Un Jour dit un Auteur, &c.
NCE (fays our Author, where I need not say) Two Travellers found an Oyster in their way; Both fierce, both hungry, the difpute grew strong, While Scale in hand Dame Justice paft along. Before her each with clamour pleads the Laws, Explain'd the matter and would win the cause. Dame Justice weighing long the doubtful Right, Takes, opens, fwallows it, before their fight. The caufe of ftrife remov'd fo rarely well, There take (fays Justice) take ye each a Shell. We thrive at Westminster on Fools like 'Twas a fat Oyster-Live in peace-Adieu.
ANSWER to the following Question of Mrs HowE.
Seen with Wit and Beauty feldom.
'Tis a fear that starts at shadows.
'Tis, (no, 'tisn't) like Mifs Meadows.
'Tis a Virgin hard of Feature,
Old, and void of all good nature;
Lean and fretful; would feem wife;
Yet plays the fool before she dies.
'Tis an ugly envious Shrew,
That rails at dear Lepell and You.
Occafioned by fome Verfes of his Grace The Duke of BUCKINGHAM.
USE, 'tis enough: at length thy labour ends,
M And thou fhalt live, for Buckingham com
Let Crowds of Critics now my verse affail,
Let Dennis write, and nameless numbers rail :
This more than pays whole years of thankless pain,
Time, health, and fortune are not loft in vain.
Sheffield approves, confenting Phoebus bends,
And I and Malice from this hour are friends.
To a Play for Mr DENNIS'S Benefit, in 1733, when he was old, blind, and in great diftrefs, a little before his Death.
S when that Hero, who in each Campaign,
A Had brav'd the Goth, and many a Vandal Α
Lay Fortune-ftruck, a fpectacle of Woe!
Wept by each Friend, forgiv'n by ev'ry Foe:
Was there a gen'rous, a reflecting mind.
But pitied BELISARIUS old and blind?
Was there a Chief but melted at the Sight?
A common Soldier, but who clubb'd his Mite?
Such, fuch emotions fhould in Britons rife,
When prefs'd by want and weakness DENNIS lies;
Dennis, who long had warr'd with modern Huns,
Their Quibbles routed, and defy'd their Puns;
A defp'rate Bulwark, sturdy, firm, and fierce
Against the Gothic Sons of frozen verfe:
How chang'd from him who made the boxes groan,
And shook the stage with Thunders all his own!
Stood up to dash each vain PRETENDER's hope!
Maul the French Tyrant, or pull down the POPE"!
If there's a Briton then, true bred and born,
Who holds Dragoons and wooden shoes in scorn
If there's a Critic of distinguish'd rage;
If there's a Senior, who contemns this age;
Let him to night his just assistance lend,
And be the Critic's, Briton's, Old-Man's Friend.
7HEN fimple Macer, now of high renown,
First fought a Poet's Fortune in the Town, "Twas all th' Ambition his high foul could feel,
To wear red stockings, and to dine with Steel.
Some Ends of verse his Betters might afford,
And gave the harmless fellow a good word.
with these, he ventur'd on the Town,
And with a borrow'd Play, out-did poor Crown.
There he stop'd short, nor fince has writ a title :
But has the Wit to make the most of little :
Like ftunted hide-bound Trees, that just have got
Sufficient fap at once to bear and rot.
Now he begs Verfe, and what he gets commends,
Not of the Wits his foes, but fools his friends.
So fome coarse Country Wench, almost decay'd,
Trudges to town, and firft turns Chambermaid:
Aukward and fupple, each devoir to pay;
She flatters her good Lady twice a day;
Thought wondrous honeft, tho' of mean degree,
And strangely liked for her Simplicity:
In a tranflated Suit, then tries the Town,
With borrow'd Pins and Patches not her own:
But just endur'd the Winter fhe began,
And in four Months a batter'd Harridan.
Now nothing left, but wither'd, pale, and fhrunk,
To bawd for others, and go fhares with Punk.
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