And, to defend the Whiggish cause,
Her topicks from the Tories draws,
O yes! if
any man can find
More virtues in a woman's mind,
Let them be fent to Mrs. Harding*;
She 'll pay the charges to a farthing;
Take notice, fhe has my commiffion
To add them in the next edition;
They may out-fell a better thing:
So, halloo, boys; God fave the king!

CLEVER TOM CLINCH

GOING TO BE HANGED. 1727.

As clever Tom Clinch, while the rabble was bawling,

Rode stately through Holbourn to die in his calling,

He ftopt at The George for a bottle of fack,

And promis'd to pay for it when he came back.

His waistcoat, and stockings, and breeches, were white;
His cap had a new cherry ribband to tye't.

The maids to the doors and the balconies fan,
And faid, "Lack-a-day! he's a proper young man !”
But, as from the windows the ladies he spy'd,
Like a beau in the box, he bow'd low on each fide;
And, when his laft fpeech the loud hawkers did cry,
He fwore from his cart, "It was all a damn'd lye !”
The hangman for pardon fell down on his knee;
Tom gave him a kick in the guts for his fee:

* Widow of John Harding, the Drapier's printer. N.

Then

Then faid, I muft fpeak to the people a little;
But I'll fee you all damn'd before I will * whittle.
My honest friend † Wild may he long hold his place,
He lengthen'd my life with a whole year of grace.
Take courage, dear comrades, and be not afraid,
Nor flip this occafion to follow your trade;

My confcience is clear, and my spirits are calm,
And thus I go off without prayer-book or pfalm;
Then follow the practice of clever Tom Clinch,
Who hung like a hero, and never would flinch.

DR. SWIFT TO MR. POPE, WHILE HE WAS WRITING THE DUNCIAD. OPE has the talent well to speak,

POPE

But not to reach the ear;

His loudeft voice is low and weak,

The Dean too deaf to hear.

A while they on each other look,
Then different studies chufe:
The Dean fits plodding on a book;
Pope walks, and courts the Mufe.
Now backs of letters ‡, though defign'd
For those who more will need 'em,
Are fill'd with hints, and interlin'd,
Himself can hardly read 'em.

* A cant word for confeffing at the gallows.

The noted thief-catcher, under-keeper of Newgate, who was hanged for receiving stolen goods. An allufion to the fingularity mentioned p. 16. N. Each

E 2

Each atom by fome other struck
All turns and motions tries:
Till, in a lump together stuck,
Behold a Poem rife!

Yet to the Dean his fhare allot;
He claims it by a canon;
That without which a thing is not,
Is, caufa fine quâ non.

Thus, Pope, in vain you

boast

your wit;

For, had our deaf Divine

Been for your conversation fit,

You had not writ a line.

Of Sherlock thus, for preaching fam'd,

The Sexton reason'd well;
And justly half the merit claim'd,
Because he rang the bell.

A LOVE

POEM

FROM A PHYSICIAN TO HIS MISTRESS.

Written at LONDON in the Year 1727.

OY Poets we are well affur'd

BY

That Love, alas! can ne'er be cur'd:

A complicated heap of ills,

Defpifing bolufes and pills.

* The Dean of St. Paul's, father to the bishop. N.

Ah f

Ah! Chloe, this I find is true,
Since first I gave my heart to you.
Now, by your cruelty hard-bound,
I ftrain my guts, my colon wound.
Now jealoufy my grumbling tripes
Affaults with grating, grinding gripes.
When pity in thofe eyes I view,
My bowels wambling make me spew.
When I an amorous kiss design'd,
I belch'd a hurricane of wind.
Once you a gentle figh let fall;
Remember how I fuck'd it all:
What colic pangs from thence I felt,

Had you but known, your heart would melt,
Like ruffling winds in caverns pent,

Till Nature pointed out a vent.

How have you torn my heart to pieces
With maggots, humours, and caprices!
By which I got the hæmorrhoids ;
And loathsome worms my anus voids.
Whene'er I hear a rival nam'd,

I feel my body all inflam❜d;

Which, breaking out in boils and blanes,
With yellow filth my linen ftains;
Or, parch'd with unextinguish'd thirst,
Small-beer I guzzle till I burft:
And then I drag a bloated corpus,
Swell'd with a dropfy, like a porpoife;
When, if I cannot purge or fale,
I must be tapp'd to fill a pail.

DEAN SWIFT ATSIR ARTHUR ACHESON'S

IN THE NORTH OF IRELAND.

HE Dean would vifit Market-hill,

THE

Our invitation was but flight;

I faid, Why let him, if he will:
And fo I bade Sir Arthur write.
His manners would not let him wait,
Left we fhould think ourfelves neglected;
And fo we faw him at our gate

Three days before he was expected.

After a week, a month, a quarter,
And day fucceeding after day,
Says not a word of his departure,
Though not a foul would have him stay.
I've faid enough to make him blush,
Methinks, or elfe the Devil's in 't;
But he cares not for it a rufh,

Nor for my life will take the hint.

But you, my dear, may let him know,
In civil language, if he stays,

How deep and foul the roads may grow,
And that he may command the chaife.
Or you may fay-My wife intends,
Though I fhould be exceeding proud,
This winter to invite fome friends,

And, Sir, I know, you hate a crowd.

Of