VERSES made for Women who cry Apples, etc.

C

APPLE S.

O ME buy my fine wares,
Plumbs, apples, and pears;
A hundred a penny,

In confcience too many:
Come, will you have any?

My children are seven;
I wish them in heav'n:
My husband a fot,

With his pipe and his pot;
Not a farthing will gain 'em,

And I muft maintain 'em.

C

ONY ON S.

OME, follow me by the fmell,
Here's delicate onyons to fell;

I promise to use you well.

They make the blood warmer;
You'll feed like a farmer:

For

For this is ev'ry cook's opinion,

No fav'ry dish without an onyon,
But, left your kiffing should be spoil'd,
Your onyons must be th'roughly boil'd,
Or else you may spare

Your mistress a share,

The fecret will never be known;
She cannot discover

The breath of her lover,
But think it as fweet as her own.

C

OYSTER S.

HARMING oysters I cry ;
My mafters, come buy:

So plump and fo fresh,.
So fweet is their flesh,
No Colchester oyster
Is fweeter and moifter:
Your ftomach they settle,
And roufe up your mettle:
They'll make you a dad
Of a lafs or a lad ;
And madam, your wife,
They'll please to the life:
Be fhe barren, be she old,
Be fhe flut, or be the fcold,
Eat my oyfters, and lie near her,
She'll be fruitful, never fear her.

B

HERRING $

E not sparing,

Leave off fwearing,

Buy my herring,

Fresh from Malahide [u],

Better ne'er was try❜d.

Come, eat 'em with pure fresh butter and mustard, Their bellies are foft, and as white as a custard. Come, fix-pence a dozen to get me fome bread, Or, like my own herrings, I foon fhall be dead.

COM

ORANGE S.

OME buy my fine oranges, fauce for your veal,

And charming when squeez'd in a pot of brown

ale.

Well roafted, with fugar and wine in a cup, They'll make a sweet bishop when gentlefolks fup.

I

N all I wish, how happy fhould I be,

Thou grand deluder, were it not for thee? So weak thou art, that fools thy pow'r despise, And yet so strong, thou triumph'ft o'er the wife. Thy traps are laid with fuch peculiar art, They catch the cautious; let the rash depart.

[×] Malabide, about five miles from Dublin, famous for oysters.

Moft nets are fill'd by want of thought and care,
But too much thinking brings us to thy fnare.
Where, held by thee, in flavery we stay,
And throw the pleafing part of life away.
But what does most my indignation move,
Difcretion, thou wert ne'er a friend to Love!
Thy chief delight is to defeat thofe arts,
By which he kindles mutual flames in hearts;
While the blind loit'ring god is at his play,
Thou fteal'ft his golden pointed darts away;
Thofe darts which never fail; and in their stead
Convey'ft malignant arrows tipt with lead.
The heedless god, fufpecting no deceits,

Shoots on, and thinks he has done wond'rous feats:
But the poor nymph, who feels her vitals burn,
And from her thepherd can find no return;
Laments and rages at the power divine,
When, curs'd Difcretion all the fault was thine.
Cupid and Hymen thou haft fet at odds,
And bred fuch feuds betwixt these kindred gods,
That Venus cannot reconcile her fons ;
When one appears, away the other runs.
The former fcales, wherein he us❜d to poise
Love against love, and equal joys with joys,
Are now fill'd up with avarice and pride,

Where titles, power, and riches still fubfide.
Then, gentle Venus, to thy father run,
And tell him how thy children are undone :
Prepare his bolts to give one fatal blow,
And ftrike Difcretion to the fhades below.

The following lines were wrote upon a very old glass of

Sir ARTHUR ACHESON'S.

RAIL glafs, thou mortal art, as well as I, Though none can tell, which of us first shall fhall die.

Anfwer'd extempore by Dr. SWIFT.

We both are mortal; but thou, frailer creature, May'ft die, like me, by chance, but not by nature.

VERSES cut by two of the DEAN's friends [x], upon a pane of glass in one of his parlours.

BARD, on whom Phoebus his fpirit bestow'd, Refolving t'acknowledge the bounty he ow❜d, Found out a new method at once of confeffing, And making the most of so mighty a bleffing. To the God he'd be grateful, but mortals he'd chouse, By making his patron prefide in his houfe;

And wifely forefaw this advantage from thence, That the God wou'd in honour bear most of th' ex

pence:

[x] These were written by Dr. Delany, in conjunction with Stella, and produced the verses intituled, Apollo to the Dean. See p. 19. of this volume.