And you who boast or grieve,

What horrid wars we wage!

Of wounds receiv'd from many an eye;
Yet mean as I do, when I figh,
O fweet, O fweet Anne Page!

Hence every fond conceit

Of fhepherd or of fage;

'Tis Slender's voice, 'tis Slender's way Expreffes all you have to say,

O fweet, O fweet Anne Page!

The INVIDIOUS.

MART.

Fortune! if my prayer of old
Was ne'er folicitous for gold,
With better grace thou may'st allow
My fuppliant wish, that asks it now.
Yet think not! goddefs! I require it
For the fame end your clowns defire it.
In a well-made effectual ftring,

Fain would I fee Lividio fwing!

Hear him, from Tyburn's height haranguing,
But fuch a cur's not worth one's hanging.
Give me, O goddess! ftore of pelf,

And he will tye the knot himself.

The

I

The PRICE of an EQUIPAGE.

"Servum fi potes, Ole, non habere, "Et regem potes, Ole, non habere."

Afk'd a friend amidst the throng,

Whofe coach it was that trail'd along : "The gilded coach there-don't ye mind? That with the footmen ftuck behind."

O Sir! fays he, what! han't you feen it? 'Tis Damon's coach, and Damon in it. 'Tis odd, methinks, you have forgot

MART.

Your friend, your neighbour, and-what not!
Your old acquaintance Damon!

But faith his equipage is new."

"True;

"Blefs me, faid I, where can it end?
What madness has poffefs'd my friend?
Four powder'd flaves, and those the tallest,
Their ftomachs doubtlefs not the fmalleft!
Can Damon's revenue maintain

In lace and food, fo large a train?
Į know his land-each inch of ground-
'Tis not a mile to walk it round-
If Damon's whole eftate can bear
To keep his lad and one-horse chair,
I own 'tis past my comprehenfion."
Yes, Sir, but Damon has a pension-

Thus does falfe ambition rule us, Thus pomp delude, and folly fool us; To keep a race of flickering knaves, He grows himself the worst of flaves.

L

HINT from VOITURE.

ET Sol his annual journeys run,

And when the radiant task is done,

Confefs, through all the Globe, 'twould pofe him,

To match the charms that Celia fhews him.

And fhould he boaft he once had feen
As just a form, as bright a mein,
Yet muft it still for ever pose him,
To match-what Celia never fhews him.

INSCRIPTION,

To the memory
Of A. L. Efquire,

Juftice of the peace for this county; Who, in the whole courfe of his pilgrimage Through a trifling ridiculous world, Maintaining his proper dignity, Notwithstanding the fcoffs of ill-difpofed perfons, And wits of the age,

That ridiculed his behaviour,

Or cenfured his breeding;

Following the dictates of nature,
Defiring to ease the afflicted,
Eager to fet the prisoners at liberty,
Without having for his end

The noife, or report such things generally cause
in the world,

(As he was seen to perform them of none) But the fole relief and happiness,

Of the party in distress;

Himself refting eafy,

When he could render that fo;

Not griping, or pinching himself,
To hoard up fuperfluities;

Not coveting to keep in his poffeffion
What gives more difquietude, than pleasure;
But charitably diffusing it

To all round about him:

Making the most sorrowful countenance
To finile,

In his prefence;

Always bestowing more than he was asked,
Always imparting before he was defired;
Not proceeding in this manner,
Upon every trivial suggestion,

But the moft mature, and folemn deliberation;
With an incredible presence and undauntedness

of mind;

With an inimitable gravity and œconomy

of face;

Bidding

Bidding loud defiance

To politeness and the fashion,
Dared let a f-t.

To a FRIEND.

HAVE you ne'er feen, my gentle squire,

The humours of your kitchen fire?

Says Ned to Sal, “I lead a spade,
Why don't ye play?-the girl's afraid-
Play fomething-any thing-but play-
'Tis but to pass the time away-
Phoo-how fhe ftands-biting her nails-
As though the play'd for half her vails-
Sorting her cards, hagling and picking-
We play for nothing, dorus, chicken?—
That card will do-'blood never doubt it,
It's not worth while to think about it."

Sal thought, and thought, and mifs'd her aim,
And Ned, ne'er ftudying, won the game.

Methinks, old friend, 'tis wondrous true,
That verfe is but a game at loo.

While many a bard, that shews fo clearly
He writes for his amusement merely,
Is known to study, fret, and toil;
And play for nothing, all the while:
Or praise at moft; for wreaths of
Ne'er fignify'd a farthing more:

N 2

yore

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