But now 'tis high time, I presume, to bid vale, Lest we tire you too long with our Tunbridgiale; Which, if the four critics pretend to unravel, Or at these our verses should stupidly cavil; If this be the case, tell the critics I pray, That I care not one farthing for all they can say: And so I conclude, with my service, good Peter, To yourself, and all friends-farewell Muse farewell metre. A FULL AND TRUE ACCOUNT OF AN HORRID AND BARBAROUS ROBBERY, COMMITTED ON EPPING FOREST, UPON THE BODY OF THE CAMBRIDGE COACH. IN A LETTER TO M. F. ESQ. Arma virumque cano. DEAR Martin Folkes, dear scholar, brother, friend; And words of like importance without end; Forgive the Muse, who sings what, I suppose, On Tuesday night, you know with how much sorrow I bid the club farewel-"I go to morrow—" Bull was the house, and Bishopsgate the street, Now then, as Fortune had contriv'd, our way Where nought but thickets within thickets grew, However, since we, none of us, had yet Your money, zounds, deliver me your money, Quick, d-n ye, quick; must I stay waiting on ye? Quick, or I'll send" (and nearer still he rode) "A brace of balls amongst ye all, by -" I leave you, sir, to judge yourself what plight We all were put in, by this cursed wight. The trembling females into labour fell; Big with the sudden fear, they pout, they swell; And soon, deliver'd by his horrid curses, [purses: Brought forth two strange and preternatural That look'd indeed like purses made of leather; But let the sweet-tongued Manningham' say wheA common purse could possibly conceal [ther Shillings, half-crowns, and half-pence by piece meal. The youth, who flung the bottle at the knave So with impetuous haste he flung him that, My heart-for truth I always must confess- No more! why hang him, is not that too much, To pay a guinea for his vile High Dutch? 'Tis true, he has us here upon the bank, With action strong; and swears to it point blank: Yet why resign the yellow one pound one? No, tax his bill, and give him silver, John. So said, so done, and putting fist to fob I flung th' apparent value of the job, An ounce of silver, into his receiver, And mark'd the issue of the rogue's behaviour. He, like a thankless wretch, that 's overpaid, Resents, forsooth, th' affront upon his trade; And treats my kindness with a-" this won't do, Look ye here, sir, I must ha' gold from you." To this demand of the ungrateful cur, Defendant John thought proper to demur. The bricklayer joining in the white opinion, Tender'd five shillings to Diana's minion; Who still kept threat'ning to pervade his buff, Because the payment was not prompt enough. Before the women, with their purses each, Had strength to place contents within his reach, 1 Dr. Manningham; who wrote a pamphlet in defence of the well-known story of the RabbitWoman. * An expression used by of the Royal Society, and afterwards proverbially adopted in ridicule by the author and his friends. One of his pieces, falling downwards, drew Now, while in deep and serious ponderment I doubt I must resign-there's no defending When lo! descending to her champion's aid The goddess Short-hand, bright celestial maid, Clad in a letter'd vest of silver hue 3, Wrought by her fav'rite Phoebe's hand, she flew. Th' unfolded surface fell exactly neat, In just proportions o'er her shape complete; Distinct with lines of purer flaming white, Transparent work, intelligibly bright; Form'd to give pleasure to th' ingenious mind; But puzzle and confound the stupid hind. Soon as the wretch the sacred writing spy'd, "What conjuration-sight is this," he cry'd! My eyes meanwhile the heav'nly vision clear'd, It show'd how all his hellish look appear'd. (Heav'n shield all travellers from foul disgrace, As I saw Tyburn in the ruffian's face; And if aright I judge of human mien, His face ere long in Tyburn will be seen.) The hostile blaze soon seiz'd his miscreant blood; He star'd-turn'd short-and fled into the wood. Danger dismiss'd, the gentle goddess smil'd, Like a fond parent o'er her fearful child; And thus began to drive the dire surprise Forth from my anxious breast, in jocund wise. "My son," said she, "this fellow is no Weston, No adversary, child, to make a jest on. With ink sulphureous, upon human skin He writes indenting, horrid marks therein; But-thou hast read his fate-the halter'd slave Shall quickly sing his penitential stave. "Pursue thy rout; but when thou tak'st another, Bestride some generous quadruped or other. Let this enchanted vehicle confine, From this time forth, no votaries of mine: Let me no more see honest short-hand men Coop'd up in wood, like poultry in a pen. And at Trin. Col. whene'er thou art enlarging On Epping Forest, note this in the margin: Let Cambridge scholars, that are not quite bare, Shun the dishonest track, and ride thro' Ware.' Alluding to some short-hand characters neatly cut in paper by the author's sister, and presented to M. F. esq. 4 Weston, the inventor of a method of shorthand, then in some vogue; the great irregularity and defects of which our author had often humorously exposed, Adieu! my son-resume thy wonted jokes; And write account hereof to Martin Folkes." This said, she mounts-the characters divine Thro' the bright path immensely brilliant shine. Now safe arriv'd-first for my boots I wroteI tell the story-and subjoin the noteAnd lastly, to fulfil the dread commands, These hasty lines presume to kiss your hands. Excuse the tedious tale of a disaster, I am your humble servant and Grand Master". A LETTER TO R. L. ES2. ON HIS DEPARTURE FROM LONDON. DEAR Peter', whose absence, whate'er 1 may do In a week or two hence, at this present I rue; These lines, in great haste, I convey to the Mitre, To tell the sad plight of th' unfortunate writer: You have left your old friend so affected with grief, That nothing but rhyming can give him relief; Tho' the Muses were never worse put to their trumps, To comfort poor bard in his sorrowful dumps. The moment you left us, with grief be it spoken, This poor heart of mine was as thoff it were broken; And I almost faint still, if a carriage approach The Rhenish and sugar, which at your departure [what heartier; We drank, would have made me, I hop'd, someYet the wine but more strongly to weeping inclin'd, And my grief, I perceiv'd, was but double refin'd: You no sooner was gone, but this famous metropolis, That seem'd just before so exceedingly populous, When I turn'd me towards it, seem'd all of a sudden As if it was gone from the place it had stood in: How he brought me from Smithfield to Dick's I can't say, But remember the Charter-house stood in our way At Dick's I repos'd me, and call'd for some coffee, [of ye; And sweeten'd, and supt, and still kept thinking But not with such pleasure as when I came there To wait 'till sir Peter should chance to appear: 5 A title usually given to the author by his short-hand scholars. R. L. esq. generally called by his collegeacquaintance, Peter, There, while I was turning you o'er in my mind, The doctor and I took a small walk, and then et cet. With honest Duke Humphrey I pass the long day, For indeed, I must own, since the loss of my chum, I am grown, as it were, a mere geruud in dumb. But Muse! we forget that our grief will prevent us [mentous. From treating of matters more high and moPoor Jonathan Wild!-Clowes, Peer Williams, and I Have just been in waiting to see him pass by: Good law! how the houses were crowded with mobs, That look'd like leviathan's picture in Hobb's; From the very ground-floor to the top of the leads, While Jonathan past thro' a Holborn of heads. From Newgate to Tyburn he made his pro- Supported by two of the nimble profession: The mob all along, as he pass'd 'em, huzzaing; Of which I can only remember these following.' "The cunning old pug, ev'ry body remembers, That when he saw chesnuts a roasting i' th' embers, To save his own bacon, took puss's two foots, And now, Peter, I'm come to the end of my So I wish you good company, journey, and wea- tai May 24, 1725. P.S. What news? Why the lords, if the minutes say true, [two, Have pass'd my Lord Bolingbroke's bill three to Three to one I would say; and resolved also That the Commons have made good their articles-ho! And to morrow, earl Thomas's fate to determine, VERSES, SPOKEN EXTEMPORE AT THE MEETING OF A OUR President, in days of yore, A sad and dismal change alas! Revers'd the colour of his pate? Sure it could ne'er be his own choosing A caxen of so black a hue, Who does not tremble for the Club The President, when's wig was white, Thou art a lawyer, honest Joe, What! can he wear a wig so shabby, So like that head there, so like Fearing. You're a divine sir; I'll ask you, Or Turk? Aye, Turk, as sure as hops, You, master doctor! will you try Of what disease is it a symptom? Do n't look at me, but look at him, Tom. Is it not scurvy, think you?—Yes, If any thing be scurvy, 't is: A phrenzy? or a periwigmanie It seems to me a complication A great obstruction of the brain: A man to take his brains, and bury 'em In such a wig!-a plain deliriam: I never saw a human face That suffer'd more by such a case. If you examine it, you'll see 't is Certes the head, in these black tumours, Of vitiated humours full, Which shows a numbness of the scull. So of the rest-But now, friend Thomas, But why to doctors do I urge on THE ASTROLOGER. FELLOW citizens all, for whose safety I peep Thine ears, For what learning else is there half so engaging, As an art where the terms of themselves are presaging? Which by muttering o'er, any gentle mechanie May put his whole neighbourhood into a panic; Where a noddle well turn'd for prediction, and shoes, If it can but remember hard words, cannot choose, From the prince on his throne, to the dairy-maid milking, But read all their fortunes in yonder blue welkin. For the sky is a book, where, in letters of gold, Is writ all that almanacs ever foretold; Which he that can read, and interpret alsoWhat is there, which such a one cannot foreshow? When a true son of art ponders over the stars, They reflect back upon him the face of affairs; Of all things of moment they give him an inkling, While empires and kingdoms depend on their twinkling. Your transits, your comets, eclipses, conjunctions, Have all, it is certain, their several functions; And on this globe of Earth here, both jointly, and singly, [sion, Do influence matters most astonishingly. Of all the phenomena, we have rehearst; As for Mercury's travelling over the Sun, There's nothing in that, sirs, when all 's said and done; For what will be, will be; and Mercury's transit, A conjunction of Jupiter, Saturn, and Mars, You may turn, if you please, gentlemen, to mere farce: But what if it plainly appear, that three men In the first place, old Saturn, we very well know, 1 Dr. Byfield, a chymist of an extravagant genius, and inventor of the sal volatile oleosum: the author had frequent skirmishes of wit and humour with him at Richard's Coffee-house, and upon his death wrote the following short epitaph impromptu. Hic jacet Dr. Byfield, diu volatilis, tandem fixus. Alas! friends at Richard's, alas! what a chasm The death of the regent might show, if it needed, Why they saw it in France so much plainer than we did; [princes, And how well it forebodes to our nobles and But God bless the emperor-I say no more. And now for th' eclipse, which is such an appearance, [hence: As perhaps will not happen this many a year The king of France dy'd, the last total eclipse, Of a mortification near one of his hips; From whence by our art may be plainly made out, That some great man or other must die at this bout: But as the eclipse is not yet, nor that neither, You know 't is not proper to say more of either. Yet two, that are safe, I shall venture to name, Men of figure, and parts, and of unspotted fame; Who, all parties will own, are, and always have been Great ornaments to the high station they're in; Admir'd of all sides; who will therefore rejoice, When, consulting the stars, I pronounce it their voice, That, for all this eclipse, there shall no harm befal, Those two honest-giants, that are in Guildhall. So much for great men-I come now to predict What evils, in gen'ral, will Europe afflict: Now the evils, that conjurers tell from the stars, Are plague, famine and pestilence, bloodshed and wars, Contagious diseases, great losses of goods, Great burnings by fire, and great drownings by floods; [thunder; Hail, rain, frost and snow, storms of lightning and And if none of these happen-'t will be a great wonder. CONTENTMENT: OR, THE HAPPY WORKMAN'S SONG. I AM a poor workman as rich as a Jew, I am a poor workman, you'll easily grant, And I'm rich as a Jew, for there's nothing I want, [and cant, I have meat, drink, and clothes, and am hearty Which no-body can deny, &c. I live in a cottage, and yonder it stands, And while I can work with these two honest hands, I'm as happy as they that have houses and lands, Which no-body can deny, &c. I keep to my workmanship all the day long, I never am greedy of delicate fare, Which no-body can deny, &c. My clothes on a working day looken but lean, But when I can dress me-on Sundays, I mean, Tho' cheap, they are warm; and tho' coarse, they are clean, Which no-body can deny, &c. Folk cry'n out hard times, but I never regard, For I ne'er did, nor will set my heart up o' th' ward, So 't is all one to me, bin they easy or hard, Which no-body can deny, &c. I envy not them that have thousands of pounds, That sport o'er the country with horses and hounds; [bounds, There's nought but contentment can keep within Which no-body can deny, &c. I ne'er lose my time o'er a pipe, or a pot, Nor cower in a nook like a sluggardly sot, But I buy what is wanting with what I have got, Which no-body can deny, &c. And if I have more than I want for to spend, I help a poor neighbour or diligent friend; [lend, He that gives to the poor, to the Lord he doth Which no-body can deny, &c. I grudge not that gentlefolk dressen so fine; At their gold and their silver I never repine, But I wish all their guts were as hearty as mine, Which no-body can deny, &c. With quarrels o' th' country, and matters of state, With Tories and Whigs, I ne'er puzzle my pate; What tho' my condition be ever so coarse, In short, my condition, whatever it be, 'Tis God that appoints it, as far as I see, And I'm sure I can never do better than he, Which no-body can deny, &c. THE DISSECTION OF A BEAU'S HEAD. WE found by our glasses, that what, at first sight, And as Homer acquaints us, (who certainly knew) |