Imatges de pÓgina

Why should my shepherd take amiss,
That oft I wake thee with a kiss ?

of ev'ry kiss complain ;
Ah, is not love a pleasing pain?
A pain which every happy night
You cure with ease and with delight;
With pleasure, as the poet sings,
Too great for mortals less than kings.

Chloe, when on thy breast I lie,
Observes me with revengeful eye:
If Chloe o'er thy heart prevails

She'll tear me with her desp’rate nails;
And with relentless hands destroy
The tender pledges of our joy.
Nor have I bred a spurious race;
They all were born from thy embrace.

Confider, Strephon, what you do ; For, fhall I die for love of you, I'll haunt thy dreams, a bloodless ghoft; An i all my kin, a num'rous hoft,

o down direct our lineage bring Fi in vico:s o'er the Memphian king; (sour'd in feges and campaigns, ivao nuver fled the bloody plains,


Who in tempestuous seas can sport,
And scorn the pleasures of a court;
From whom great Sylla found his doom;
Who scourg’d to death that fcourgeof Rome,
Shall on thee take a vengeance dire;
Thou, like Alcides, shalt expire,
When his envenom’d shirt he wore,
And skin and flesh in pieces tore.
Nor less that shirt, my rivals gift,
Cut from the piece that made her shift,
Shall in thy dearest blood be dy’d,
And make thee tear thy tainted hide.


A N O T H E R.

Written in the Year 1735.

EPRIV'D of root, and branch, and

Yet flow’rs I bear of ev'ry kind;
And such is my prolific pow'r,
They bloom in less than half an hour :
Yet standers-by may plainly see
They get no nourishment from me.
My head with giddiness goes round;
And yet I firmly stand my ground:

All over naked I am feen,
And painted like an Indian queen.
No couple- beggar in the land,
E'er join'd such numbers hand in hand;
I join them fairly with a ring;
Nor can our parson blame the thing:
And, tho' no marriage words are spoke,
They part not till the ring is broke,
Yet hypocrite fanaticks cry,
I'm but an idol rais'd on high:
And once a weaver in our town,
A damnd Cromwellian, knock'd me down.
I lay a pris’ner twenty years,
And then the jovial cavaliers
To their old post restor'd all three,
I mean the church, the king, and me.

VERSES on the upright Judge who con

denned ihe Drapier's Printer.

Written in the Year 1724.

HE church I hate, and have good

; For there my grandfire cut his weazon : He cut his weazon at the altar; I keep my gullet for the halter.

On the same. IN N church your grandfire cut his throat:

To do the job too long he tarry'd, He should have had my hearty vote,

To cut his throat before he marry’d.

On the same.

(The Judge Speaks.)

M not the grandson of that ass * Quin;

Nor can you prove it, Mr. Pasquin.
My grand-dame had gallants by twenties,
And bore my mother by a 'prentice.
This when my grandsire knew, they tell

us he

In Christ-church cut his throat for jealousy. And, since the alderman was mad you say, Then I must be fo too, ex traduce.

* An alderman.


A SIMILE, on our Want of Silver, and

the only way to remedy it.

Written in the Year 1725.

S when of old some, forc'ress threw

O'er the moon's face a fable hue, To drive unseen her magic chair, At midnight through the darken’d air; Wise people, who believ’d with reason That this eclipse was cut of season, Afirm'd the moon was sick, and fell To cure her by a counter-spell. Ten thousands cymbals now begin To rend the skies with brazen din; The cymbals rattling founds dispel The cloud, and drive the hag to hell : The moon, deliver’d from her pain, Displays her silver face again. (Note here, that in the chemic ítyle, The moon is fiver all this while.)

So (if my fimile you minded, Which I confefs is too long winded) Theo late a feminine magician *, Join'd viih a brazen politician, A greai lady is reported to have been bribed by Word.


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