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YOME follow me by the Smell,
Here's delicate Onyons to sell,
Or else you may spare
Your Mistress a Share,
The Breath of her Lover, But think it as sweet as her own.
O Y S T ER S.
HARMING Oysters I cry,
Masters come buy;
So plump and so fresh,
They'll please to the Life;
H E RR I N G S.
E not sparing,
Leave off swearing,
Better ne'er was try'd.
Mustard, Their Bellies are soft, and as white as a Custard. Come, Sixpence a Dozen to get me some Bread, Or, like my own Herrings, I soon shall be dead.
* Malahide, a Village five Miles from Dublin, famous for Oysters.
ORANGES. OR A N G E S.
TOME buy my fine Oranges, Sauce for
And charming when squeez’d in a Pot of
brown Ale ; Well roasted, with Sugar and Wine in a Cup, They'll make a sweet Bishop when Gentlefolks
To L O V E.
Thou grand Deluder, were it not for thee. So weak thou aft, that Fools thy Pow'r despise, And, yet so strong, thou triumph'st o'er the
Wise : Thy Traps are laid with such peculiar Art, They catch the cautious, let the rash depart. Most Nets are filld by want of Thought and
Care, But too much thinking brings us to thy Snare.
Where held by thee, in Slavery we stay,
And throw the pleasing Part of Life away.. But, what doth most my Indignation move, Discretion, thou wer't ne'er a Friend to Love: Thy chief Delight is to defeat those Arts By which he kindles mutual Flames in Hearts,
While the blind loit’ring God is at his Play, Thou steal'st his golden-pointed Darts away ; Those Darts which never fail; and in their
stead Convey'st malignant Arrows tipt with Lead: The heedless God suspecting no Deceits, Shoots on, and thinks he has done wond'rous
Feats ; But, the poor Nymph, who feels her Vitals
burn, And from her Shepherd can find no Return, Laments and rages at the Pow'rs divine, When, curst Discretion, all the Fault was thine: Cupid and Hymen thou hast set at Odds, And bred such Feuds between those kindred
Gods, That Venus cannot reconcile her Sons, When one appears, away the other runs. The former Scales, wherein he us'd to poise Love against Love, and equal Joys with Joys, Are now fill'd
with Avarice and Pride, Where Titles, Pow'r, and Riches still subside: Then, gentle Venus, to thy Father run, And tell him, how thy Children are undone ; Prepare his Bolts, to give one fatal Blow, And strike Discretion to the Shades below.
The following Lines were written upon a very
old Glass of Sir Arthur Acheson's. RAIL Glass, thou bear'st that Name, as
well as I, Tho' none can tell which of us first shall die.
Answered (for the Glass] extempore, by Dr.
ME on Creature,
E only Chance can kill; thou, frailer
Creature, May die like me by Chance, but must by
The ELEPHANT; or, The PARLIAMENT
Written many Years since ; and taken from
’ER Bribes convince you whom to chufe,
The Precepts of Lord Coke peruse.