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That England's topsy-turvy,

Is clear from these mishaps, fir,
Since traps, we may determiue,
Will no longer take our vermin ;

But vermin take our traps, fir.

Let fophs, by rats infested,

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

No mortal fits to watch 'em.

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A SIMIL E. By the Same.
WH

HAT village but has often seen

The clumsy shape, the frightful mien,
Tremendous claws, and shagged 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 plastic tongue alone
Produc'd a visage like her own.
By which they hint, in myftic 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,
Whofe birth has made a parish glad,

Forbid,

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

to play the fool.
In sense the same, in ftature higher,
He shines, ere long, a rural squire ;
Pours forth unwitty jokes, and swears,
And bawls and drinks--but chiefly stares !
His tenants of superior sense
Carouse and laugh at his expence;
And sure the pastime I'm relating
Must prove as pleasant as Bear-baiting.

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The CEREMONIA L.

STR;

I'll not go

By the Same.
VIR, will you please to walk before ?"
No

pray, Şir-you are next the door.
Upon mine honour, I'll not stir!"
Sir, I'm at home; consider, Sir.
« Excuse me Sir,

first."
Well, if I must be rude, I must;
But yet I wish I cou'd evade it ;
'Tis strangely clownish be persuaded, &c. &c.

-Go forward, cits! go forward, fquires !
Nor scruple each, what each admires.
Life squares not, friends, with your proceeding :
It flies, while you display your breeding ;
Such breeding as one's granam preaches,
Or fome old dancing-matter teaches

O for some rude tumultuous fellow,
Half crazy, or at least half-mellow,
To come behind you, unawares,
And fairly push you both down stairs !
But Death's at hand. Let me advise

ye, Go forward, friends or he'll surprize ye. The Beau to the Virtuofos; alluding to a Proposal for

the Publication of a Set of BUTTERFLIES.

By the Same.
AIL curious wights, to whom fo fair

The form of mortal Alies is!
Who deem those grubs beyond compare,

Which common sense despises.

HA

Whether your prey, in gardens found,

Be urg'd thro' walks and allies;
Whether o'er hill, morass or mound,

You make more desperate fallies;

Amid the fury of the chace,
No rocks could e'er retard

you ;
Blest, if a fly repay the race,

Or painted wing reward you.

'Twas thus * Camilla, o'er the plain,

Pursu'd the glittering Atranger;
Still ey'd the purple's pleasing stain,
And knew not fear nor danger.
See Virgil

.

Tis

'Tis you dispense 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 obstetric pow'r,

Prevent a mothless land.

Yet oh!

my

friends! howe'er your view Above grofs objects rifes; Whate'er refinements you pursue,

Hear what a beau advises.

A beau, that, weigh'd with your’s, must prize

Domitian's idle passion;
Who fought the death of teazing flies

And not their propagation.

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And speak with some respect of beaux;

No more, as triflers, treat 'em : 'Tis better learn to save one's cloaths, Than cherish moths that eat 'em. 3

VERSES

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H

VERSES to a FRIEN D.

AVE you not seen, my gentle squire,

The humours of our kitchin fire ?
Says Ned to Sal I lead a spade;
Why don't ye play ? - the girl's afraid.
Play something-any thing--but play
'Tis but to pass tlie time away.
Pho! how she ftands- biting her nails
As tho' she 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 miss'd her aim;
And Ned, ne'er studying, won the game.

Methinks, old friend, 'tis wondrous true,
That verse is but a game at Loo.
While many a bard, that shews so clearly
He writes for his amusement 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 sees your flying pen obtain it.

Thro' fragrant scenes the trifler roves,
And hallow'd haunts that Phæbus loves;

D

Whare

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Vol. V.

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