Dear companions, hug and kiss,
Toast Old Glorious in your pifs:
Tie them, keeper, in a tether,
Let them starve and stink together;
Both are apt to be unruly,
Lash them daily, lash them duly;
Though 'tis hopeless to reclaim them,
Scorpion rods perhaps may tame them.
Keeper, yon old dotard fmoak,
Sweetly fnoring in his cloak:
Who is he? 'Tis humdrum Wynne,
Half encompass'd by his kin:
There observe the tribe of Bingham,
For he never fails to bring 'em;
While he fleeps the whole debate,
They fubmiffive round him wait;
Yet would gladly fee the hunks
In his grave, and fearch his trunks.
See, they gently twitch his coat,
Just to yawn and give his vote,
Always firm in his vocation,
For the court, against the nation.
Thofe are A-s Jack and Bob,
First in every wicked job,
Son and brother to a queer:
Brain-fick brute, they call a peer.
We must give them better quarter,
For their ancestor trod mortar,
And H-th, to boast his fame,
On a chimney cut his name.
There fit Clements, D-ks, and Harrison:
How they fwagger from their garrison!
Such a triplet could you tell:
Where to find on this fide hell?
. Harrison, and D-ks, and Clements,
Keeper, fee they have their payments;
Every mischief 's in their hearts;
If they fail, 'tis want of parts.
Blefs us, Morgan! art thou there, man!
Bless mine eyes! art thou the chairman !
Chairman to your damn'd committee!
Yet I look on thee with pity.
Dreadful fight! what! learned Morgan
Metamorphos'd to a Gorgon?.
For thy horrid looks, I own,
Half convert me to a ftone.
Haft thou been fo long at school,
Now to turn a factious tool?
Alma Mater was thy mother,
Every young divine thy brother.
Thou, a difobedient varlet,
Treat thy mother like a harlot !
Thou ungrateful to thy teachers,
Who are all grown reverend preachers!
Morgan, would it not furprise one!
Turn thy nourishment to poison!
When you walk among your books,
They reproach you with their looks:
Bind them faft, or from their shelves
They will come and right themselves;
Homer, Plutarch, Virgil, Flaccus,
All in arms prepare to back us:
Soon repent, or put to flaughter
Every Greek and Roman author.
Will you, in your faction's phrase,
Send the clergy all to graze,
And, to make your project pass,
Leave them not a blade of grass?
How I want thee, humorous Hogarth!
Thou, I hear, a pleasant rogue art.
Were but you and I acquainted,
Every monster should be painted:
You should try your graving-tools
On this odious groupe of fools;
With the noise, the fight, the fcent.
"Pray be patient; you fhall find
"Half the best are ftill behind:
"You have hardly feen a score;
"I can fhow two hundred more.""
Keeper, I have seen enough.-
Taking then a pinch of fnuff,
I concluded, looking round them,
May their god, the devil, confound them!"
LADY, wife as well as fair,
Whofe confcience always was her care,,
Thoughtful upon a point of moment,
Would have the text as well as comment:
So hearing of a grave Divine,
She fent to bid him come and dine.
But, you must know, he was not quite
So grave as to be unpolite;
Thought human learning would not leffen
The dignity of his profeffion:
And, if you 'd heard the man difcourse,
Or preach, you'd like him scarce the worse..
He long had bid the court farewell,
Retreating filent to his cell;
Sufpected for the love he bore
To one who fway'd fome time before;
Which made it more surprising how
He should be fent for thither now..
The meffage told, he gapes, and stares,
And fcarce believes his eyes or ears:
Could not conceive what it should mean,
And fain would hear it told again.
But then the 'fquire fo trim and nice,
"Twere rude to make him tell it twice:
So bow'd, was thankful for the honour;
And would not fail to wait upon her.
His beaver brush'd, his fhoes, and gown,
Away he trudges into town;
Paffes the lower caftle-yard;
And now advancing to the guard,
He trembles at the thoughts of ftate;
For, confcious of his sheepish gait,
His fpirits of a fudden fail'd him;
He stopt, and could not tell what ail'd him.
What was the meffage I receiv'd?
Why certainly the Captain rav'd!
To dine with her! and come at three!
Impoffible! it can't be me.
be I miftook the word;
My Lady-it must be my Lord.
My Lord's abroad; my Lady too: What must th' unhappy Doctor do? "Is Captain Cracherode here, pray?”.
Nay, then 'tis time for me to go.".
Am I awake, or do I dream?
I'm fure he call'd me by my name;
Nam'd me as plain as he could speak;
And yet there must be some mistake.
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