"Or, do the Prints and Papers lie?
Faith, Sir, you know as much as I.
"Ah Doctor, how you love to jest?
"'Tis now no Secret I protest
'Tis one to me.
"Then tell us, pray,
"When are the Troops to have their Pay?
And, tho' I folemnly declare
I know no more than my Lord Mayor,
They ftand amaz'd, and think me grown
The clofeft Mortal ever known.
THUS in a Sea of Folly tofs'd,
My choiceft Hours of Life are loft ;
Yet always wishing to retreat,
Oh, could I fee my Country Seat!
There leaning near a gentle Brook,
Sleep, or perufe fome ancient Book;
And there in fweet Oblivion drown
Thofe Cares that haunt the Court and Town.
101. Jurantem me fcire nibil, mirantur, ut unum Scilicet egregii mortalem, altique filenti.
108. O Rus, quando ego te afpiciam, quandoque licebit Nunc veterum libris, nunc fomno, & inertibus bo
Ducere follicita jucunda oblivia vita?
Happy Life of a Country Parfon. 59
*The Happy Life of a COUNTRY PARSON. In Imitation of Martial.
ARSON, thefe Things in thy poffeffing
Are better than the Bishop's Bleffing.
A Wife that makes Conferves; a Steed
That carries double when there's Need:
Odober, Store, and best Virginia,
Tythe-Pig, and mortuary Guinea:
Gazettes fent gratis down, and frank'd, ■
For which thy Patron's weekly thank'd:
A large Concordance, (bound long fince)
Sermons to Charles the First, when Prince;
A Chronicle of ancient standing;
A Chryfoftom to fmooth thy Band in:
The Polyglott-three Parts,-my Text,
Howbeit, ― likewife now to my next,"
Lo here the Septuagint,—and Paul,
To fum the whole, the Clofe of all
He that has these, may pass his Life,
Drink with the 'Squire, and kifs his Wife;
On Sundays preach, and eat his Fill;
And faft on Fridays if he will;
Toaft Church and Queen, explain the News,
Talk with Church-Wardens about Pews,
Pray heartily for some new Gift,
And hake his Head at Doctor S
* A TALE of CHAUCER, lately found in an Old Manufcript.
7OMEN, tho' nat fans Leacherie,
Ne fwinken but with Secrecie :
This in our Tale is plain y-fond,
Of Clerk that wonneth in Ireland:
Which to the Fennes hath him betake,
To filch the gray Ducke fro the Lake.
Right then, there paffen by the Way,
His Aunt, and eke her Daughters tway:
Ducke in his Trowzes hath he hent,
Not to be fpicd of Ladies gent.
"But ho! our Nephew, (crieth one,}
"Ho! quoth another Couzen Jobn;
And stoppen, and lough, and callen out,
This fely Clerk full low doth lout.
They afken that, and talken this,
"Lo here is Coz. and here is Mifs.
But, as he glozeth with Speeches foote,
The Ducke fore tickleth his Erfe Roote:
Fore-piece and Buttons all to breft,
Forth thruft a white Neck and red Crest.
Te-be cry'd Ladies, Clerke nought spake:
Mifs ftar'd and gray Ducke crieth Quaake.
"O Moder, Moder, (quoth the Daughter)
"Be thilke fame Thing the Maids longen a'ter?
"Bette is to pyne on Coals and Chalke,
"Than truft on Mon, whofe Yerde can talke.
*The ALLEY. An Imitation of Spencer.
IN ev'ry Town, where Thamis rolls his Tide,
A narrow Pafs there is, with Houses low; Where ever and anon, the Stream is ey'd,
And many a Boat foft fliding to and fro.
There oft' are heard the Notes of Infant Woe,
The fhort thick Sob, loud Scream, and fhriller Squall: How can ye, Mothers, vex your Children fo? Some play, fome eat, fome cack against the Wall; And as they crouchen low, for Bread and Butter call.
And on the broken Pavement, here and there,
Doth many a flinking Sprat and Herring lie;
A Brandy and Tobacco Shop is near,
And Hens, and Dogs, and Hogs, are feeding by;
And here a Sailor's Jacket hangs to dry;
At ev'ry Door are Sun-burnt Matrons feen,
Mending old Nets to catch the fcaly Fry; Now finging fhrill, and fcolding oft between, Scolds answer foul-mouth'd Scolds; bad Neighbourhood I ween.
THE fnappifh Cur, (the Paffengers annoy)
Clofe at my Heel with yelping Treble flies;
The whimp'ring Girl, and hoarfer-fcreaming Boy,
Join to the yelping Treble, fhrilling Cries;
The fcolding Quean to louder Notes doth rife,
And her full Pipes thofe fhrilling Cries confound;
To her full Pipes the grunting Hog replies;
The grunting Hogs alarm the Neighbours round,
And Curs, Girls, Boys, and Scolds, in the deep
Bale are drown'd.
HARD by a Sty, beneath a Roof of Thatch.
Dwelt Obloquy, who in her early Days
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