Imatges de pÓgina

Why should my fhepherd take amifs,
That oft I wake thee with a kiss?
Yet you of ev'ry kifs complain;
Ah, is not love a pleafing pain?
A pain which every happy night
You cure with eafe and with delight;
With pleasure, as the poet fings,
Too great for mortals less than kings.

Chloe, when on thy breaft I lie,
Obferves me with revengeful eye:
If Chloe o'er thy heart prevails,
She'll tear me with her defp'rate nails;
And with relentless hands deftroy
The tender pledges of our joy.
Nor have I bred a fpurious race;
They all were born from thy embrace.

Confider, Strephon, what you do; For, fhall I die for love of you, I'll haunt thy dreams, a bloodless ghoft; And all my kin, a num'rous hoft, Who down direct our lineage bring Fim victors o'er the Memphian king; Menown'd in feges and campaigns, who never fled the bloody plains,


Who in tempeftuous feas can fport,
And fcorn the pleasures of a court;
From whom great Sylla found his doom;
Who fcourg'd to death that fcourge of Rome,
Shall on thee take a vengeance dire;
Thou, like Alcides, fhalt expire,
When his envenom'd fhirt he wore,
And fkin and flesh in pieces tore.
Nor lefs that fhirt, my rival's gift,
Cut from the piece that made her shift,
Shall in thy deareft blood be dy'd,
And make thee tear thy tainted hide.



Written in the Year 1735.


EPRIV'D of root, and branch, and


Yet flow'rs I bear of ev'ry kind;
And such is my prolific pow'r,
They bloom in lefs than half an hour:
Yet ftanders-by may plainly fee
They get no nourishment from me.
My head with giddinefs goes
es round
And yet I firmly ftand my ground:


G 3


All over naked I am feen, And painted like an Indian queen. No couple-beggar in the land, E'er join'd fuch numbers hand in hand; I join them fairly with a ring; Nor can our parfon blame the thing: And, tho' no marriage words are fpoke, They part not till the ring is broke, Yet hypocrite fanaticks cry, I'm but an idol rais'd on high: And once a weaver in our town, A damn'd Cromwellian, knock'd me down. I lay a pris'ner twenty years, And then the jovial cavaliers To their old poft reftor'd all three, I mean the church, the king, and me.

VERSES on the upright fudge who condemned the Drapier's Printer.

Written in the Year 1724.

THE church I hate, and have good


For there my grandfire cut his weazon :
He cut his weazon at the altar;
I keep my gullet for the halter.

On the fame.

N church your grandfire cut his throat:
To do the job too long he tarry'd,
He should have had my hearty vote,
To cut his throat before he marry'd.

On the fame.
(The Judge Speaks.)


'M not the grandfon of that afs* Quin; Nor can you prove it, Mr. Pafquin. My grand-dame had gallants by twenties, And bore my mother by a 'prentice. This when my grandfire knew, they tell us he

In Christ-church cut his throat for jealousy. And, fince the alderman was mad you fay, Then I must be fo too, ex traduce.

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A SIMILE, on our Want of Silver, and the only Way to remedy it.

Written in the Year 1725.

S when of old fome, forc'refs threw O'er the moon's face a fable hue, To drive unfeen her magic chair, At midnight through the darken'd air ; Wife people, who believ'd with reason That this eclipfe was out of feafon, Afirm'd the moon was fick, and fell To cure her by a counter-fpell. Ten thoufands cymbals now begin To rend the fkies with brazen din; The cymbals rattling founds difpel The cloud, and drive the hag to hell: The moon, deliver'd from her pain, Difplays her filver face again. (Note here, that in the chemic ftyle, The moon is fiver all this while.)

So (if my fimile you minded, Which I confefs is too long winded) When late a feminine magician Join'd with a brazen politician,

A great lady is reported to have been bribed by Wood.


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