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That England's topsy-turvy,

Is clear from thefe mishaps, fir, Since traps, we may determiue, Will no longer take our vermin But vermin take our traps, fir.

Let fophs, by rats infefted,

Then truft in cats to catch 'em ;
Left they prove the utter bane
Of our ftudies, where, 'tis plain,

No mortal fits to watch 'em.

A SIMILE. By the Same.
HAT village but has often seen

W The clumfy fhape, the frightful mien,

Tremendous claws, and fhagged hair,
Of that grim brute, yclep'd a Bear?
He from his dam, as wits agree,
Receiv'd the curious form you see;
Who with her plaftic tongue alone
Produc'd a vifage like her own.
By which they hint, in mystic fashion,
The powerful force of education.

Perhaps yon rural tribe is viewing,
E'en now, the strange exploits of Bruin;
Who plays his anticks, roars aloud,
The wonder of a gaping crowd!

So have I known an aukward lad,
Whose birth has made a parish glad,

Forbid,

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Forbid, for fear of fenfe, to roam;
And taught by kind mamma at home;
Who gives him many a well-try'd rule,
With ways and means-
In fenfe the fame, in ftature higher,

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—to play the fool.

He shines, ere long, a rural squire;
Pours forth unwitty jokes, and fwears,
And bawls and drinks.
S

-but chiefly ftares!

His tenants of fuperior sense
Carouse and laugh at his expence ;
And fure the pastime I'm relating

Muft prove as pleasant as Bear-baiting.

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EMO

The CEREMONIA L.

SIR,

By the Same.

IR, will you please to walk before?"
No pray, Sir-you are next the door.

"Upon mine honour, I'll not stir!"
Sir, I'm at home; confider, Sir.
"Excufe me Sir, I'll not go firft."
Well, if I must be rude, I muft;

But yet I wish I cou'd evade it;

'Tis ftrangely clownish-be perfuaded, &c. &c. -Go forward, cits! go forward, fquires!

Nor fcruple each, what each admires.

Life fquares not, friends, with your proceeding:
It flies, while you display your breeding;
Such breeding as one's granam preaches,
Or fome old dancing-mafter teaches

O for fome rude tumultuous fellow,
Half crazy, or at least half-mellow,
To come behind you, unawares,
And fairly push you both down ftairs!

But Death's at hand. Let me advise ye,
Go forward, friends-or he'll furprize ye.

The Beau to the Virtuofos; alluding to a Propofal for the Publication of a Set of Butterflies.

By the Same.

"AIL curious wights, to whom fo fair

HAIL

The form of mortal flies is!

Who deem thofe grubs beyond compare,
Which common fense despises.

Whether your prey, in gardens found,
Be urg'd thro' walks and allies;
Whether o'er hill, morafs or mound,
You make more defperate fallies;

Amid the fury of the chace,

No rocks could e'er retard you;
Bleft, if a fly repay the race,
Or painted wing reward you.

'Twas thus * Camilla, o'er the plain,
Purfu'd the glittering stranger;
Still ey'd the purple's pleasing stain,
And knew not fear nor danger.
* See Virgil.

"Tis

'Tis you difpenfe the fav'rite meat
To nature's filmy people;

Know what conserves they chuse to eat,
And what liqueurs, to tipple.

"Tis you protect their pregnant hour;
And when the birth's at hand,
Exerting your obftetric pow'r,
Prevent a mothless land.

Yet oh!

my friends! howe'er your

Above grofs objects rises;

Whate'er refinements you pursue,

Hear what a beau advises.

view

A beau, that, weigh'd with your's, muft prize
Domitian's idle paffion;

Who fought the death of teazing flies

And not their propagation.

Let *****,

's eyes more deeply warm,

Nor foolishly determine

To flight fair Nature's lovelieft form,

And figh for Nature's vermin.

And speak with some respect of beaux;
No more, as triflers, treat 'em :

'Tis better learn to fave one's cloaths,
Than cherish moths that eat 'em. '

3

VERSES

VERSES to a FRIEND.

AVE you not feen, my gentle fquire,

HAVE You not my

Says Ned to Sal-I lead a spade;
Why don't ye play ?-the girl's afraid
Play fomething-any thing-but play————
'Tis but to pass the time away.

Pho! how she stands- biting her nails-
As tho' fhe play'd for half her vails
Sorting her cards, haggling and picking-
We play for nothing, do us, chicken?
That card will do-blood !-never doubt it
"Tis not worth while to think, about it.
Sal thought and thought, and mifs'd her aim;
And Ned, ne'er ftudying, won the game.
Methinks, old friend, 'tis wond'rous true,
That verfe is but a game at Loo.

While many a bard, that fhews fo clearly
He writes for his amufement merely,
Is known to study, fret, and toil,
And play for nothing all the while;
Or praise at moft (for wreaths of yore
Ne'er fignify a farthing more :)
Till having vainly toil'd to gain it,
He fees your flying pen obtain it.

Thro' fragrant scenes the trifler roves,
And hallow'd haunts that Phœbus loves;
VOL. V.

D

Whare

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