So cold, that, put it in the fire,
'Twill make the very flames expire:
Besides it spues a filthy froth
(Whether true rage, or lust, or both)
Of matter purulent and white,
Which happ'ning on the skin to light,
And there corrupting to a wound,
Spreads leprosy and baldness round.
So have I seen a batter'd beau,
By age and claps grown cold as snow,
Whose breath or touch, where'er he came,
Blew out Love's torch, or chill'd the flame :
And should some nymph, who ne'er was cruel,
Like Charleton cheap, or fam'd Du-Ruel,
Receive the filth which he ejects,
She soon would find the same effects
Her tainted carcase to pursue,
As from the Salamander's spue;
A dismal shedding of her locks,
And, if no leprosy, a pox.
Then I'll appeal to each by-stander,
If this be not a Salamander.
IN IMITATION OF VIRGIL'S GEORGICS.
Written in the year 1712.
CAREFUL observers may foretel the hour
(By sure prognostics) when to dread a show'r.
While rain depends the pensive cat gives o'er
Her frolics, and pursues her tail no more.
Returning home at night, you'll find the sink
Strike your offended sense with double stink.
If you be wise then go not far to dine;
You'll spend in coach-hire more than save in wine.
A coming show'r your shooting corns presage,
Old aches throb, your hollow tooth will rage: 10
Saunt'ring in coffee-house is Dul-man seen,
He damns the climate, and complains of spleen.
Mean-while the south, rising with dabbled wings, A sable cloud athwart the welkin flings,
That swill'd more liquor than it could contain, 15
And, like a drunkard, gives it up again.
Brisk Susan whips her linen from the rope,
While the first drizzling show'r is born aslope;
Such is that sprinkling which some careless queen
Flirts on you from her mop, but not so clean: 20
You fly, invoke the gods, then turning, stop
To rail; she, singing, still whirls on her mop.
Not yet the dust had shunn'd th' unequal strife,
But, aided by the wind, fought still for life,
And wafted with its foe by vi'lent gust,
'Twas doubtful which was rain and which was dust.
Ah! where must needy poets seek for aid,
When dust and rain at once his coat invade?
Sole coat, where dust cemented by the rain,
Erects the nap, and leaves a cloudy stain.
Now in contiguous drops the flood comes down, Threat'ning with deluge this devoted town. To shops in crowds the daggled females fly, Pretend to cheapen goods, but nothing buy. The Templar spruce, while ev'ry spout's abroach, 35 Stays till 'tis fair, yet seems to call a coach.
The tuck'd-up sempstress walks with hasty strides,
While streams run down her oil'd umbrella's sides.
Here various kinds, by various fortunes led,
Commence acquaintance underneath a shed.
Triumphant Tories and desponding Whigs
Forget their feuds, and join to save their wigs.
Box'd in a chair the beau impatient sits,
While spouts run clatt'ring o'er the roof by fits,
And ever and anon with frightful din
The leather sounds, he trembles from within.
So when Troy chairmen bore the wooden steed,
Pregnant with Greeks impatient to be freed,
(Those bully Greeks, who, as the Moderns do,
Instead of paying chairmen run them through) 50
Laocoon struck the outside with his spear,
And each imprison'd hero quak'd for fear.
Now from all parts the swelling kennels flow, And bear their trophies with them as they go: Filths of all hues and odours seem to tell What street they sail'd from by their sight and smell; They, as each torrent drives, with rapid force, From Smithfield or St. 'Pulchre's shape their course, And in huge confluence join'd at Snowhill ridge, Fall from the Conduit prone to Holborn bridge. 60 Sweepings from butchers' stalls, dung, guts, and blood,
Drown'd puppies, stinking sprats, all drench'd in mud,
Dead cats, and turnip-tops, come tumbling down the flood.
HORACE, BOOK I. EPIST. VII.
AND ADDRESSED TO THE EARL OF OXFORD,
HARLEY, the nation's great support,
Returning home one day from court,
(His mind with public cares possest,
All Europe's business in his breast)
Observ'd a parson near Whitehall
Cheap'ning old authors on a stall.
The priest was pretty well in case,
And shew'd some humour in his face;
Look't with an easy, careless mein,
A perfect stranger to the spleen;
Of size that might a pulpit fill,
But more inclining to sit still.
My Lord, (who, if a man may say't,
Loves mischief better than his meat)
Strenuus et fortis, causisque Philippus agendis
Clarus, ab officiis octavam circiter horam
Dum redit-
Adrasum quendam vacuâ tonsoris in umbrâ,
Cultello proprios purgantem len; nr ungues.
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