You find the gods in Homer dwell
In feas and freams, or low as hell:
Ev'n Jove, and Mercury his pimp,
No higher climb than mount Olymp
(Who makes you think the clouds he pierces ?
He pierce the clouds he kifs their a➡es);
While we, o'er Teneriffa plac'd,
Are loftier by a mile at leaft:
And, when Apollo ftruts on Pindus,
We fee him from our kitchen-windows;
Or, to Parnaffus looking down,
Can pifs upon his laurel crown.
Fate never form'd the gods to fly;
In vehicles they mount the sky:
When Jove would fome fair nymph inveigle,
He comes full gallop on his eagle.
Though Venus be as light as air,
She muft have doves to draw her chair.
Apollo ftirs not out of door
Without his lacker'd coach and four.
And jealous Juno, ever fnarling,
Is drawn by peacocks in her berlin.
But we can fly where'er we pleafe,
O'er cities, rivers, hills, and feas :
From east to west the world we roam,
And in all climates are at home;
With care provide you as we go
With fun-fhine, rain, and hail, or fnow.
You, when it rains, like fools, believe
Jove piffes on you through a fieve:
An idle tale, 'tis no fuch matter;
We only dip a fpunge in water;
Then fqueeze it clofe between our thumbs,
And shake it well, and down it comes.
As you shall to your forrow know ;
We'll watch your steps where'er you go:
And, fince we find you walk a-foot,
We'll foundly fouce your frize-furtout.
"Tis but by our peculiar grace,
That Phoebus ever fhews his face :
For, when we please, we open wide
Our curtains blue from fide to fide:
And then how faucily he fhews
His brazen face and fiery nofe;
And gives himself a haughty air,
As if he made the weather fair!
'Tis fung, wherever Cælia treads,
The violets ope their purple heads;
The roses blow, the cowflip fprings ;
'Tis fung; but we know better things,
'Tis true, a woman on her mettle
Will often pifs upon a nettle;
But, though we own fhe makes it wetter,
The nettle never thrives the better;
While we, by foft prolific showers,
Can every spring produce you flowers.
Your poets, Chloe's beauty heightening,
Compare her radiant eyes to lightning;
And yet I hope 'twill be allow'd,
That lightning comes but from a cloud.
But gods like us have too much fenfe
At poets flights to take offence:
Nor can hyperboles demean us;
Each drab has been compar'd to Venus.
We own your verses are melodious
But fuch comparisons are odious..
A VINDICATION OF THE LIBEL:
A NEW BALLAD, written by a SHOE-BOY, on an ATTORNEY Who was formerly a SHOE-BOY.
"Qui color ater erat, nunc eft contrarius atro."
ITH finging of ballads, and crying of news,
With whitening of buckles, and blacking of
fhoes,
Did Hartley* fet out, both shoelefs and shirtless,
And moneylefs too, but not very dirtless;
Two pence he had gotten by begging, that 's all;
One bought him a brush, and one a black ball;
For clouts at a lofs he could not be much,
The cloaths on his back as being but fuch;
Thus vaip'd and accoutred, with clouts, ball, and brush,
He gallantly ventur'd his fortune to push :
Vefpafian thus, being befpatter'd with dirt,
Was omen'd to be Rome's emperor for 't.
But as a wife fiddler is noted, you know,
To have a good couple of ftrings to one bow;
So Hartley judiciously thought it too little,
To live by the fweat of his hands and his spittle:
He finds out another profeffion as fit,
And ftraight he becomes a retailer of wit.
One day he cried--"Murders, and fongs, and great news!"
Another as loudly-" Here blacken your fhoes !"
At Domvile's full often he fed upon bits,
For winding of jacks up, and turning of fpits;
Lick'd all the plates round, had many a grubbing,
And now and then got from the cook-maid a drubbing:
Such baftings effect upon him could have none;
The dog will be patient, that 's ftruck with a bone.
Sir Thomas, obferving this Hartley withal
So expert and fo active at brushes and ball,
Was mov'd with compaflion, and thought it a pity
A youth fhould be loft, that had been fo witty:
Without more ado, he vamps up my fpark,
And now we 'll fuppofe him an eminent clerk;
Suppofe him an adept in all the degrees
Of fcribbling cum dafho, and hooking of fees,
Suppofe him a mifer, attorney per bill,
Suppofe him a courtier fuppofe what you will
Yet would you believe, though I wore by the Bible,
That he took up two news-boys for crying the libel ?
Sir T. Domvile, patentee of the Hanaper-office. N.
A FRIENDLY APOLOGY
FOR A CERTAIN JUSTICE OF PEACE,
By Way of Defence of HARTLEY HUTCHINSON, Esq.
"But he by bawling news about,
"And aptly ufing brush and clout,
"A juftice of the peace became,
"To punish rogues who do the fame." HUD.
By JAMES BLACK-WELL, Operator for the Feet.
SING the man of courage try'd,
O'er-run with ignorance and pride,
Who boldly hunted out difgrace
With canker'd mind and hideous face ;
The first who made (let none deny it),
The libel-vending rogues be quiet.
The fact was glorious, we must own,
For Hartley was before unknown,
Contemn'd I mean ; for who would chufe
So vile a fubject for the Mufe?
'Twas once the nobleft of his wishes
To fill his paunch with fcraps from difhes,
For which he 'd parch before the grate,
Or wind the jack's flow-rifing weight
(Such toils as beft his talents fit),
Or polifh fhoes, or turn the fpit;
But, unexpectedly grown rich in
'Squire Domvile's family and kitchen,
He pants to eternize his name,
And takes the dirty road to fame;
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