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So I from Coke's and Croke's reports,
And special pleadings of the courts,
Had veer'd about to bury dead,
And 'gainst a pulpit run my head.
Didst thou not promise then and there,
(But promises are china-ware)
Didft thou not promise, as I spoke,
That you'd ere long your Muse invoke,
And cloath'd in strong harmonious line,
Send counsel to the
Where of thy word then is the troth,
Which I thought good as any oath?
Or where that strong harmonious line,
Blefs’d by each fifter of the Nine ?
That whore we speak of i'th' beginning,
Hath some excuse to make for sinning:
Her tongue and tail are taught deceit
From her not knowing where to eat.
The courtier too hath fome excuse
To think word-breaking small abuse :
And ’midst the hurry, noise, and bustle,
Of crowds, that at his levée joftle,
No man can be in such a taking
To see a little promise-breaking.
But what indulgence, what excuse
Can plead for thee, or for thy Muse ?
For thee, on whom the sisters wait
Pleas'd with the task impos'd by S;
Whom at his christ’ning they did dip
O'er head and ears in Aganip;
For thee, at mention of whofe strain
Their winged courser courts the rein,
Bounds e'en through Suflex-roads along,
Proud of the burthen of thy fong?
Answer to the foregoing, 1731. By J. S.
Y dearest boy,
Apollo's and the prelate's joys
Your sharp rebuke came safe to hand,
And speedy answer does demand.
You charge me home-our conscious Muse
Wou'd fain say something in excufe.
The promise made must be confess’d,
But here, Sir diftinguendum eft.
A promise broke and one delay'd
Differ as much as light and shade.
By this distinction all your
And courtiers I turn out of doors,
And, by induction logical
Prove, they affect not me at all.
But if my logic be not good,
I'll prove it from the word of God,
Which serves to clear all sorts of cases,
And wears å masquerade of faces.
When bloody-minded Jephtha swore,
If he return'd a conqueror,
What from his house first met his eyes ;
And when his girl and only child
Haften'd to welcome from the field
With pious joy her prosp'rous fire,
Gaily dancing to the lyre;
The holy butcher understood
His promise's performance good,
Tho' for a year the virgin stray'd,
her unloft maidenhead.
Thus, Sir, you see we men of letters
Can, like Jack Shepherd, cut our fetters ;
When pinch'd, we file fcholastic faw,
And iron is no more than ftraw :
The man is thought to have no brains,
Who can't break loose, or bind in chains.
Your Sykes's and your Waterlands
Have nothing else upon their hands :
They ftand prepar'd with double tackle
To fix, or to remove the shackle.
But, my dear boy, we'll only tye
The silken bands of amity;
Or such as hock-tide boys and misses
With laughter bind, and harmless kifies ;
Indulge the free poetic measure,
And mimic discord for more pleasure.
But after all these long preambles,
In which our nag, at best, but ambles :
After our plea of mere delay,
'Tis fit we think our debt to pay.
Soon then as business will permit,
We'll send you up another sheet,
Full fraught with our most learn’d advice,
In which we must be somewhat nice;
We'll rouse our thoughts, and take due time,
And trifle not in dogrel rhime;
But boldly whip the winged steed,
And raise him to a nobler speed.
ADAM alone cou'd not be easy,
So he must have a wife, an't please ye :
But how did he procure his wife,
To cheer his folitary life?
Why, from a rib ta'en out his fide
Was form'd this necessary bride.
But how did he the pain beguile?
Pho! he slept sweetly all the while.
But when this rib was re-applied,
In woman's form, to Adam's fide,
How then, I pray you, did it answer ?
He never slept so sweet again, Sir.
O deck her bosom Chloe chose,
Before all flow'rs, the blushing rose :
It made her breasts more lovely shew,
And added whiteness to their snow.
The tender nymph, herself a bud,
So much already understood.
But once, bless’d hour! the went to see
The produce of the favourite tree.
A large and tempting rofe she found,
Which spread its perfumes all around.
It seem'd to court the virgin's hand,
The virgin did not long withstand.
She pluck'd-buto! a sudden pain
Made her release the stalk again.
The wound appear'd, her finger bled,
And stain’d the rose with guilty red.
The nymph, with pain and anger mov'd,
Began to hate what once the lov'd ;