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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 jefting and mocking:

Mary, faid he, (one day as 1 was mending my mafter's stocking ;)

My matter is fo fond of that minister that keeps the

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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 dish-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, she writes better.

Well, but I must run and make the bed, before my mafter comes from prayers;

And fee now, it strikes ten, and I hear him coming up ftairs;

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

And fo I remain, in a civil way, your servant to com




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FOR BEC*. 1723-42

RETURNING Janus now prepares,

For Bec, a new supply 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 pertness, Robin's leafings,
And Sheridan's perpetual teazings.
This box is cramm'd on every fide*
With Stella's magifterial pride.
Behold a cage with fparrows fill'd,
Firft 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.

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Mrs. Dingley, Stella's friend and companion.
A country-house of Dr. Sheridan.






To the tune of, "Ye Commons and Peers."

DINGLEY and Brent,

Wherever they went,

Ne'er minded a word that was spoken;
Whatever was faid,

They ne'er troubled their head,
But laugh'd at their own filly joking.

Should Solomon wife

In majefty rife,

And fhew them his wit and his learning;

They never would hear,

But turn the deaf ear,
As a matter they had no concern in.

You tell a good jest,

And please all the reft ;

́Comes Dingley, and asks you, What was it?

And, curious to know,

Away fhe will go

To feek an old rag in the closet.

* Dr. Swift's house-keeper.





Written on the DAY of her BIRTH, but not on

the SUBJECT, when I was fick in Bed.

TORMENTED with inceffant pains,

Can I devise poetic strains?

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

She, with soft speech, my anguish chears,
Or melts my paffions down with tears:
Although 'tis easy to descry

She wants affiftance 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 so firm a mind?
All accidents of life confpire
To raise up Stella's virtue higher;
Or elfe to introduce the rest

Which had been latent in her breast.

U 2



Her firmness 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 distress?
Whatever bafe returns you find
From me, dear Stella, ftill be kind.
your own heart you '11 reap
the fruit,
Though I continue ftill a brute.
But, when I once am out of pain,
I promise to be good again :
Meantime, your other jufter friends
Shall for my follies make amends:
So may we long continue thus,
Admiring you, you pitying us.


D. RE A M S.


"Somnia quæ mentes ludunt volitantibus umbris," &c.


HOSE dreams, that on the filent night intrude,
And with falfe flitting fhades our minds delude,
Jove never fends us downward from the skies;
Nor can they from infernal manfions rife;
But are all 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 scenes and actions of the day before.


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