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;
Or could I read and write,
I'gad I'd wear a Gown.
Then leave him to his Birch;
And at the Rofe on Sunday,

The Parfon fafe at Church,
I'll treat you with Burgundy.

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.
That rais'd between the Stones their daily Shoots;
As at their Work they fat in counterview,
With mutual Beauty fmit, their Passion grew.

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,
I peept, and faw
and faw you kifs the dirty Bitch.

Dermot, how could you touch those nafty Sluts;
I almost wish'd this Spud were in your Guts.

DERMOT.

If Oonab once I kifs'd, forbear to chide;
Her Aunt's my Goffip by my Father's Side:
But, if I ever touch her Lips again,

May I be doom'd for Life to weed in Rain.
SHEELAH.

Dermot, I swear, tho' Tady's Locks could hold
Ten Thousand Lice, and ev'ry Louse was Gold,
Him on my Lap you never more should fee;
Or, may I lose my Weeding-Knife—and thee.

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,
Are well acquainted with my Zeal
For all the Female Commonweal:
How cou'd it come into your Mind,
To pitch on me, of all Mankind,
Against the Sex to write a Satyr,
And brand me for a Woman-Hater?
On me, who think them all fo fair,
They rival Venus to a Hair?
Their Virtues never ceas'd to fing,
Since first I learn'd to tune a String.
Methinks I hear the Ladies cry,
Will he his Character belye?
Muft never our Misfortunes end?
And have we loft our only Friend?

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,
Than I turn Rebel to the Fair.

'TWAS you engag'd me firft to write, Then gave the Subject out of Spite :

The

The Journal of a modern Dame
Is by my Promise, what you claim:
My Word is past, I must submit;
And yet perhaps you may be bit.
I but transcribe, for not a Line
Of all the Satyr shall be mine.

COMPELL'D by you to tag in Rhimes,
The common Slanders of the Times;
Of modern Times; the Guilt is yours,
And me my Innocence secures.

UNWILLING Mufe begin thy Lay, The Annals of a Female Day.

By Nature turn'd to play the Rake-well,
(As we shall fhew you in the Sequel)
The modern Dame is wak'd by Noon,
Some Authors fay, not quite fo foon:
Because, though fore against her Will,
She fat all Night up at Quadrill.
She ftretches, gapes, unglues her Eyes,
And asks, if it be time to rife;

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