Yes; you

а

a

11

you and all

callid my Mafter a Knave: Fie, Mr. Shea ridán, 'tis a Shame For a Parson, who shou'd know better Things, to

come out with such a Name:
Knave in your Teeth, Mr. Sheridan, 'tis both a

Shame and a Sin,
And the Dean, my Master, is an honester Man than

and all your Kin:
He has more Goodness in his little Finger, than you

have in your whole Body, My Master is a parsonable Man, and not a spindle

shank'd Hoddy-daddy.'
And now whereby I find you would fain make an

Excuse,
Because my Master one Day, in Anger, call'd you

Goose.
Which, and I am sure I have been his Servant four

Years since October,
And he never call'd me worse than Sweet-beart

drunk or sober:
Not that I know his Reverence was ever concern'd

to my Knowledge, Tho' you and your Come-rogues keep him out so late in your wicked College.

YOU

You say you will eat Grass on his Gravę; a

Christian eat Grass! Whereby you now confess your self to be a Goose

or an Ass: But that's as much as to say, that my Master should

die before ye; Well, well, that's as God pleases, and I don't be

lieve that's a třue Story, And so say I told you so, and you may go tell my

Master; what care I And I don't care who knows it, 'tiş all one to

Mary. Every Body knows that I love to tell Truth, and

shame the Devil; I am but a poor Servant, but I think gentle-Folks

should be civil. Besides, you found Fault with our Virtels one Day

that you was here, I remember it was upon a Tuesday, of all Days in

the Year. And Saunders the Man says, you are always jesting

and mocking, Mary, said he, (one Day, as I was mending my

Master's Stocking,)

My

My Master is so fond of that Minister that keeps

the School; I thought my Master a wise Man, but that Man

makes him a Fool.
Saunders, said I, I would rather than a Quart of

Ale,
He would come into our Kitchin, and I would pin

a Dish-clout to his Tail. And now I must

go,
and

get Saunders to direc thiş
Letter,
For I write but a fad Scrawl, but my

The writes better.
Well, but I must run and make the Bed before my

Master comes from Pray’rs,
And see now, it strikes Tey, and I hear him com-

Sister Marget

4

ing up Stairs:

Whereof I cou'd say more to your Verses, if I

could write written Hand; And so I remain in a civiļ Way, your Seryant to command,

MAR?

PETHOX the Great.

Written in the Year 1723.

FRO

ROM Venus born, thy Beauty shows;

But who thy Father, no Man knows;,
Nor can the skilful Herald trace
The Founder of thy antient Race.
Whether thy Temper, full of Fire,
Discovers Vulcan for thy Sire;
The God who made Scamandre boil,
And round his Margin fing'd the Soil;
(From whence Philosophers agree,
An equal Pow'r descends to thee.)
Whether from dreadful Mars you claim
The high Descent from whence you came,
And, as a Proof, shew num'rous Scars
By fierce Encounters made in Wars;
(Those honourable Wounds you bore
From Head to Foot, and all before;)

AN

And still the bloody Field frequent,
Familiar in each Leader's Tent,
Or whether, as the Learn'd contend,
You from the neighb’ring Garl descend;
Or from * Parthenope the Proud,
Where numberless thy Vot’rics crowd.
Whether thy great Forefathers came
From Realms that bear Vesputio's Name;
For fo Conjectors would obtrude,
And from thy painted Skin conclude.
Whether, as Epicurus shows
The World from joftling Seeds arose;
Which mingling with prolifick Strife
In Chaos, kindled into Life;
So your Production was the same,
And from contending Atoms came.

Thy fair indulgent Mother crown'd
Thy Head with sparkling Rubies-round;
Beneath thy decent Steps, the Road
Is all with precious Jewels (trow'd.
The Bird of Pallas knows his Post,
Thee to attend where-e'er thou go'st.

ΒΥΖΑΝ-
Napies. † Bubo, the Owl.