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Now e'en at best the times are none so good,
But 'tis hard work to scrape a livelihood.
The cattle in the stalls resign their life,
And baulk the shambles, and the bloody knife.
Th'affrighted farmer pensive fits at home,
And turnpikes threaten to compleat my doom.
Wife. Well! for the turnpike, that will do no hurt,
The roads, they say, are n't much the better for't.
But much I fear this murrain, where 'twill end,
For sure the cattle did our door befriend:
Oft have I prais'd them as they stalk'd along,
Their fat the butchers pleas’d, but me their dung.
0. P. See what a little dab of dirt is here !
But yields all Warwick more, O tell me where ?
Lo! where this ant-like hillock scarce is leen,
Heaps upon heaps, and loads on loads have been :
Bigger and bigger the proud dunghill grew,
"Till my diminish'd house was hid from view.
Wife. Ah! gaffer Pefiel, what brave days were those,
When higher than our house, our muck-hill rose ?
The growing mount I view'd with joyful eyes,
And mark'd what each load added to its size.
Wrapt in its fragrant fteam we often sate,
And to its praises held delightful chat.
Nor did I e'er neglect my mite to pay,
To swell the goodly heap from day to day;
For this each morn I plied the stubbed-broom,
Till I scarce hobbled o'er my furrow'd room :
For this I fquat me on my hams each night,
And mingle profit sweet with sweet delight?
A cabbage once I bought, but small the coft,
Nor do I think the farthing all was loft ::
Again you fold its well digested store,
To dang the garden where it grew before.
O. P. What tho' the boys, and boy-like fellows jeer'd,
And at the scavenger's employment sneer'd,
Yet then at night content I told my gains,
And thought well paid their malice and my pains.
Why toils the merchant but to swell his store ?
Why craves the wealthy landlord still for more?
Why will our gentry flatter, trade, and lie,
Why pack the cards, and what d'ye call't the die?
All, all the pleasing paths of gain pursue,
And wade thro' thick and thin, as we folk do.
Sweet is the scent that from advantage fprings,
And nothing dirty that good interest brings.
'Tis this that cures the scandal, and the smell,
e'en let our learned betters tell.
Wife. When goody Dobbins call'd me filthy bear,
And nam'd the kennel and the ducking chair ?,
With patience I cou'd hear the scolding quean,
For sure 'twas dirtiness that kept me clean.
Clean was my gown on Sundays, tho' not fine,
Nor mistress ***'s cap so white as mine.
A flut in filk or kersey is the fame,
Nor sweetest always is the finest dame.
Thus wail'd they pleasure past, and present cares,
While the starv'd hog join'd his complaint to theirs,
To still his grunting different ways they tend
To Weft-gate one, and one to Cotton-end.
HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY, Imitated.
Trint or not to print--that is the question.
Whether 'tis a
The quirks and crotchets of outrageous Fancy,
Or send a well-wrote copy to the press,
And by disclosing, end them. To print, to doubt
more; and by one act to fay we end
The head-ach, and a thoufand natural shocks
Of scribbling frenzy--'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To print-to beam
From the same shelf with Pope, in calf well bound:
To sleep, perchance, with Quarles-Ay, there's the rub
For to what class a writer may be doom'd,
When he hath shuffled off fome paltry ftuff,
Must give us pause. There's the respect that makes
Th’ unwilling poet keep his piece nine years.
For who would bear th' impatient thirst of fame,
The pride of conscious merit, and 'bove all,
The tedious importunity of friends,
When as him felf might his quietus make
With a bare inkhorn? Who would fardles bear
and sweat under a load of wit?
But that the tread of steep Parnassus' hill,
That undiscover'd country, with whose bays
Few travellers return, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear to live unknown,
Than run the hazard to be known, and damn'd.
Thus critics do make cowards of us all.
And thus the healthful face of many a poem
Is fickly'd o'er with a pale manuscript;
And enterprizers of great fire and spirit,
With this regard from Dodsley turn away,
And lose the name of Authors.
Transcrib'd from the Rev. Mr. Pixel's Parsonage
Garden near BIRMINGHAM, 1757.
EEK not in these to view
Dryads green, or Naiads blue;
Such as haunt, at eve or dawn,
* Enville's lake, or Hagley's lawn:
Such as sport on Worfield's meads ;
Such as Shenfione’s Genius leads
· Seat of the Earl of Stamford.
• Seat of lord Lyttelton.
' Seat of Sherrington Davenport, Esq;
O'er vale and hill, and to their care
Configns his waves and woodlands fair ;
While the Muses vacant stray,
And Echo wants her sweetest lay.
Long, long may those unrivalid fhine,
Nor shall my temp'rate breast repine,
So Music lend her willing aid
To gladden this ignoble fhade;
So Peace endear this humble plain
And haply Elegance will deign
To wander here, and smiling see
Her fifter nymph Simplicity.
Inscribed to Dr. W A L L.
ITH bounteous hand the gracious King of heaven
His choicest bleffings to mankind hath given,
Whilft thoughtless they ungratefully despise
The rich profufion that falutes their eyes.
But wife was he who study'd every
Of common weeds which common fields produce.
The dock, the nettle, in each swelling vein,
A healing balm for many an ill contain: