Such was the Way, as witty Ovid taught,

Strange was the Miracle, and odd the Thought:
Tho' Nic. Wants PEBBLES for a Work fo coarse,
His Voice alone had fhewn a nobler Force;

A ftranger Species from his Notes had sprung,
A tuneful Race, and ready cut for Song,

Whose airy Forms had warbled in a Paste,

More foft than Man's, and more than Woman's chaste.

Lament ye Beaus, and figh ye Powder'd Swains,
Curfe your dull Snuff, and hurl away your Canes;
Tear, tear your Wigs, which could of Conqueft boast;
They could, alas! but now their Empire's loft ;
Fair Chloe's Heart a mightier Rival Charms,
Cold to the kneeling World, to Him fhe warms;
Her Nicolini is the moving Theme,

He, happy He, who foftens ev'ry Dream,

Ah the plump, tender Thing, there's Mufick in his Name!
Her once lov'd Poll now mourns his abject Fate,

His Noife grows dull, and idle is his Prate;
And Prince, the Darling of her Soul before,

Half famish'd, lies neglected on the Floor,
Penfive he shakes his Ears, and cocks his Tail no more.

Ye blooming Nymphs, who warily begin
To dread the Cenfure, but to love the Sin,
Who with falfe Fears, from your Pursuers run,
And filthy Nudities in Picture fhun;

}

From

From Scandal free, this pretty PLAY-THING meet,
Cool as May-Dew, and as its Butter sweet,

Such is the YOUTH, refift him if ye can,

This Foreign Curiofity of Man;

Who gently leaning on the Fair One's Breast,
May footh her Griefs, and lull her into Rest.
And fhould He, fhould He, like her Squirrel, creep
To her foft Bofome, when she's fall'n asleep,

Ev'n then fhe's fafe, nor need fhe fear Him more,
Than those kind Aids which eas'd her Heart before.

All hail Hibernia, ever brisk and young!

Oh Nymph moft heav'nly wife, and worthy of my Song!
Quick to comply with ev'ry Lover's Call,
Fond to be Jilted, and Enjoy'd by all;
Proud to fubmit, and easy to become
The Statefman's Fiddle, or the Soldier's Drum;
Curft with the Fate of ev'ry Common Whore,
Still to be wondrous Gay, and wondrous Poor.

So have I seen in melancholy State, The wretched Lunatick lament her Fate,

Vow that she's wrong'd, which all her Neighbours know,

Then name the cruel Authors of her Woe;

Thus whil'ft fhe raves, the merry Fit returns,

Now for the Park, or for the Ring fhe burns;
Pins, Straws, and Paint are on the Table spread,
And gawdy Frippery adorns her Head:

Then

Then if the hears a brisk Crowdero's Strains,

Lightly the bounds from Earth, forgets her Pains, Sings in her Rags, and dances in her Chains.

SONG.

I.

OME old TIME, and use thy Sickle,

Co

Life's a Weight I cannot bear;

Cares are conftant, Fortune fickle,

All our Joys but Trifles are.

II.

Friends are Shadows that deceive us,

In our Wants they disappear;

The World's too bafe for Heav'n to give us

Any real Bleffings here.

Return'd, to grace his Mother's Court,
In Triumph leading bleeding Hearts,
All over Love, all over Darts;

He wander'd thro' a Myrtle Shade,
And faw a lonely, lovely Maid.

No fooner did young Mafter 'fpy

The Virgin's foft refulgent Eye,

Than down his Arms and Hearts he threw;
And, languishing full in her View,
'Tis done, he faid! fee, Mars and Jove,
See, all ye Gods! fee CUPID'S Love!

To

To Venus, when at last he came, Without his Tackle and his Game; Without his Bow, without a Dart; Without his own, or any Heart;

The Goddess cry'd, Alas, my Son!

Where haft Thou been? What haft Thou done?

He figh'd, and answer'd with a Groan,

She ftole my Hearts, she stole

my own.
The matchlefs Beauties of her Face,
The Wonders that her Perfon grace,
The Charm in all fhe does or fays,
Her killing Smiles, her winning Ways,
Her Wit, her Coyness, all agree,
In fpight of Fate, to vanquish me.

Lefs angry, Venus, at her Son, Than to find her felf out-done;

Cry'd, This is Fanny G----d, I know well!

Ah, no; Mamma, 'tis Jenny St-7.