If we, who wear our Wigs With Fan-Tail and with Snake, Are bubbled thus by Prigs; Zds who wou'd be a Rake? Had I a Heart to fight, I'd knock the Doctor down; The Parfon fafe at Church, A Paftoral DIALOGUE. DERMOT, SHEELAH. Written in the Year 1728. A and Swain, Sheelab and Dermot Who wont to weed the Court of * Gosford Knight. While each with ftubbed Knife remov'd the Roots. Sing * Sir ARTHUR ACHESON, whofe great Grand-Father was Sir ARCHIBALD of Gosford in Scotland. Sing heavenly Mufe, in fweetly flowing Strain, The foft Endearments of the Nymph and Swain. DERMOT. My Love to Sheelab is more firmly fixt, Than strongest Weeds that grow these Stones betwixt, My Spud thefe Nettles from the Stones can part; No Knife fo keen to weed thee from my Heart. SHEELA H. My Love for gentle Dermot fafter grows, Than yon tall Dock that rises to thy Nofe. Cut down the Dock, 'twill fprout again; but O! Love rooted out, again will never grow. DERMOT. No more that Bry'r thy tender Leg fhall rake: (I spare the Thistles for * Sir Arthur's Sake.) Sharp are the Stones, take thou this rufhy Mat; The hardest Bum will bruife with fitting squat. SHEELAH. Thy Breeches torn behind, stand gaping wide, This Petticoat fhall fave thy dear Back-fide; Nor need I blush, although you feel it wet; Dermot, I vow, 'tis nothing elfe but Sweat. DERMO T. At an old ftubborn Root I chanc'd to tug, When the Dean threw me this Tobacco-plug: A longer Half-p'orth never did I fee; This, dearest Sheelab, thou fhalt share with me. SHEELAH *Who is a great Lover of Scotland, SHEELA H. In at the Pantry-door this Morn I flipt, And from the Shelf a charming Cruft I whipt: * Dennis was out, and I got hither safe: And thou, my Dear, fhalt have the bigger Half. DERMOT. When you faw Tady at Long-bullets play, You fat and lous'd him all a Sun-shine Day. How could you, Sheelah, liften to his Tales, Or crack fuch Lice as his betwixt your Nails? SHEELAH. When you with Oonah ftood behind a Ditch, Dermot, how could you touch those nafty Sluts; DERMOT. If Oonab once I kifs'd, forbear to chide; May I be doom'd for Life to weed in Rain. Dermot, I swear, tho' Tady's Locks could hold DERMOT. O, could I earn for thee, my lovely Lass, A Pair of Brogues to bear thee dry to Mafs! But fee, where Norah with the Sowins comes Then let us rife, and reft our weary Bums. *Sir ARTHUR'S Butler. The The JOURNAL of a Modern Lady. Written in the Year 1728. T was a moft unfriendly Part In you, who ought to know my Heart, Ah! lovely Nymphs, remove your Fears, No more let fall thofe precious Tears. Sooner fhall, &c. [Here feveral Verfes are omitted. The Hound be hunted by the Hair, 'TWAS you engag'd me firft to write, Then gave the Subject out of Spite : The The Journal of a modern Dame COMPELL'D by you to tag in Rhimes, UNWILLING Mufe begin thy Lay, The Annals of a Female Day. By Nature turn'd to play the Rake-well, Of Head-ach, and the Spleen complains; And then to cool her heated Brains, (Her Night-Gown and her Slippers brought her,) Takes a large Dram of Citron-Water. Then to her Glass; and "Betty, pray, "Don't I look frightfully To-day? "But, was it not confounded hard? 66 Well, if I ever touch a Card: <<< Four |