So, when a pipe we smoke,

And from the flint provoke

The fparks that twinkling play;
The touchwood old and dry
With heat begins to fry,

And gently waftes away.

With art she patch'd up nature,
Reforming every feature,

Reftoring every grace:
To gratify her pride,

She stopp'd each cranny wide,
And painted o'er her face.

Nor red, nor eke the white,
Was wanting to invite,

Nor coral lips that pout;
But, oh! in vain she tries,
With darts to arm those eyes
That dimly fquint about.

With order and with care,
Her pyramid of hair

Sublimely mounts the sky;
And, that the might prevail,
She bolter'd up her tail,

With rumps three ftories high.

With many a rich perfume,
She purify'd her room,

As there was need, no doubt;

For

All in a myrtle grove.

In pale of mother church,
She fondly hop'd to lurch,

But, ah me! hop'd in vain ;
No doctor could be found,
Who this her cafe profound
Durft venture to explain.

At length a youth full fmart,
Who oft by magic art

Had div'd in many a hole;

Or kilderkin, or tun,
Or hogfhead, 'twas all one,
He'd found it with his pole,

His art, and eke his face,
So fuited to her cafe,

Engag'd her love-fick heart;
Quoth fhe, My pretty Diver,
With thee I'll live for ever,

And from thee never part.

For

TIM

To blatt Canidia's face,

(Which once 'twas rapture to behold)
With wrinkles and difgrace.

Not fo in blooming beauty bright,
Each envying virgin's pattern,
She reign'd with undisputed right
A *prieftefs of St. Cattern.

She was bar-keeper at the Cattern wheel in Oxford.

Each

Each sprightly foph, each brawny thrum,

Spent his first runnings here;

And hoary doctors dribbling come,
To languifh and defpair.

Low at her feet the proftrate arts
Their humble homage pay;
To her the tyrant of their hearts,
Each bard directs his lay.

But now, when impotent to please,
Alas! fhe would be doing;
Reverfing Nature's wife decrees,
She goes herself a-wooing.

Though brib'd with all her pelf, the swain

Moft aukwardly complies;

Prefs'd to bear arms, he ferves in pain,

Or from his colours flies.

So does an ivy, green when old,

And sprouting in decay;

In juiceless, joyless arms infold
A fapling young and gay.

The thriving plant, if better join'd,
Would emulate the skies;

But, to that wither'd trunk confin'd,
Grows fickly, pines, and dies.

HUNT.

BE

HUNTING-SON G.

EHOLD, my friend, the rofy-finger'd Morn,
With blushes on her face,

Peeps o'er yon azure hill;
Rich gems the trees enchase,

Pearls from each bush diftil,

Arise, arise, and hail the light new-born.

Hark! hark! the merry horn calls, come away:

Quit, quit thy downy bed;
Break from Amynta's arms;
Oh! let it ne'er be faid,

That all, that all her charms,

Though the 's as Venus fair, can tempt thy stay.

Perplex thy foul no more with cares below,

For what will pelf avail?

Thy courfer paws the ground,

Each beagle cocks his tail,

They spend their mouths around,

While health, and pleasure, smiles on every brow.

Try, huntfmen, all the brakes, fpread all the plain,

Now, now, fhe 's gone away,

Strip, ftrip, with speed purfue;

The jocund God of day,

Who fain our fport would view,
See, fee, he flogs his fiery steeds in vain.

Pour