But I must tell you, (you'll excufe
My friendly, though plain-dealing Mufe)
In her own hands is all her dower;
There's not a groat within your power;
And yet you're whoring with the Nine;
With them you breakfast, sup, and dine,
With them you spend your days and nights
Is't fitting she should bear fuch flights?
Beggarly, ballad-finging carrions,

Can they advance you to the barons ?

You've made me too an old Tom Dingle,
And I, forfooth, must try to jingle.

Your lady would not do you wrong;

She owns you're tender yet, and young-
She'd wink at now and then a fong:

But ftill expects to share the time,
Which now is all beftow'd on rhyme,
Read in the morning Hobbes de Homine,
At noon, e'en fport with your Melpomene,
Youngster, I've fomething more to say,
To wean you from this itch of play.
In his Officiis old Marc Tully,
'Mongft certain points he handles fully
(A book I ever must delight in
Far beyond all that fince is written!)--
He tells us there, our parents' praise
Their childrens' virtue ought to raise :

Their worth and praife fhould prick us on
To labour after like renown.

Who but thy father has been able,
Since Hercules, to cleanse a stable?
About his ears how ftrange a rattle!
Who ever stood fo tough a battle?
H' has tam'd the most unruly cattle.-
Just two fuch jobbs as yet remain
To be difpatch'd by you and BEN b.
Your father with Herculean club
The tyrants of our fouls did drub;
BEN for our bodies, you our chattels,
Muft undertake the self-fame battles.
The world on you have fix'd their eyes,
'Tis you must quell these tyrannies :
So fhall fome title, now unknown,
Bangorian-like your labours crown.
Ravish'd, methinks, in thought I fee
The univerfal liberty.

But after all, I know what's in you:
You'll do't, a thoufand to one guinea.
Time flies-the work and pleafure's great:
Begin, before it grows too late.

Where the plays ftand, the ftatutes lodge;

And dance not, 'till you dance a judge c;

Dr. Benjamin Hoadly, the physician. 2

Alluding to the custom, now abolished, of a new-made judge's daneing in the hall of the fociety to which he belonged with the oldest and graveft members of it,

Then,

Then, though you are not half so taper,
My Lord, you'll cut a higher caper.

To the Rey. Mr. J. STRAIGHT.

SIR,

By J. HOADLY.

ROMISES are different cafes

PROM

At various times, in various places.

In crowded street of Arlington",
Where flaves of hope to levées run,
A promise fignifies no more,
Than in the chamber of a whore.
And when the good deceiv'd Sir Francis
With madam up from Yorkfhire dances,
To claim the great man's promise given
Some fix years fince, or (some fay) seven;
No one can blame that curious writer,
That fays, they'll both return the lighter.
But can we hence affirm that no mifs

Of all the fex can keep a promise?
Or fay, from what our courtier fpeaks,
That all men's faiths are paper-cakes?

Where Sir Robert Walpole then refided.

That

That courts make rogues is my belief,
As 'tis the mill that makes the thief..
But 'caufe one limb is none o' th' beft,
Shall I for that cut off the reft?

Sure it may be with fafety faid,
A parson's promise, duly made
Beneath a prelate's holy roof,
Muft ftand 'gainst all affaults a proof.
Yet he, who thinks the church unshaken,
May find himself in time mistaken.

I know the man, and grieve to fay't,
Who fo did fail-and that was STRAIGHT.
And can we then no more depend on

Our good forgetful friend at Findon,
Than on a courtier promifeful,

Or a whore's oath to cheat her cull?
Can STRAIGHT no better promise keep?
If that were true-I e'en fhould weep.

In Sarum's town when last we met,
I told you 'mongst much other prate,
That my design was to withdraw,
And leave the craggy paths of law:
And as the skilful pilot steers
Wide of the dreadful rocks he fears,
And in the fafer ocean rides,
Nor fears his veffel's bulging fides,
So I from Coke's and Croke's reports,
And fpecial pleadings of the courts,

Had

Didft thou not promise then and there,
(But promises are china-ware)

Didst thou not promise, as I fpoke,
That you'd ere long your Muse invoke,
And cloath'd in ftrong harmonious line,
Send counsel to the young divine?
Where of thy word then is the troth,
Which I thought good as any oath ?
Or where that strong harmonious line,
Blefs'd by each fister of the Nine?

That whore we speak of i' th' beginning,
Hath fome excufe to make for finning:
Her tongue and tail are taught deceit
From her not knowing where to eat.
The courtier too hath some excufe
To think word-breaking fmall abuse:
And 'midft the hurry, noife, and bustle,
Of crowds, that at his levée jostle,
No man can be in fuch a taking
To fee a little promise-breaking.
But what indulgence, what excufe,
Can plead for thee, or for thy Mufe?
For thee, on whom the fifters wait,

Pleas'd with the tafk impos'd by STRAIGHT;

Whom at his christ'ning they did dip

O'er head and ears in Aganip;

5

For