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SHUFF of Newbury.

A

BALLA D.

To the Tune of, Chevy Chafe.

- I.

N bloody Town of Newbury,

There liv'd and dy'd a Blockhead;
Of whom, I'm fure, you ne'er had heard,
If he had not been choaked.

II.

The Ancient Borough call'd him SHUFF

Of State not very thriving,

Since the fame Thing which made him die,

Is that which keeps us living.

III.

He Custard on a Wager eat,

And fo did cram his Weazand,

That tho' he put it in, he could

Not pluck it out out with his Hand..

IV.

Innocent Meat did fatal prove,

Eat ready without Knife,

Down on the Ground he grov'ling fell,

And Custard ftrove with Life,

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So if thou hadft thy Wager won,

Thy Credit had been lefs.

VII.

Where falls of Empires and of States
Were told in weekly Volume,

Unto the Wonder of the World,

Thou graceft the first Column.

VIII. .

Thy Custard with Serini's Feats,

Does yield, which none can deny,

Unto the Author fam'd the Gain,

All England o'er, a Peny.

IX.

Now Londoners, O pray beware,
Eke Alderman and Mayor,
What Danger may in Capon prove,
If Custard turn Manslayer.

ON

Ο Ν

NICOLINI'S

Mufick-Meeting.

Ridentem dicere verum

Quid vetat?

LL hail ye foft mysterious Pow'rs that charm
The coldest Breast, and all our Paffions

warm.

Sweet Thieves! which like Great Nature's
Mafter-Key,

Thro' the pleas'd Ear, direct your fecret way,
Unlock the Heart, and fteal our Souls away.

See

ems

at your

MISCELLANY POEM S.

Call Obfequious Tories meet,

It for the CHURCH, and by Subscription sweat:
e dripping Fair, diftils from ev'ry Pore,

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'tis too much! fhe crys, and I can hear no more, fweet's his Voice, how tender is his Air?

oh! they cost th' Unhappy Youth too dear.

he gentle Beau, that ever-dying Swain,

eats the flow Time, and fighs with pleasing Pain,
And lifps the tender Accents back again.
Ev'n the rough Soldier's mov'd, the dusty Field,
And the big War to fofter Pleasures yield;
Such is the Force of the inchanting Strains,
Where Cafar liftens, but Grimaldi reigns.

When the fam'd Greek to Native Shoars defign'd,
Had left in Flames unhappy Troy behind,
T' unbend his Mind the sweetest Syrens fail'd,
His nobler Arts o'er all their Pow'rs prevail'd;
Had fweeter Nic. been in the Syren's Place,
And fond of Conqueft fhone in ev'ry Grace,
Th' unguarded Chief had on his Accents hung,
And fall'n the nobleft Triumph of his Song;
His Eyes no more had feen the Gracian Coast,
But triftful Pen. had mourn'd her Hero loft.

Mankind deftroy'd, to former Vigor fprung, From Stones which Pyrrha and Deucalion flung;

19

Such

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