Fach day kind Bob's diffusive hand,
Chear'd and refresh'd the tatter'd band,
Proud the most god-like joy to share,
He fed the hungry, cloath'd the bare.
Frank amongst these his station chose,
With looks revealing inward woes:
When, lo! with wonder and surprize,
He saw dame Fortune in disguise;
He saw, but scarce believ'd his eyes.
Her fawning smiles, her tricking air,
Th' egregious hypocrite declare;
A gypsy's mantle round her spread,
Of various dye, white, yellow, red!
Strange feats she promis'd, clamour'd loud,
And with her cant amus'd the crowd:
There every day impatient ply'd,
Push'd to get in, but still deny'd;
For Bob, who knew the subtle whore,
Thrust the false vagrant from his door.
But, when the stranger's face he view'd,
With no deceitful tears bedew'd,
His boding heart began to melt,
And more than usual pity felt:
He trac'd his features o'er and o'er,
That spoke him better born, though poor,
Though cloth'd in rags, genteel his mien,
That face he somewhere must have seen:
Nature at last reveals the truth,

He knows, and owns the hapless youth.
Surpris'd, and speechless, both embrace,
And mingling tears o'erflow each face;
Till Bob thus eas'd his labouring thought,
And this instructive moral taught.
"Welcome, my brother, to my longing arms,
Here on my bosom rest secure from harms;
See Fortune there, that false delusive jade,
To whom thy prayers and ardent rows were paid:
She (like her sex) the fond pursuer flics;
But slight the jilt, and at thy feet she dies.
Now safe in port, indulge thyself on shore,
Oh, tempt the faithless winds and seas no more;
Let unavailing toils, and dangers past,
Though late, this useful lesson teach at last,
True happiness is only to be found

In a contented mind, a body sound,
All else is dream, a dance on fairy ground:
While restless fools each idle whim pursue,
And still one wish obtain'd creates a new,
Like froward babes, the toys they have, detest,
While still the newest trifle pleases best:
Let us, my brother, rich in wisdom's store,
What Heaven has lent, enjoy, nor covet more;
Subdue our passions, curb their saucy rage,
And to ourselves restore the golden age.

THE DEVIL OUTWITTED:

A TALE.

A VICAR liv'd on this side Trent,
Religious, learn'd, benevolent,

Pure was his life, in deed, word, thought,
A comment on the truths he taught:
His parish large, his income small,
Yet seldom wanted wherewithal;
For against every merry tide
Madam would carefully provide.
A painful pastor; but his sheep,
Alas! within no bounds would keep;
VOL. XI.

A scabby flock, that every day
Run riot, and would go astray.
He thump'd his cushion, fretted, vext,
Thump'd o'er again each useful text;
Rebuk'd, exhorted, all in vain,
His parish was the more profane :
The scrubs would have their wicked will,
And cunning Satan triumph'd still.
At last, when each expedient fail'd,
And serious measures nought avail'd,
It came into his head, to try
The force of wit and raillery.
The good man was by nature gay,
Could gibe and joke, as well as pray;
Not like some hide-bound folk, who chase
Each merry smile from their dull face,
And think pride zeal, ill-nature grace.
At christenings and each jovial feast,
He singled out the sinful beast:
Let his all-pointed arrows fly,
Told this and that, look'd very sly,
And left my masters to apply.
His tales were humorous, often true,
And now and then set off to view
With lucky fictions and sheer wit,
That pierc'd, where truth could never hit.
The laugh was always on his side,
While passive fools by turns deride;
And, giggling thus at one another,
Each jeering lout reform'd his brother;
Till the whole parish was with ease
Sham'd into virtue by degrees:
Then be advis'd, and try a tale,
When Chrysostom and Austin fail.

THE

OFFICIOUS MESSENGER:

A TALE.

MAN, of precarious science vain,
Treats other creatures with disdain;
Nor Pug nor Shock have common sense,
Nor even Pol the least pretence,
Though she prate better than us all,
To be accounted rational.

The brute creation here below,
It seems, is Nature's puppet-show!
But clock-work all, and mere machine,
What can these idle gimcracks mean;
Ye world-makers of Gresham-hall,
Dog Rover shall confute you all;
Shall prove that every reasoning brute
Like Ben or Bangor can dispute;
Can apprehend, judge, syllogize,
Or like proud Bentley criticize;
At a moot point, or odd disaster,
Is often wiser than his master.
He may mistake sometimes, tis true,
None are infallible but you.
The dog whom nothing can mislead
Must be a dog of parts indeed:
But to my tale; hear me, my friend,
And with due gravity attend.

Rover, as heralds are agreed,
Well-born, and of the setting breed;
Rang'd high, was stout, of nose acute,
A very learn'd and courteous brute.

In parallel lines his ground he beat,
Not such as in one centre meet,
In those let blundering doctors deal,
His were exactly parallel.

When tainted gales the game betray,
Down close he sinks, and eyes his prey.
Though different passions tempt his soul,
True as the needle to the pole,
He keeps his point, and panting lies
The floating net above him flies,
Then, dropping, sweep the fluttering prize.
Nor this his only excellence:
When surly farmers took offence,
And the rank corn the sport deny'd,
Still faithful to his master's side,
A thousand pretty pranks he play'd,
And chearful each command obey'd:
Humble his mind, though great his wit,
Would lug a pig, or turn the spit;
Would fetch and carry, leap o'er sticks,
And forty such diverting tricks.
Nor Partridge, nor wise Gadbury,
Could find lost goods so soon as he;
Bid him go back a mile or more,
And seek the glove you hid before,
Still his unerring nose would wind it,
If above ground, was sure to find it;
Whimpering for joy his master greet,
And humbly lay it at his feet.

But hold-it cannot be deny'd,
That useful talents misapply'd,

May make wild work. It hapt one day,
Squire Lobb, his master, took his way,
New shav'd, and smug, and very tight,
To compliment a neighbouring knight;
In his best trowsers he appears
(A comely person for his years);

And clean white drawers, that many a day
In lavender and rose-cakes lay.
Across his brawny shoulders strung,
On his left side his dagger hung;
Dead-doing blade! a dreadful guest,
Or in the field, or at the feast.
Po franklin carving of a chine
A Christide, ever look'd so fine.
With him obsequious Rover trudg'd,
No" from his heels one moment budg`d :
A while they travell'd, when within
Poor Lobb perceiv'd a rumbling din:
Then warring winds, for want of vent,
Shook all his earthly tenement.
So in the body politic

(For states sometimes, like men, are sick)
Dark Paction atters through the crowd,
Fre bare-fac'd Treason roars aloud:
Whether crude humours und gested
His labouring cutrails had infested,
Or last ingla's load of bottled ale,
Grown Lantinous, was breaking gol:
The cause of this his arkward pain.
Let Joi usein of let fl--th explain;
Whose lemned noses may discover,
Way nature's stak-pot thus ran over.
My province is th ch to trace,

And give eacic point ils proper grace,
The Tet, O Lamentable case!
Loog had he s’ruggled, bat in vain,
The factious timalt to re drahu:

What should he do? Th'unruly rout
Press'd on, and it was time, no doubt,
T' unbutton, and to let all out.
The trowsers soon his will obey!
Not so his stubborn drawers, for they,
Beneath his hanging paunch close ty'd,
His utmost art and pains defy'd:
He drew his dagger on the spot,
Resolv'd to cut the Gordian knot.
In the same road just then pass'd by
(Such was the will of Destiny)
The courteous curate of the place,
Good-nature shone o'er all his face;
Surpris'd the flaming blade to view,
And deeming slaughter must ensue,
Off from his hack himself he threw,
Then without ceremony seiz'd
The squire, impatient to be eas'd.
"Lord! master Lobb, who would have though
The fiend had e'er so strongly wrought?
Is suicide so slight a fault?

Rip up thy guts, man! What-go quick
To Hell? Outrageous lunatic!
But, by the blessing, I'll prevent
With this right hand, thy foul intent."
Then gripp'd the dagger fast: the squire,
Like Peleus' son, look'd pale with ire;
While the good man like Pallas stood,
And check'd his eager thirst for blood.
At last, when both a while had strain'd,
Strength, join'd with zeal, the conquest gain'd.
The curate in all points obey'd,
Into the sheath returns the blade:
But first th' unhappy squire he swore,
T' attempt upon his life no more.
With sage advice his speech he clos'd,
And left him (as he thought) compos'd
But was it so, friend Lobb; I own,
Misfortune seldom comes alone;
Satan supplies the swelling tide,
And ills on ills are multiply'd
Subdued and all his measures broke,
His purpose and intent mistook;
Within his drawers, alas! he found
His guts let out without a wound:
For, in the conflict, straining hard,
He left his postern-gate unbarr'd;
Most woefully bedawb'd, he moans
His piteous case, he sighs, he groans,
To lose his dinner, and return,
Was very hard, not to be borne:
Hunger, they say, parent of arts,
Will make a fool a man of parts.
The sharp-set squire resolves at last,
Whate'er befel bin not to fast;

He mus'd a while, chaf'd, strain'd his wits,
At last on this expedient hits;
To the next brook with sober pace
He tems, preparing to uncase,
Straddling and muttering all the way,
Curs'd inwardly th' unlucky day.
The const now clear, no soul in view,
Off in a tree his trows rs drew;
More lesurely his drawers, for care
And caution was convenient there:
So fast the ploister'd birdlime stuck,
The skin came off at every pluck,
Surely he gad'd each brawny ham;

Nor other parts escap'd, which shame
Forbids a bashful Muse to name.
Not without pain the work achiev'd,

He scrubb'd and wash'd the parts aggriev'd
Then, with nice hand and look sedate,
Folds up his drawers, with their rich freight,
And hides them in a bush, at leisure
Resolv'd to fetch his hidden treasure:
The trusty Rover lay hard by,
Observing all with curious eye.

Now rigg'd again, once more a beau,
And matters fix'd in statu

quo,
Brisk as a snake in merry May,
That just has cast his slough away,
Gladsome he caper'd o'er the green,
As he presum'd both sweet and clean;
For, oh! amongst us mortal elves,
How few there are smell out themselves!
With a mole's ear, and eagle's eye,
And with a blood-hound's nose, we ly
On others' faults implacably.

But where 's that car, that eye, that nose,
Against its master will depose?

Ruddy miss Prue, with golden hair,
Stinks like a pole-cat or a bear,
Yet romps about me every day,
Sweeter, she thinks, than new-made hay,
Lord Plausible, at Tom's and Will's,
Whose poisonous breath in whispers kills,
Still buzzes in my ear, nor knows
What fatal secrets he bestows:
Let him destroy each day a score,
'Tis mere chance-medley, and no more.
In fine, self-love bribes every sense,
And all at home is excellence.

The squire arriv'd in decent plight,
With reverence due salutes the knight;
Compliments past, the diuncr-bell
Rung quick and loud, harmonious knell
To greedy Lobb! Th' Orplican lyre
Did ne'er such rapturous joy inspire;
Though this the savage throng obey,
That hunger tames more fierce than they.
la comely order now appear,
The footmen loaded with good cheer,
Her ladyship brought up the rear.
Simpering she lisps, "Your servant, sir→→→
The ways are bad, one can't well stir
Abroad-or 'twere indeed unkind
To leave good Mrs. Lobb behind-
She's well, I hope-Master, they say,
Comes on apace-How 's miss, I pray ?"

Lobb bow'd, and cring'd; and, muttering low,
Made for his chair, would fain fall-to.
These weighty points adjusted, soon
My lady brandishes her spoon.
Unhappy Lobb, pleas'd with his treat,
And minding nothing but his meat,
Too near the fire had chose his seat:
When, oh! th' effluvia of his bum
Began amain to scent the room,
Ambrosial sweets, and rich perfume.

The flickering footman stopt his nose;

The chaplain too, under the rose,

Made aukward mouths; the knight took snuff; Her ladyship began to huff;

"Indeed, sir Jolin-pray, good my dear

'Tis wrong to make your kennel here

Dogs in their place are good, I own

But in the parlour-foh !-be gone."

Now Rockwood leaves th' unfinish'd bone, Banish'd for failings not his own;

No grace ev'n Fidler could obtain,
And favourite Virgin fawn'd in vain.
The servants, to the stranger kind,
Leave trusty Rover still behind;
But Lobb, who would not seem to be
Defective in civility,

And, for removing of all doubt,
Knitting his brows, bids him get out:
By signs expresses his command,
And to the door points with his hand.
The dog, or through mistake or spight
(Grave authors have not set us right),
Fled back the very way he came,

And in the bush soon found his game;
Brought in his mouth the savoury load,,
And at his master's elbow stood.
( Lobb, what idioms can express
Thy range confusion and distress,
When on the floor the drawers display'd
The fulsome secret had bewray'd?
No traitor, when his hand and seal
Produc'd his dark designs reveal,
F'er look'd with such a hanging face,
As Lobb half-dead at this disgrace.
Wild-staring, thunder-struck, and dumb,
While peals of laughter shake the room;
Each sash thrown up to let in air,
The knight fell backward in his chair,
Laugh'd till his heart-strings almost break,
The chaplain giggled for a week;
Her ladyship began to call,
For hartshorn, and her Abigail;
The servants chuckled at the door,
And all was clariour and uproar.
Rover, who now began to quake,
As conscious of his foul mistake,
Trusts to bis heels to save his life;
The squire sneaks home, and beats his wife.

THE

INQUISITIVE BRIDEGROOM:

A TALE.

FRANK PLUME, a spark about the town,
Now weary of intriguing grown,
Thought it adviseable to wed,
And chuse a partner of his bed,

Virtuous and chaste-Aye, right-but where
Is there a nymph that's chaste as fair;

A blessing to be priz'd, but rare.
For continence penurious Heaven
With a too sparing hand has given;
A plant but seldom to be found,
And thrives but ill on British ground.
Should our adventurer haste on board,
And see what foreign soils afford?
Where watchful dragens guard the prize,
And jealous dons have Argus' eyes,
Where the rich casket, close immur'd,

Is under lock and key secur'd?

No-Frank, by long experience wise,
Had known these forts took by surprise.
Nature in spite of art prevail'd,
And all their vigilance had fail'd.

The youth was puzzled-should he go
And scale a convent? would that do?
Is nuns-flesh always good and sweet?
Fly-blown sometimes, not fit to eat.
Well-he resolves to do his best,
And prudently contrives this test;
If the last favour I obtain,

And the nymph yield, the case is plain:
Marry'd, she'll play the same odd prank
With others--she 's no wife for Frank.
But, could I find a female heart
Impregnable to force or art,

That all my batteries could withstand,
The sap, and even sword in hand;
Ye gods! how happy should I be,
From each perplexing thought set free,
From cuckoldom, and jealousy!
The project pleas'd. He now appears,
And shines in all his killing airs,
And every useful toy prepares,
New opera tunes, and billet-doux,
The clouded cane, and red-heel'd shoes;
Nor the clock-stocking was forgot,
Th' embroider'd coat, and shoulder-knot:
All that a woman's heart might move,
The potent trumpery of love.
Here importunity prevails,

There tears in floods, or sighs in gales.
Now, in the lucky moment try'd,
Low at his feet the fair one dy'd,
For Strephon would not be deny'd.
Then, if no motives could persuade,
A golden shower debauch'd the maid
The mistress truckled, and obey'd.
To molesty a sham pretence
Gain'd some, others impertinence;
But most, plain downright impudence.
Like Cæsar, now he conquer'd all,
The vassal sex before him fall;
Where'er he march'd, slaughter ensued,
He came, he saw, and he subdued.
At length a stubborn nymph he found,
For bold Camilla stood her ground;
Parry'd his thrusts with equal art,
And had him both in tierce and quart:
She kept the hero still in play,
And still maintain'd the doubtful day.
Here he resolves to make a stand,
Take her, and marry out of hand.
The jolly priest soon ty'd the knot,
The luscious tale was not forgot,
Then empty'd both his pipe and pot.
The posset drunk, the stocking thrown,
The candles out, the curtains drawn,
And sir and madam all alone;

"My dear," said he, I strove, you know,
To taste the joys you now bestow,
All my persuasive arts I try'd,
But still r lentiess you deny'd;
Tell me, inexorable fair,

How could you, thus attack'd, forbear?"
"Swear to forgive what's past," she cry'd;
"The nak. d truth shan't be deny'd,"
He did; the baggage thus reply'd:
Deceiv'd so many times before
By your false sex, I raslly swore,
Te trust deceitful man no inore.

Tom Ruby, troth, you 're much to blame, To drink at this confounded rate,

To guzzle thus, early and late!"

Poor Tom, who just had took his whet, And at the door his uncle met, Surpris'd and thunder-struck, would fain Make his escape, but, oh! in vain. Each blush, that glow'd with an ill grace, Lighted the flambeaux in his face; No loop-hole left, no slight pretence To palliate the foul offence.

"I own," said he, "I'm very bad-
A sot incorrigibly mad-

But, sir-I thank you for your love,
And by your lectures would improve :
Yet, give me leave to say, the street
For conference is not so meet.
Here in this room-nay, sir, come in→
Expose, chastise me for my sin;
Exert each trope, your utmost art,
To touch this senseless, flinty heart
I'm conscious of my guilt, 'tis true,
But yet I know my frailty too;
A slight rebuke will never do.
Urge home my faults-come in, I pray-
Let not my soul be cast away."

Wise Ebony, who deem'd it good
T'encourage by all means he could
These first appearances of grace,
Follow'd up stairs, and took his place.
The bottle and the crust appear'd,

And wily Tom demurely sneer'd

My duty, sir!"--"Thank you, kind Tom !" "Again,an't please you!"--" Thank you! Come—-” "Sorrow is dry-I must once morc-"

Nay Tom, I told you at the door

I would not drink-what! before dinner?-
Not one glass more, as I 'm a sinner-
Come, to the point in hand; is 't fit

A man of your good sense and wit

Those parts which Heaven bestow'd should drown,
A butt to all the sots in town?

Why tell me, Tom-What fort can stand
(Though regular, and bravely mann'd)
If night and day the fierce foe plies
With never-ceasing batteries;
Will there not be a breach at last ?"-
"Uncle, 'tis true-forgive what's past."
"But if nor interest, nor fame,

Nor health, can your dull soul reclaim,
Hast not a conscience, man? no thought
Of an hereafter? dear are bought
These sensual pleasures."-" I relent,
Kind sir-but give your zeal a vent-"
Then, pouting, hung his head; yet still
Took care his uncle's glass to till,
Which as his hurry'd spirits sunk,
Env.ittingly, good man! he drunk.
Each part, alas! drew on the next,
Old Ebony stuck to his text,
Grown warn, like any angel spoke,
Till intervening hickups broke
The well-strung argument. Poor Toma
Was now too forward to reel home.

That preaching still, this still repenting,
Both equally to drink consenting,
Till both brimfull could swill no more,
And fell dead drunk upon the floor.

Bacchus, the jolly god, who sate
Wide straddling o'er his tun in state,
Close by the window side, from whence
He heard this weighty conference;
Joy kindling in his ruddy cheeks,
Thus the indulgent godhead speaks:
"Frail mortals know, Reason in vain
Rebels, and would disturb my reign.
See there the sophister o'erthrown,
With stronger arguments knock'd down
Than e'er in wrangling schools were known!
The wine that sparkles in this glass
Smooths every brow, gilds every face:
As vapours when the Sun appears,
Far hence anxieties and fears:

Grave ermine smiles, lawn sleeves grow gay,

Each haughty monarch owns my sway,
And cardinals and popes obey:
Ev'n Cato drank his glass, 'twas I
Taught the brave patriot how to die
For injur'd Rome and Liberty;
'Twas I who with immortal lays
Inspir'd the bard that sung his praise.
Let dull unsociable fools

Loll in their cells, and live by rules;
My votaries, in gay delight
And mirth, shall revel all the night;
Act well their parts on life's dull stage,
And make each moment worth an age."

His pension was ill-paid and strait,

Full many a loyal hero's fate:

Often half starv'd, and often out

At elbows, an hard case, no doubt.
Sometimes perhaps a lucky main
Prudently manag`d in Long-Lane
Repair'd the thread-bare beau again;
And now and then some secret favours,
The kind returns of pious labours,
Eurich'd the strong and vigorous lover,
His honour liv'd a while in clover.
For (to say truth) it is but just,
Where all things are decay'd but lust,
That ladies of maturer ages
Give citron-water and good wages.
Thus far Tom Wild had made a shift,
And got good helps at a dead lift;

As both went supperless to bed
One night (first scratching of his head)
Alas!" quoth John, sir, 'tis hard fare
To suck one's thumb, and live on air;
To reel from pillar unto post,

An empty shade, a walking ghost;
To hear one 's guts make piteous moan,
Those worst of duns, and yet not one,
One mouldy scrap to satisfy
Their craving importunity.
Nay-Good your honour please to hear"
(And then the varlet dropt a tear
"A project form'd in this dull brain,
Shall set us all adrift again;

A project, sir, nay, let me tell ye,
Shall fill your pockets, and my belly.
Know then, old Gripe is dead of late,
Who purchas'd at an easy rate,
Your manor-house and fine estate.
Nay, stare not sir: by G-'tis true
The devil for once has got his due:
The rascal has left every penny,
To his old maiden sister Jenny:
Go, clasp the dowy in your arins,
Nor want you bread, though she want charms:
Cajole the dirty drab, and then

The man shall have his mare again;
Clod-Hall is yours, your house, your rents,

And all your lands, and tenements."

"Faith, John," said he, (then lick'd his chops) "This project gives indeed some hopes:

But cursed hard the terms, to marry,

To stick to one and never vary;

And that one old and ugly too:

Frail mortals, tell me what to do?”