'Tis all by luck that things are carry'd— He'll fuffer for it, when he 's marry'd."

Thus Sal, with tears in either eye;
While victor Ned fat tittering by.

Thus I, long envying your fuccefs,
And bent to write and study lefs,
Sate down, and fcribbled in a trice,
Juft what you fee-and you despise.

You, who can frame a tuneful song,
And hum it as you ride along;
And, trotting on the king's high-way,
Snatch from the hedge a fprig of bay;
Accept this verfe, howe'er it flows,
From one that is your friend in prose.

What is this wreath, fo green! fo fair!
Which many wish, and few must wear?
Which fome men's indolence can gain,
And fome men's vigils ne'er obtain ?
For what muft Sal or poet fue,
Ere they engage with Ned or you?
For luck in verfe, for luck at loo?

Ah no! 'tis genius gives you fame,
And Ned, through skill, fecures the game.

N 3

}

The

Go forward, cits! go forward, fquires!

Nor fcruple each, what each admires.

Life fquares not, friends, with your proceeding;
It flies, while you display your breeding;
Such breeding as one's granam preaches,
Or fome old dancing-master teaches.
O for fome rude tumultuous fellow,
Half crazy, or, at least, half mellow,
To come behind you unawares,
And fairly push you both down stairs!
But death's at hand-let me advise ye,
Go forward, friends! or he 'll surprize ye.
Befides, how infincere you are!

Do ye not flatter, lye, forfwear,
And daily cheat, and weekly pray,

And all for this-to lead the way?

Such is my theme, which means to prove,
That though we drink, or game, or love,
As that or this is most in fashion,
Precedence is our ruling paffion.
When college-students take degrees,
And pay the beadle's endless fees,
What moves that scientific body,
But the first cutting at a gawdy?

And whence fuch fhoals, in bare conditions,
That ftarve and languish as physicians,
Content to trudge the streets, and stare at
The fat apothecary's chariot ?

But that, in Charlot's chamber (fee
Moliere's "Medicin malgre lui")

1

The leach, howe'er his fortunes vary,
Still walks before th' apothecary.

Flavia in vain has wit and charms,
And all that shines, and all that warms;
In vain all human race adore her,
For-Lady Mary ranks before her.

O Celia, gentle Celia! tell us,
You who are neither vain nor jealous !
The fofteft breast, the mildest mien!
Would you not feel fome little spleen,
Nor bite your lip, nor furl your brow,
If Florimel, your equal now,

Should, one day, gain precedence of ye?
First ferv'd-though in a dish of coffee.?'
Plac'd firft, although, where you are found,
You gain the eyes of all around?

Nam'd first, though not with half the fame,

That waits my charming Celia's name ?

Hard fortune! barely to inspire
Our fix'd efteem, and fond defire!
Barely, where'er you go, to prove
The fource of univerfal love!-
Yet be content, obferving this,
Honour's the offspring of caprice:
And worth, howe'er you have purfued it,
Has now no power-but to exclude it.
You'll find your general reputation

A kind of fupplemental station.

Poor Swift, with all his worth, could ne'er,

He tells us, hope to rise a Peer;

So,

So, to fupply it, wrote for fame :

And well the wit fecur'd his aim.
A common patriot has a drift,
Not quite fo innocent as Swift:

In Britain's caufe he rants, he labours;
"He's honest, faith"-have patience, neighbours,
For patriots may fometimes deceive,
May beg their friends' reluctant leave,
To serve them in a higher sphere;
And drop their virtue, to get there.-
As Lucian tells us, in his fashion,
How fouls put off each earthly paffion,
Ere on Elyfium's flowery ftrand
Old Charon fuffer'd them to land;
So ere we meet a court's careffes,

No doubt our fouls must change their dreffes :
And fouls there be, who, bound that
Attire themselves ten times a day.

way,

If then 'tis rank which all men covet,
And faints alike and finners love it ;
If place, for which our courtiers throng
So thick, that few can get along;

For which fuch fervile toils are feen,
Who's happier than a king?—a queen.
Howe'er men aim at elevation,

'Tis properly a female passion:
Women, and beaux, beyond all measure
Are charm'd with rank's extatic pleasure.
Sir, if your drift I rightly scan,
You'd hint a beau was not a man ;

Say,

Say, women then are fond of places;
I wave all disputable cafes.

A man perhaps would fomething linger,
Were his lov'd rank to coft-a finger;
Or were an ear or toe the price on 't,
He might deliberate once or twice on 't;
Perhaps afk Gataker's advice on 't.
And many, as their frame grows old,
Would hardly purchase it with gold.

But women with precedence ever;
'Tis their whole life's fupreme endeavour;
It fires their youth with jealous rage,
And ftrongly animates their age.
Perhaps they would not fell out-right,
Or maim a limb-that was in fight;
Yet on worse terms they fometimes chufe it;
Nor ev'n in punishments refuse it.

Pre-eminence in pain, you cry!
All fierce and pregnant with reply.
But lend your patience, and your ear,
An argument fhall make it clear.
But hold, an argument may fail,

Befide my title fays, a tale.

Where Avon rolls her winding ftream,

Avon, the Mufes' favourite theme!

Avon, that fills the farmers' purses,

And decks with flowers both farms and verses,

She vifits many a fertile vale

Such was the scene of this my tale.

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For