You find the gods in Homer dwell
In feas and ftreams, 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 least :

And, when Apollo ftruts on Pindus,

We see 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 fky:

When Jove would fome fair nymph inveigle,
He comes full gallop on his eagle.

Though Venus be as light as air,

She must 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 please,
O'er cities, rivers, hills, and feas:
From caft to weft 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 :

Am

An idle tale, 'tis no fuch matter;

We only dip a fpunge in waters

Then fqueeze it close between our thumbs,
And shake it well, and down it comes.
As you fhall 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 himfelf a haughty air,
As if he made the weather fair!

'Tis fung, wherever Calia treads,
The violets ope their purple heads;
The rofes 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 she 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 sense
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:

OR,

A NEW BALLAD, written by a SHOE-BOY, on an ATTORNEY Who was formerly a SHOE-BOY.

દ Qui color ater erat, nunc eft contrarius atro."

WITH finging of ballads, and crying of news,

With whitening of buckles, and blacking of
fhoes,

Did Hartley* fet out, both fhoelefs and shirtless,
And moneyless too, but not very dirtlefs;
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 vamp'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.

* See the next poem.

But

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 sweat 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 bastings effect upon him could have none;
The dog will be patient, that's struck with a bone.
Sir Thomas, observing this Hartley withal
So expert and. fo active at brushes and ball,

Was mov'd with compaffion, and thought it a pity
A youth fhould be loft, that had been so witty :
Without more ado, he vamps up my spark,
And now we 'll fuppofe him an eminent clerk 5.
Suppose him an adept in all the degrees

Of fcribbling.cum dasbo, and hooking of fees,
Suppose him a miser, attorney per bill,

Suppofe him a courtier

fuppofe what you will Yet would you believe, though I fwore 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

A FRIENDLY APOLOGY

FOR A CERTAIN JUSTICE OF PEACE, By Way of Defence of HARTLEY HUTCHINSON, Efq

"But he by bawling news about,
"And aptly using 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.

I

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 muft own,
For Hartley was before unknown,

Contemn'd I mean ;

So vile a fubject for the Mufe?

'Twas once the nobleft of his wifhes

To fill his paunch with scraps from dishes,
For which he 'd parch before the grate,
Or wind the jack's flow-rifing weight
(Such toils as best his talents fit),
Or polish shoes, 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;

Believes