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Thus every year their quarrel ends,
They argue, fight, and buss, and friends ;
'Tis starling, thrush, and thrush and starling;
You dog, you b; my dear, my darling.
A FAMILIAR EPISTLE TO ******
What, three months gone, and never send
A single letter to a friend ?
In that time, sure, we might have known
Whether you fat or lean was grown;
Whether your host was short or tall,
Had manners good, or none at all;
Whether the neighb'ring squire you found
As mere a brute as fox or hound;
Or if the parson of the place
(With all due rev'rence to his grace)
Took much more pains himself to keep,
Than to instruct and feed his sheep;
At what hour of the day you dine;
you drink beer, punch, or wine;
Whether you hunt, or shoot, or ride ;
Or, by some muddy ditch's fide,
you, in visionary dream,
Call bubbling rill, or purling stream,
Sigh for some aukward country lass,
Who must of consequence surpass
All that is beautiful and bright,
As much as day surpasses night;
Whether the people eat and drink,
Or ever talk, or ever think;
If, to the honour of their parts,
The men have heads, the women hearts
If the moon rises and goes down,
And changes as she does in town;
If you've returns of night and day,
And seasons varying roll away ;
mind exalted wooes Th' embraces of a serious muse
Or if you write, as I do now,
The L-d knows what, the L-d knows how.
These, and a thousand things like these,
The friendly heart are sure to please.
Now will my friend turn up
And look superlatively wise;
Wonder what all this stuff's about,
And how the plague I found him out!
When he had taken so much pains,
In order to regale his brains
With privacy and country air,
To go, no soul alive knew where!
Besides, 'tis folly to suppose
That any person breathing goes
On such a scheme, with a design
To write or read such stuff as mine,
And idly waste his precious time
In all th' impertinence of rhyme.
My good, wise, venerable fir!
Why about nonsense all this stir!
Is it, that you would stand alone,
And read no nonsense but your own;
Tho' you're (to tell you, by the bye)
Not half so great a fool as I ;
Or is it that you make pretence,
Being a fool, to have some fense?
And would you really have my
Employ herself in writing news,
And most unconscionably teize her
With rhyming to Warsaw and Weser ;
Or toss up a poetic olio,
Merely to bring in Marshal Broglio?
Should I recite what now is doing,
Or what for future times is brewing,
Or triumph that the poor French see all
Their hopes defeated at Montreal,
Or should I your attention carry
To Fred'rick, Ferdinand, or Harry,
Of Aying Russian, daftard Swede,
And baffled Austria let
Or gravely tell with what design
The youthful Henry pass’d the Rhine ?
Or should I shake my empty head,
And tell you that the king is dead,
Observe what changes will ensue,
What will be what, and who'll be who,
Or leaving these things to my betters,
Before you set the state of letters?
Or should I tell domestic jars,
How author against author wars,
How both with mutual envy rankling,
Fr--k--ng damns M--rp--y, M--rp--y Fr--k--ng?
Or will it more your
To talk of actors and the stage,
To tell, if any words could tell,
What GARRICK acts still, and how well,
That SHERIDAN with all his care
Will always be a labour'd play'r,
And that his acting at the best
Is all but art, and art confeft;
That BRIDE, if reason may presume
To judge by things past, things to come,
In future times will tread the stage,
Equally form’d for love and rage,