With watery chaps, and wagging chin,
Brac'd like a drum her oily skin ;
Wedg'd in a fpacious elbow-chair,
And on her plate a treble share,
As if the ne'er could have enough,
Taught harmless man to cram and stuff.
She fent her priest in wooden shoes
From haughty Gaul to make ragoos;
Instead of wholesome bread and cheese,
To dress their foops and fricaffees';
And, for our home-bred British cheer,
Botargo, catfup, and caveer.

This bloated harpy, fprung from hell,
Confin'd thee, goddess, tó a cell:
Sprung from her womb that impious line,
Contemners of thy rites divine.

First, lolling Moth in woollen cap
Taking her after-dinner nap:
Pale dropfy with a fallow face,
Her belly burft, and flow her pace :
And lordly gout, wrapt up in furr:
And wheezing afihma, loth to ftir:
Voluptuous cafe, the child of wealth,
Infecting thus our hearts by stealth.
None feek thee now in open air,
To thee no verdant altars rear;
But in their cells and vaults obfcene
Prefent a facrifice unclean;
From whence unsavory vapours rofe,
Offenfive to thy nicer nose.

Ah! who, in our degenerate days,
As nature prompts, his offering pays?
Here nature never difference made
Between the fceptre and the pade.
Ye great-ones, why will ye disdain
To pay your tribute on the plain ?
Why will you place in lazy pride
Your altars near your couches fide;
When from the homelieft earthen ware
Are fent up offerings more fincere,
Than where the haughty dutchefs locks
Her filver vafe in cedar-box?

Yet fome devotion still remains
Among our harmless northern fwains,
Whofe offerings, plac'd in golden ranks,
Adorn our crystal rivers' banks;
Nor feldom grace the flowery downs,
With fpiral tops and copple-crowns;
Or gilding in a funny morn

The humble branches of a thorn.
So, poets fing, with golden bough
The Trojan hero paid his vow.
Hither, by luckless error led,
The crude confiftence oft' I tread':
Here, when my fhoes are out of cafe,
Unweeting gild the tarnish'd lace;
Here, by the facred bramble ting'd,
My petticoat is doubly fring'd.

Be witness for me, nymph divine,
I never robb'd thee with defign:

Nor will the zealous Hannah pout

To wash thy injur'd offering out.
But ftop, ambitious Mufe, in time,
"Nor dwell on fubjects too fublime.
In vain on lofty heels I tread,
Afpiring to exalt my head;

With hoop expanded wide and light,
In vain I 'tempt too high a flight.

Me Phoebus in a midnight dream
Accofting said, "Go shake your cream."
Be humbly-minded, know your poft;
Sweeten your tea, and watch your toast.
Thee best befits a lowly style:
Teach Dennis how to ftir the † guile:
With Peggy Dixon thoughtful fit,
Contriving for the pot and fpit.

Take down thy proudly fwelling fails,
And rub thy teeth, and pare thy nails:
At nicely-carving fhew thy wit;
But ne'er prefume to eat a bit:
Turn every way thy watchful eye;
And every guest be fure to ply:
Let never at your board be known
An empty plate, except your own.
Be these thy arts; nor higher aim
Than what befits a rural dame.

*In the bottle, to make butter. F.

+ The quantity of ale or beer brewed at one time. F. Mrs. Dixon, the house-keeper. F.

But Cloacina, goddefs bright,
Sleek - claims her as his right :
And Smedley, flower of all divines,
Shall fing the Dean in Smedley's lines.

I. LEST it may more quarrels breed,
I will never hear you read.

II. By difputing, I will never,

To convince you, once endeavour.

III. When a paradox you stick to,
I will never contradict you.

IV. When I talk, and you are heedlefs,
I will fhew no anger needlefs.

V. When your speeches are abfurd,
I will ne'er object a word.

VI. When you furious argue wrong,
I will grieve, and hold my tongue.

VII. Not a jeft or humourous ftory
Will I ever tell before

ye :

To be chidden for explaining,

When you quite miftake the meaning.

VIII. Never more will I fuppofe,

You can taste my verse or profe.

IX. You no more at me fhall fret,
While I teach, and you forget.

X. You shall never hear me thunder,
When you blunder on, and blunder.

XI. Shew your poverty of fpirit,

And in dress place all your merit;
Give yourself ten thousand airs;
That with me fhall break no squares.

XII. Never will I give advice,

Till you please to ask me thrice:
Which, if you in fcorn reject,
"Twill be just as I expect.

THE

Thus we both fhall have our ends,
And continue fpecial friends.

REVOLUTION

AT MARKET-HILL. 1730.

FROM

ROM diftant regions Fortune fends
An odd triumvirate of friends;

Where Phoebus pays a fcanty ftipend,
Where never yet a codlin ripen'd:
Hither the frantic goddefs draws
Three fufferers in a ruin'd caufe:
By faction banish'd, here unite,

A Dean*, a Spaniard †, and a Knight;

* Dr. Swift.

+ Col. Harry Leflie, who served and lived long

in Spain. See p. 189.

Sir Arthur Achefon.