ASPARAGUS, RIPE 'Sparagrafs, Fit for Lad or Lafs, To make the Water pass: C With a tender Chicken. ONYON S. HOME follow me by the Smell, you well. They make the Blood warmer, Your Mistress a Share, The Secret will never be known; She cannot discover The Breath of her Lover, C OYSTER S. HARMING Oysters I cry, So So plump and fo fresh, So fweet is their Flesh, Is fweeter and moister; HERRING S Come eat 'em with pure fresh Butter and Mustard, Their Bellies are soft, and as white as a Custard. Come, Sixpence a Dozen to get me fome Bread, Or, like my own Herrings, I foon fhall be dead. * Malahide, a Village five Miles from Dublin, famous for Oysters. ORANGES. P 4 ORANGES. (OME buy my fine Oranges, Sauce for your Veal, COM And charming when fqueez'd in a Pot of brown Ale ; Well roasted, with Sugar and Wine in a Cup, They'll make a sweet Bishop when Gentlefolks fup. To LOV E. N all I wish, how happy fhould I be, IN Thou grand Deluder, were it not for thee. So weak thou art, that Fools thy Pow'r despise, And, yet fo ftrong, thou triumph'ft o'er the Wife : Thy Traps are laid with such peculiar Art, They catch the cautious, let the rash depart. Moft Nets are fill'd 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 pleafing Part of Life away. But, what doth most my Indignation move, Difcretion, 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'ft his golden-pointed Darts away; Those Darts which never fail; and in their ftead Convey'st malignant Arrows tipt with Lead: The heedlefs God fufpecting 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 haft fet at Odds, And bred fuch Feuds between those kindred Gods, That Venus cannot reconcile her Sons, When one appears, away the other runs. The The following Lines were written upon a very old Glass of Sir Arthur Achefon's. RAIL Glafs, thou bear'st that Name, as well as I, FRA Tho' none can tell which of us first shall die. Answered [for the Glafs] extempore, by Dr. ME SWIFT. E only Chance can kill; thou, frailer May die like me by Chance, but must by The ELEPHANT; or, The PARLIAMENT MAN. Written many Years fince; and taken from COKE'S Inftitutes. E® 'ER Bribes convince you whom to chufe, The Precepts of Lord Coke peruse. Obferve an Elephant, fays he, And let like him your Member be: For Elephants have none at all, In Flocks, or Parties, he must keep : Stubborn |