And 'twas but juft; for wife men say,
That every dog muft have his day.
Dog Walpole laid a quart of nog on't,
He'd either make a bog or dog on't;
And look'd, fince he has got his wifh,
As if he had thrown down a difb.
Yet this I dare foretel you from it,
He'll foon return to his own vomit.

Whig. Befides, this horrid plot was found
By Neynoe, after he was drown'd.

Tory. Why then the proverb is not right,
Since you can teach dead dogs to bite.
Whig. I prov'd my propofition full :
But Jacobites are ftrangely dull.
Now let me tell you plainly, Sir,
Our witness is a real cur,

A dog of spirit for his years,

Has twice two legs, two hanging ears;
His name is Harlequin, I wot,
And that's a name in every plot :
Refolv'd to fave the British nation,
Though French by birth and education;
His correspondence plainly dated,
Was all decypher'd and translated :
His answers were exceeding pretty
Before the fecret wife committee:
Confefs'd as plain as he could bark;
Then with his fore-foot fet his mark.

Tory. Then all this while have I been bubbled,

I thought it was a dog in doublet:
The matter now no longer sticks;

For statesmen never want dog-tricks.
But fince it was a real cur,
And not a dog in metaphor,
I give you joy of the report,
That he's to have a place at court.

Wbig. Yes, and a place he will grow rich in ;
A turn-fpit in the royal kitchen.
Sir, to be plain, I tell you what,
We had occafion for a plot :
And, when we found the dog begin it,
We guefs'd the bishop's foot was in it.
Tory. I own it was a dangerous project;
And you have prov'd it by dog-logic.
Sure fuch intelligence between
A dog and bishop ne'er was feen,
Till you began to change the breed;
Your bishops all are dogs indeed!

She look'd on partridges with fcorn,
Except they tafted of the corn;
A haunch of venison made her sweat,
Unless it had the right fumette.
Don Carlos earnestly would beg,
Dear madam, try this pigeon's leg;
Was happy, when he could prevail
To make her only touch a quail.
Through candle-light fhe view'd the wine,
To fee that every glass was fine.
At laft, grown prouder than the devil
With feeding high and treatment civil,
Don Carlos now began to find
His malice work as he design'd.
The winter-fky began to frown;
Poor Stella muft pack off to town:

From purling streams and fountains bubbling,
To Liffy's ftinking tide at Dublin ;
From wholesome exercife and air,
To foffing in an easy chair;

From ftomach fharp, and hearty feeding,
To piddle like a lady breeding;
From ruling there the household fingly,
To be directed here by Dingley *;
From every day a lordly banquet,
To half a joint, and God be thanked;
From every meal Pontack in plenty,
To half a pint one day in twenty;
From Ford attending at her call,
To vifits of

From Ford who thinks of nothing mean
To the poor doings of the Dean;
From growing richer with good cheer,
To running-out by starving here.

But now arrives the dismal day;
She muft return to Ormond Quay f.
The coachman ftopt; fhe look'd, and swore
The rafcal had mistook the door :
At coming in, you saw her stoop;
The entry brush'd against her hoop:
Each moment rising in her airs,
She curft the narrow winding stairs;
Began a thousand faults to spy:
The cieling hardly fix feet high;
The smutty wainscoat full of cracks;
And half the chairs with broken backs:
Her quarter's out at Lady-day;
She vows the will no longer ftay
In lodgings like a poor Grizette,
While there are lodgings to be let.
Howe'er to keep her spirits up,
She fent for company to sup :
When all the while you might remark,
She ftrove in vain to ape Wood-park.
Two bottles call'd for (half her store;
The cupboard could contain but four):
A fupper worthy of herself,
Five nothings in five plates of delf.

Thus for a week the farce went on
When, all her country-favings gone,
She fell into her former fcene,
Small beer, a herring, and the Dean.
Thus far in jest: though now, I fear,
You think my jefting too fevere;

The conflant companion of Steila.
Where the two ladies lodged.

But poets, when a hint is new,
No matter whether falfe or true :
Yet raillery gives no offence,

Where truth has not the leaft pretence;
Nor can be more fecurely plac'd
Than en a nymph of Stella's tafte.
I muft confefs, your wine and vittle
I was too hard upon a little :
Your the neat, your linen fine;
And, though in miniature, you shine:
Yet, ie you figh to leave Wood-park,
The ice, the welcome, and the spark,
Tengah in this odious town,
All your haughty ftomach down;
We think you quite mistake the cafe,
The virtue lies not in the place:
Far, though my raillery were true,
A cottage is Wood-park with you.

COPY OF THE BIRTH-DAY VERSES ON MR. FORD.

Com, be content, fince out it must,

Stella has betray'd her truft;

And whiipering, charg'd me not to fay
That Mr. Ford was born to-day;

fat laft I needs muft blab it,
According to my ufual habit,
bid me, with a serious face,
are conceal the time and place;
set my compliment to spoil,
calling this your native foil;

the ladies, when they knew
you are turning forty-two:
thefe topics fhall appear
garguments to keep you here,
, though you judge hardly of it,
manners must give place to profit.
The symphs with whom you first began
ach become a barridan ;
Montague fo far decay'd,
overs now muft all be paid;
very belle that fince arose
contemporary beaux.
armer comrades, once fo bright,
W whom you toasted half the night,
amatiim and pox complain,
d adieu to dear champaign.
great protectors, once in power,
in exile or the Tower.
euroes triumphant o'er the laws,
hate your perfon and your cause,
fee they get you on the spot,
ot be guilty of the plot :
Bor, true or falfe, they'll ne'er inquire,

a ten times worfe than Prior.

la London! what would you do there?

, my friend, with patience bear
Nay, would it not your paffion raife
Wore than a pun, or Irish phrase?)
fee a coundrel ftrut and hector,
t-bey to fome rogue director,
ook on vice triumphant round,
virtue trampled on the ground?
ve where bloody * * * * * ftands
torturing engines in his hands;

To. IX

Hear him blafpheme, and swear, and rail,
Threatening the pillory and jail:
If this you think a pleafing fcene,
To London straight return again;
Where, you have told us from experience,
Are fwarms of bugs and prefbyterians.

I thought my very fpleen woeld burst,
When fortune hither drove me first;
Was full as hard to please as you,
Nor perfons names nor places knew:
But now I act as other folk,
Like prifoners when their jail is broke.
If you have London itill at heart,
We'll make a fmall one here by art:
The difference is not much between
St. James's Park, and Stephen's Green;
And Dawion-ftreet will ferve as well
To lead you thither as Pall-Wall.
Nor want a paffage through the palace,
To choke your fight, and raife your malice:
The Deanry-houfe may well be match'd,
Under correction, with the Thatcht *.
Nor fhall I, when you hither come,
Demand a crown a quart for ftum.
Then, for a middle-aged charmer,
Stella may vie with your Monthermer;
She's now as handiome every bit,
And has a thoufand times her wit.
The Dean and Sheridan, I hope,
Will half fupply a Gay and Pope.
Corbett, though yet I know his worth not,
No doubt will prove a good Arbuthnot.
I throw into the bargain Tim;
In London can you equal him?
What think you of my favourite clan,
Robin, and Jack, and Jack and Dan,
Fellows of modeft worth and parts,
With cheerful looks and honeft hearts?
Can you on Dublin look with fcorn?
Yet here were you and Ormond born.

Oh! were but you and I fo wife,
To fee with Robert Grattan's eyes!
Robin adores that spot of earth,
That literal spot which gave him birth;
And fwears," Belcamp is, to his taste,
As fine as Hampton-court at least."
When to your friends you would enhance
The praife of Italy or France,
For grandeur, elegance, and wit,
We gladly hear you, and fubmit:
But then, to come and keep a clutter,
For this or that fide of the gutter,
To live in this or t' other ifle,
We cannot think it worth your while;
For, take it kindly or amifs,

The difference but amounts to this:
We bury on our fide the channel
In linen; and on yours in flannel §.

You for the news are ne'er to feek;
While we, perhaps, may wait a week:
You happy folks are fure to meet
An hundred whores in every street;
While we may trace all Dublin o'er
Before we find out half a score.

You fee my arguments are ftrong;
I wonder you held out fo long:
But, fince you are convinc'd at laft,
We'll pardon you for what is past.
So---let us now for whift prepare;
Twelve-pence a corner, if you dare.

JOAN CUDGELS NED. 1723. JOAN cudgels Ned, yet Ned 's a bully; Will cudgels Befs, yet Will's a cully. Die Ned and Befs; give Will to Joan, She dares not fay her life 's her own. Die Joan and Will; give Befs to Ned, And every day he combs his head.

A QUIBBLING ELEGY,
ON JUDGE BOAT. 1723.

To mournful ditties, Clio, change thy note,
Since cruel fate hath funk our juftice Boat.
Why should he fink, where nothing feem'd to
prefs,

His lading little, and his ballat lefs?

Toft in the waves of this tempeftuous world,
At length, his anchor fixt and canvas furl'd,
To Lazy-hill retiring from his court,
At his Ring's-end he founders in the port.
With water fill'd, he could no longer ficat,
The common death of many a ftronger boat.

A poft fo fill'd on nature's laws entrenches:
Benches on boats are plac'd, not boats on benches.
And yet our Boat (how fhall I reconcile it?)
Was both a Boat, and in one fenfe a pilot.
With every wind he fail'd, and well could tack;
Had many pendents, but abhorr'd a Jack ‡.
He's gone, although his friends began to impe
That he might yet be lifted by a rope.

Behold the awful bench, on which he fat!
He was as hard and ponderous wood as that:
Yet, when his fand was out, we find at laft,
That death has overfet him with a blaft.
Our Boat is now fail'd to the Stygian ferry,
There to fupply old Charon's leaky wherry:
Charon in him will ferry fouls to hell;

A trade our Boat § hath practis'd here fo well:
And Cerberus hath ready in his paws
Both pitch and brimstone, to fill up his flaws.
Yet, spite of death and fate, I here maintain
We may place Boat in his old post again.
The way is thus; and well deferves your thanks:
Take the three ftrongeft of his broken planks,
Fix them on high, confpicuous to be seen,
Form'd like the triple-tree near Stephen's-green ||;

*Two villages near the fer.

It was faid he died of a droply.
A cant word for a facobite.

In condensing malefactors, as a judge.
Where the Dublin gallows ftands.

And, when we view it thus with thief at on 't, [the penda We'll cry, Look, here's our Boat, and the

THE EPITAPH.

HERE lies judge Boat within a coffin;
Pray, gentle folks, forbear your fcoffing.
A Boat a judge! yes; where's the blunder?
A wooden judge is no fuch wonder.
And in his robes, you must agree,
No Boat was better deckt than he.
'Tis needless to defcribe him fuller;
In fhort, he was an able fculler.

PETHOX THE GREAT.

FROM Venus born, thy beauty shows;
But who thy father, no man knows:
Nor can the fkilful herald trace
The founder of thy ancient race;
Whether thy temper, full of fire,
Difcovers Vulcan for thy fire,
The god who made Scamander boil,
And round his margin fing'd the foil
(From whence, philofophers agree,
An equal power defcends to thee);
Whether from dreadful Mars you claim
The high defcent from whence you came,
And, as a proof, fhow numerous fears
By fierce encounters made in wars,
Those honourable wounds you bore
From head to foot, and all before,
And ftill the bloody field frequent,
Familiar in each leader's tent;
Or whether, as the learn'd contend,
You from the neighbouring Gaul descend;
Or from Parthenope the proud,
Where numberless thy votaries crowd;
Whether thy great forefather came
From realms that bear Vefputio's name
(For fo conjecturers would obtrude,
And from thy painted skin conclude);
Whether, as Epicurus fhows,
The world from juftling feeds arofe,
Which, mingling with prolific ftrife
In chaos, kindled into life:
So your production was the fame,
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 ftrow'd.
The bird of Pallas knows his post,
Thee to attend, where'er thou goeft.

Byzantians boaft, that on the clod Where once their Sultan's horfe had trod, Grows neither grafs, nor fhrub, nor tree: The fame thy fubjects boast of thee.

The greatest lord, when you appear,
Will deign your livery to wear,
In all the various colours feen
Of red and yellow, blue and green.
With half a word, when you require,
The man of business muft retire.

*This name is plainly an anagram.

The haughty minifter of state
With trembling muft thy leisure wait;
And, while his fate is in thy hands,
The bufinefs of the nation ftands.

Thon dar'ft the greatest prince attack,
Can hourly fet him on the rack;
And, as an inftance of thy power,
Inclcle him in a wooden tower.
With pungent pains on every fide:
5 Regulus in torments dy'd.

From thee our youth all virtues learn, Dangers with prudence to discern; And well thy fcholars are endued With temperance, and with fortitude; With patience, which all ills fupports; And lecrecy, the art of courts.

The glittering beau could hardly tell, Without your aid, to read or fpell; But, having long convers'd with you, Kows how to write a billet-doux.

With what delight, methinks, I trace Your blood in every noble race! In whom thy features, fhape, and mien, Are to the life diftinctly seen! The Britons, once a favage kind, By you were brighten'd and refin'd, Descendants to the barbarous Huns, With limbs robuft, and voice that ftuns: But you have moulded them afresh, Remov'd the tough fuperfluous flesh, Taught them to modulate their tongues, And speak without the help of lungs. Protens on you beftow'd the boon To change your vifage like the moon; You sometimes half a face produce, Keep t'other half for private use.

How fam'd thy conduct in the fight With Hermes, fon of Pleias bright! Cat-number'd, half-encompass'd round, You ftrove for every inch of ground; Then, by a foldiery retreat, Retir'd to your imperial seat. The victor, when your steps he trac'd, Fund all the realms before him wafte: You, o'er the high triumphal arch tific, made your glorious march; The wondrous arch behind you fell, And left a chaím profound as hell: You, in your capitol fecur'd, A lege as long as Troy endur'd.

Knave in your teeth, Mr. Sheridan! 'tis both fhame and a fin;

And the Dean, my master, is an honefter man than you and all your kin:

He has more goodness in his little finger, than you have in your whole body:

My mafter is a parfonable man, and not a spindlethank'd hoddy-doddy.

And now, whereby I find you would fain make an excufe,

Because my mafter one day, in anger, call'd you goole ;

Which, and I am fure I have been his fervant four years fince October,

And he never call'd me worse than fweet-heart, drunk or fober:

Not that I know his reverence was ever concern'd to my knowledge,

Though you and your come-rogues keep him out fo late in your college.

You fay you will eat grafs on his grave: a chriftian eat grafs !

Whereby you now confefs yourself to be a goofe

or an afs:

But that's as much as to fay, that my mafter fhould die before ye;

Well, well, that 's as God pleases; and I don't believe that's a true story:

And fo fay I told you fo, and you may go tell my mafter; what care I?

And I don't care who knows it; 'tis all one to Mary,

Every body knows that I love to tell truth and fhame the devil;

I am but a poor servant; but I think gentlefolks fhould be civil.

Befides, you found fault with our victuals one day that you was here:

I remember it was on a Tuesday of all days in the year.

And Saunders the man fays you are always jeft ing and mocking:

Mary, faid he, (one day as I was mending my mafter's ftocking),

My mafter is fo fond of that minifter that keeps

the fchool-.

I thought my mafter a wife man, but that man makes him a fool.

Saunders, faid I, I would rather than a quart of ale

He would come into our kitchen, and I would pin a difh-clout to his tail.

And now I must go, and get Saunders to direct this letter;

For I write but a fad fcrawl; but my fifter Marget, the writes better.

Well, but I muft run and make the bed, before my mafter comes from prayers; And fee now, it strikes ten, and I hear him coming up stairs;

Whereof I could fay more to your verses, if I could write written hand :

And so I remain, in a civil way, your fervant to command,

Eij

MARY.

RETURNING Janus now prepares,
For Bec, a new fupply of cares,
Sent in a bag to Doctor Swift,
Who thus difplays the New-year's-gift.
First, this large parcel brings you tidings
Of our good Dean's eternal chidings;
Of Nelly's pertnefs, Robin's leafings,
And Sheridan's perpetual teafings.
This box is cramm'd on every fide
With Stella's magifterial pride.
Behold a cage with fparrows fill'd,
Firit to be fondled, then be kill'd. ·
Now to this hamper I invite you,
With fix imagin'd cares to fright you.
Here in this bundle Janus fends
Concerns by thousands for your friends:
And here's a pair of leathern pokes,
To hold your cares for other folks.
Here from this barrel you may broach
A peck of troubles for a coach.

This ball of wax your ears will darken,
Still to be curious, never hearken. :
Left you the town may have lefs trouble in,
Bring all your Quilca's † cares to Dublin,
For which he fends this empty fack;
And fo take all upon your back.

1

Time was, when I could yearly pay
My verfe on Stella's native day:
But now, unable grown to write,
I grieve the ever faw the light.
Ungrateful! fince to her I owe
That I thefe pains can undergo.
She tends me, like an humble flave;
And, when indecently I rave,
When out my brutish paflions break,
With gall in every word I speak,

She, with foft fpeech, my anguish cheers,
Or melts my paflions down with tears:
Although 'tis eaty to defcry

She wants afliftance more than I;
Yet feems to feel my pains alone,
And is a Stoic in her own.
When, among scholars, can we find
So foft, and yet to firm a mind?
All accidents of life confpire
To raise up Stella's virtue higher,

Or else to introduce the reft

Which had been latent in her breast.
Her firmnets who could e'er have known,
Had the not evils of her own?

Her kindness who could ever guess,
Had not her friends been in diftrefs?
Whatever bafe returns you find
From me, dear Stella, ftill be kind.

THOSE dreams that on the filent night intrude,
And with falie flitting fhades our minds delude
Jove never fends us downward from the skies;
Nor can they from infernal manfions rife ;
But all are mere productions of the brain,
And fools confult interpreters in vain.

For, when in bed we reft our weary limbs,
The mind unburden'd sports in various whims;
The bufy head with mimic art runs o'er
The fcenes and actions of the day before.

The drowsy tyrants, by his minions led, To regal-rage devotes fome patriot's head. With equal terrors, not with equal guilt, The murderer dreams of all the blood he spilt.

The foldier fmiling hears the widow's cries, And ftabs the fon before the mother's eyes. With like remorfe his brother of the trade, The butcher, fells the lamb beneath his blade.

The statesman rakes the town to find a plot, And dreams of forfeitures by treafon got.