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N EAR Sheridan! a gentle Pair
D ôf Gailtown Lads (for such they are)
Besides a Brace of grave Divines
Adore the Smoothness of thy Lines ;
Smooth as our Bason's Silver Flood,
Eer George had robb’d it of its Mud;
Smoother than Pegasus' old Shoe,
E'er Vulcan comes to make it new.
The Board on which we set our A-
Is not so smooth as are thy Verses,
Compar'd with which (and that's enuff)
A Smoothing-I'rn itself is ruff.
Nor praise I less that Circumcision,
By modern Poets call'd Élision,
Which in its proper Station plac't,
Makes thy Verse smooth, and makes them laft.
Thus, a wise Taylor is not pinching,
But turns at ev'ry Seam an Inch in;
Or else, be sure, your Broad-cloth Breeches
Will ne'er be smooth, nor hold the Stitches.
Thy Verse, like Bricks, defies the Weather,
When smooth'd by rubbing them together ;
Thy Words so closely wedg’d and short are,
Like Walls, more lasting without Mortar ;

S 2

By leaving out the needless Vowels
You save the Charge of Lime and Trowels.
One Letter still another locks,
Each groov'd, and dove-tail'd like a Box.
Thy Muse is 'tuckt up and succinct,
In Chains the Syllables are linkt.
Thy Words together ty'd in small Hanks,
Close as the Macedonian Phalanx ;'
Or like the Umbo of the Romans,
Which fiercest Foes could break by no Means.
The Critick to his Grief will find
How firmly those Indentures bind :
So, in the kindred Painter's Art
The short'ning is the nicest Part,

Philologers of future Ages, How will they pore upon thy Pages ! Nor will they dare to break the Joints, But help thee to be read with Points : Or else; to shew their Labour, you : May backward be perus'd like Hebrew, Wherein they need not lose a Bit, Or, of thy Harmony or Wit, To make a Work compleatly fine, Number and weight and Measure join ; Then all must grant your Lines are weighty, Where thirty weigh as much as eighty.


All must allow your Numbers more, Where twenty Lines exceed fourscore ; Nor can we think your Measure short Where less than forty fill the Quart ; , With Alexandrine in the Close, Long, long, long, long, like Dan's long Nose.

A REBUS, written by a * LADY, on the

Reverend Dr. SWIFT. CUT the Name of the Man? yo--sepb.

W who his Mistress deny'd, And let the first of it be only

• apply'd To join with the Prophet who | Nathan.

David did chide.. Then say what a Horse is that runs very faft, And that which deserves to be first put the

last; Spell all then, and put them together to find . The Name and the Virtue of Him I design'd. Like the Patriarch in Egypt, he's vers’d in the

State, Like the Prophet in Jeury, he's free with the Great,

Like * Mrs. Vanhomrigh.

Like a Racer he flies to fuccour with Speed,
When his Friends want his Aid, or Desert is

in Need,


THE NYMPH who wrote this in an

amorous Fit, I cannot but envy the Pride of her Wit, Which thus she will venture profusely to throw, On so mean a Dehgn, and a Subje&t so tow. For mean’s her Dehgn, and her Subječt as mean, The first but a Rebus, the last but a Dean :: A Dean's but a Parson; and what is a Rebus ? A Thing never known to the Muses or Phoebus :: The Corruption of Verse, for when all is done, It is but a Paraphrase made on a Punni. But a Genius like her's no Subject can stifle, It shews and discovers itself through a Trifle. By reading this Trifle, I quickly began To find her a Wit, but the Dean a small Man. Rich Ladies, will furnish their Garrets with

Stuff, . Which others for Mantuas wou'd think fine

enuff; So the Wit that is lavishly thrown away here, Might furnish a second Rate Poet a Year ::



Thus much for the Verse, we proceed to the Where the Nymph hath entirely forsaken her

Text : Her fine Panegyricks are quite out of Season, And what She describes to be Merit is Treason : The Changes which Faction hath made in the

State, Have put the Dean's Politicks quite out of

Date : Now no one regards what he utters with

Freedom, And shou'd he write Pamphlets, no Great Man

wou'd read 'em ; And shou'd Want or Desert stand in need of

. his Aid, This Racer wou'd prove but a dull foundercha


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