Where, in eighteen-penny gall'ry,
Irish nymphs learn Irish raill'ry:
But thy merit is thy failing,
And thy raillery is railing.
Thus with talents well endu'd To be fcurrilous and rude;
When you pertly raise your fnout,
Fleer, and gibe, and laugh, and flout:
Hibernian affes,
For fheer wit and humour paffes.
Thus indulgent Chloe bit,
Swears you have a world of wit.
DEATH and DAPHNE*.
To an agreeable young lady, but extremely
Written in the year 1730.
Eath went upon a folemn day
At Pluto's hall his court to pay :
The phantom, having humbly kist
His grifly monarch's footy fift,
Prefented him the weekly bills
Of doctors, fevers, plagues, and pills.
Pluto obferving fince the peace,
The burial article decrease:
And vex'd to fee affairs mifcarry,
Declar'd in council, Death must marry :
Vow'd he no longer could fupport
Old batchelors about his court:
See an anecdote relating to this lady, vol. 7. p. 112.
The int'reft of his realm had need;
That death fhould get a num'rous breed;
Young deathlings, who, by practice made
Proficient in their father's trade,
With colonies might stock around
His large dominions under ground.
A confult of coquets below
Was call'd to rig him out a beau ::
From her own head Megara takes
A periwig of twisted snakes;
Which in the niceft fashion curl'd,
(Like toupees of this upper world),
With flow'r of fulphur powder'd well,
That graceful on his fhoulders fell,
An adder of the fable kind,
In line direct, hung down behind.
The owl, the raven, and the bat,
Clubb'd for a feather to his hat ;
His coat, an us'rer's velvet pall,
Bequeath'd to Pluto, corpfe and all.
But loath his person to expofe
Bare, like a carcafe pick'd by crows.
A lawyer o'er his hands and face
Stuck artfully a parchment cafe.
No new-flux'd rake fhew'd fairer skin :
G-d d---n his blood, and b----d and w---ds.
Thus furnish'd out, he fent his train
To take a house in Warwick-lane:
* The periwigs now in fashion are so called,
The faculty, his humble friends,
A complimental meffage fends:
Their prefident in fcarlet gown
Harangu'd, and welcom'd him to town.
But death had bus'nefs to dispatch;
His mind was running on his match.
And, hearing much of Daphne's fame,
His Majefty of terrors came,
Fine as a col'nel of the guards,
To vifit where the fat at cards.
Charm'd with his eyes, and chin, and fnout,
Her pocket-glafs drew flily out;
And grew enamour'd with her phiz,
As just the counterpart of his.
She darted many a private glance,
And freely made the firft advance;
Was of her beauty grown fo vain,
She doubted not to win the fwain:
Nothing, fhe thought, could fooner gain him,
Than with her wit to entertain him.
She afk'd about her friends below;
This meagre fop, that batter'd beau :
Whether fome late departed toafts
Had got gallants among the ghofts?
If Chloe were a fharper ftill
As great as ever at quadrille?
(The ladies there must needs be rooks,
For cards, we know, are Pluto's books);
If Florimel had found her love,
For whom the hang'd herself above?
How oft a week was kept a ball
By Proferpine at Pluto's hall?
She fancy'd thofe Elyfian fhades
The sweetest place for masquerades?
How pleafant on the banks of Styx,
To troll it in a coach and fix!
What pride a female heart inflames!
How endless are ambitious aims !
Ceafe, haughty nymph; the fates decree
Death must not be a fpoufe for thee:
For when, by chance, the meagre fhade-
Upon thy hand his finger laid,
Thy hand as dry and cold as lead,
Hi matrimonial fpirit fled;
He felt about his heart a damp,
That quite extinguifh'd Cupid's lamp
Away the frighted fpectre fcuds,
And leaves my Lady in the fuds.
On STEPHEN DUCK, the THRESHER. and favourite POET.
Written in the year 1730.
HE _threfher Duck could o'er the Queen pre
The proverb fays, "No fence against a flail.”
From threshing corn he turns to thresh his brains;
For which her Majefty allows him grains.
Though 'tis confefs'd, that those who ever faw
His poems, think them all not worth a straw !
Thrice happy Duck, employed in threshing stubble ! Thy toil is leffen'd, and thy profits double.
A PANEGYRIC on the DEAN, in the perfon of a LADY in the north *.
Written in the year 1739.
R Efolv'd my gratitude to fhow,
Thrice Rev'rend Dean, for all I'ow,
Too long I have my thanks delay'd;
Your favours left too long unpaid;
But now, in all our fex's name,
My artlefs muse shall fing your fame.
Indulgent you to female kind,
To all the weaker fides are blind;
Nine more fuch champions as the Dean
Would foon restore our ancient reign.
How well to win the ladies hearts,
You celebrate their wit and parts!
How have I felt my spirit rais'd,
By you fo oft, fo highly prais'd!
Transform'd, by your convincing tongue,
To witty, beautiful and young.
I hope to quit that aukward fhame
Affected by each vulgar dame,
To modesty a weak pretence;
And foon grow pert on men of fenfe :
To fhew my face with fcornful air,
Let others match it, if they dare,
The Lady of Sir Arthur Achefon.
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