, The merry tale with moral grave. He now began to storm and rave; “ The cursed villain ! now I fee " This was a libel meant at me; “ Those scriblers grow so 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 such angry speeches,
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 verses, and of thole, not the four last Noven

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

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