The Progrefs of ADVICE. A common Cafe. •Suade, nam certum eft. AYS Richard to Thomas (and feem'd half afraid) Nay don't make a jeft on't, 'tis no jest to me; I have no fault to find with the girl fince I knew her; Said Thomas to Richard-to speak my opinion, D4. She's She's peevish, fhe's thievih, fhe's ugly, fhe's old," SLENDER'S GHOST, B ENEATH a church-yard yew Decay'd and worn with age, At dusk of eve, methought I fpy'd Poor Slender's ghost, that whimpering cry'd, O sweet, O sweet Anne Page! Ye gentle bards, give ear! Who talk of amorous rage, Who spoil the lily, rob the rose; Come learn of me to weep your woes: O fweet! O fweet Anne Page! Why should fuch labour'd strains I never dreamt of flame or dart, That fir'd my breaft, or pierc'd my heart, And you, whofe love-fick minds O fweet! O fweet Anne Page! And And you, whofe fouls are held, Who talk of fetters, links, and chains, O fweet! O fweet Anne Page! And you, who boast or grieve, O fweet! O fweet Anne Page! Hence every fond conceit Of thepherd, or of fage! 'Tis Slender's voice, 'tis Slender's way, Expreffes all you have to fay O fweet! O fweet Anne Page! Η Upon RIDDLES. AVE you' not known a fmall machine H^ Which brazen rings environ, In many a country chimney feen, Its puzzling nature to display Each idle clown may try, Sir, Tho, when he has acquir'd the way, "Tis thus with him, who fond of rhime And tires his thoughts, and waftes his time Shall idle bards, by fancy led, (With wrathful zeal I fpeak it) He writes the best, who, writing, can That can accomplish neither. Ye readers, hear! ye writers too! A H! boaft not those obfcuring lays, Nor think it fure and certain That every one can draw a face, 2 POPE POPE does the flourish'd truth no hurt, His fancy decks, thy fancy fhrowds; But let my candour not upbraid Thy ftrains, which flow so purely ; It is thy fecret, 'tis thy trade, 'Tis that alone can guard thy fame, When Nature forms an horrid mien The bat uncouth thro' inftinct fears Yet when the fun no more appears, 'Tis inftinct bids the frightful owl |