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Where with strange heats his bosom glows,
And myftic flames the God bestows.
You, who none other flame require
Than a good blazing parlour fire,
Write verses--to defy the scorners,
In cake houses, and chimney corners.

Sal found her deep-laid fchemes were vain ;
The cards are cút-come deal again
No good comes on it when one lingers and
I'll play the card comes next my fingers
Fortune could never let Ned loo her,
When she had left it wholly to her.

Well, now, who wins ? Why, still the same
For Sal has lost another game.

I've done, the mutter'd- I was saying,
It did not argufy my playing.
Some folks will win they cannot chuse ;
But think or not think fome must lose.
I may have won a game, or so
But then it was an age ago
It ne'er will be my lot again
I won it of a baby then-in
Give me an ace of trumps, and fee,
Our Ned will beat me with a three.
"Tis all by luck that things are carry'd
He'll suffer for it when he's marry'd.
Thus Sal, with tears in either eye,
While victor Ned fat tittering by.

Thus 1, long envying your faceefs,
And bent to write, and study less,

Sate down and scribbled in a trice,
Just what you see and you despise.

You who can frame a tuneful song,
And hum it as you ride along ;
And, trotting on the king's high-way,
Snatch from the hedge a sprig of bay ;
Accept the verse, howe'er it flows,
From one, who is your friend in prose.

What is this wreath, fo green ! fo fair!
Which many wish, and few must wear?
Which one man's indolence can gain,
Another's vigils ne'er obtain ?
For what must Sal or Pcet fue,
Ere they engage with Ned or you?
For luck in verse ? for luck at Loo?.
Ah no! 'tis Genius gives you fame,
And Ned thro' skill secures the game.

}

*****

Written at an INN, on a particular Occasion.

O thee, fair Freedom! I retire,
To ,

From flattery, feasting, dice, and din ;
Nor art thou found in domes much higher

Than the low cot, or humble inn. 'Tis here with boundless power I reign,

And every health which I begin, Converts dull port to bright champain';

For Freedom drowiis it at an inn.

D 2

fordid ore,

I Ay from pomp, I fly from plate,

I fly from Falshood's fpecious grin ;
Freedom I love, and form I hate,

And chufe my lodgings at an inn.
Here, waiter! take

my
Which lacqueys else might hope to win ;
It buys what courts have not in store,

It buys me Freedom, at an inn.
And now once more I shape my way

Thro' rain or shine, thro' thick or thin,
Secure to meet, at close of day,

With kind reception-at an inn.
Whoe'er has travellid life's dull round,

Where'er his various tour has been,
May figh to think how oft he found

His warmest welcome--at an inn.

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I

ASK'D a friend, amidst the throng,

Whose coach it was that trail'd along: “ The gilded coach there--don't

you

mind! " That with the footmen stuck behind.”

O Sir, says he, what ha'n't ye seen it? 'Tis Timon's coach, and Timon in it.

Tis odd, methinks, you have forgot
Your friend, your neighbour, and-what not?
Your old acquaintance, Timon!" True,
“ But faith his equipage is new.
“ Bless me, said I, where can it end?
" What madness has possess’d my friend ?
“ Four powder'd flaves, and those the tallest !
"Their stomachs, doubtless, not the smalleft!
“ Can Timon's revenue maintain
" In lace and food, so large a train ?
“ I know his land_each inch o' ground
" 'Tis not a mile to walk it round
" And if his whole estate can bear
" To keep a lad, and one-horse chair,
" I own 'tis past my comprehenfion!"-
Yes, Sir; but Timon has a pension.

Thus does a false ambition rule us;
Thus pomp delude, and folly fool us;
To keep a race of flickering knaves,
He

grows himfeif the worst of slaves.

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VIRG,

Trabit fua quemque voluptas. ROM Lincoln to London rode forth our young squire,

To bring down a wife, whom the fwains might admire : But, in spite of whatever the mortal could say, The goddess objected the length of the way! D 3'

To

To give up the op'ra, the park and the ball, For to view the stag's horns in an

oid

country hall: To have neither China nor India to see! Nor lace-man to plague in a morning

not she! To relinquish the play.houfe, Quin, Garrick, and Clive, Who by dint of mere humour had kept her alive ; To forego the full box for his lonesome abode ! O Heav'ns! she should faint, she should die on the road!

To forget the gay fashions and gestures of France, And to leave dear Augufte in the midst of the dance ; And Harlequin too! 'Twas in vain to require it And the wonder'd how folks had the face to defire it!

She might yield to refign the sweet fingers of Ruckholt, Where the citizen-matron regales with her cuckold ; But Ranelagh foon would her footsteps recall, And the music, the lamps, and the glare of Vaux-hall.

To be sure she could breathe no where else than in town, Thus she talk'd like a wit, and he look'd like a clown ; But while honest Harry despair'd to succeed, A coach with a coronet trail'd her to Tweed.

The Extent of COOKERY.

Aliufque et Idem.
HEN Tom to Cambridge first was fent,

A plain brown bob he wore ;
Read much, and look'd as tho' he meant

To be a fop no more,

W

See

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