So I from Coke's and Croke's reports,
And special pleadings of the courts,
Had veer'd about to bury dead,
And 'gainft a pulpit run my head.
Didft thou not promise then and there,
(But promises are china-ware)
Didft thou not promise, as I spoke,
That you'd ere long your Mufe invoke,
And cloath'd in ftrong harmonious line,
Send counsel to the young divine ?
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 fome excufe to make for finning:
Her tongue and tail are taught deceit
From her not knowing where to eat.
The courtier too hath fome excufe
To think word-breaking small abuse:
And 'midft the hurry, noise, and bustle,
Of crowds, that at his levée jostle,
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 Mufe?
For thee, on whom the fifters wait
Pleas'd with the task impos'd by S;
Whom at his chrift'ning they did dip
O'er head and ears in Aganip;
For thee, at mention of whose strain
Their winged courfer courts the rein,
Bounds e'en through Suffex-roads along,
Proud of the burthen of thy fong?
*******************
Answer to the foregoing, 1731. By J. S.
Apollo's and the prelate's joy;
Your sharp rebuke came fafe to hand,
And speedy anfwer does, demand.
You charge me home-our confcious Mufe
Wou'd fain say something in excuse.
The promise made must be confefs'd,
But here, Sir diftinguendum eft.
A promise broke and one delay'd
Differ as much as light and shade.
By this diftinction all your whores
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 ferves to clear all forts of cafes,
And wears à masquerade of faces.
When bloody-minded Jephtha fwore, If he return'd a conqueror,
He'd offer up in facrifice
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 profp'rous fire,
Gaily dancing to the lyre;
The holy butcher understood
His promife's performance good,
Tho' for a year the virgin ftray'd,
And wept her unlost maidenhead.
Thus, Sir, you see we men of letters
Can, like Jack Shepherd, cut our fetters;
When pinch'd, we file scholastic saw,
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 fhackle.
But, my dear boy, we'll only tye
The filken bands of amity;
Or fuch as hock-tide boys and miffes
With laughter bind, and harmless kiffes;
Indulge the free poetic measure,
And mimic difcord for more pleasure.
But after all these long preambles,
In which our nag, at beft, 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 moft 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 fteed,
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 neceffary 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 bofom Chloe chofe,
Before all flow'rs, the blufhing rofe:
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, blefs'd hour! fhe went to fee
The produce of the favourite tree.
A large and tempting rofe fhe found,
Which spread its perfumes all around.
It feem'd to court the virgin's hand,
The virgin did not long withstand.
She pluck'd-but O! a fudden pain
Made her release the stalk again.
The wound appear'd, her finger bled,
And ftain'd the rofe with guilty red.
The nymph, with pain and anger mov'd,
Began to hate what once she lov'd ;
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