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I feel so strange, so comical, and queer;
Pet. Such soft sensations do the saints inherit, Who feel the inward workings of the spirit; O! would our Sisters Tabitha and Ruth, With all the crop-ear'd brethren of the truth, Assembled hither for their soul's diversion, Could see thy sudden, wonderful conversion.
Da. 0, name not Tabby! debonnaire and sleek, I tremble at the roses in her cheek! And Ruth is buxom, though devout and shy, A righteous heart, but yet a wicked eye!
Pet. Now hear me, brother Damon; hear, I
pr’ythee, My late conversion-and the Lord be wi' thee! Some forty years ago, or nearly that, I was a forward, pert, and graceless brat, My tongue was bold, and saucy were my looks, I lov'd my play much better than my books. On Sabbath-days, with Thomas Stokes and Green
I pitch'd the quoit, shot sparrows in a bean-field;
was, though young in years, mature in sin.
For an account of this interesting character, see the European Magazine for October, 1804.
+ It is a saying when a culprit is executed at the Old Bailey, that he dies (in reference to the last exhortations of Doctor Cotton, the pious ordinary,) “ with Cotton in his
Five hundred wives had he, a noble suit!
Da. Right deftly hast thou tun'd thy reed, my
Peter, And told thy tale in mighty pleasant metre; But time is on the wing, I must be gone, What says your watch? for mine is gone to pawn.
Pet. A mighty lucky thought-assure as Heaven, It only wants ten minutes to eleven! Collection Sunday to begin so late! Do thou, good Damon, come and hold the plate; But first, since thus our foolish quarrel ends, Let's drink a pot of porter, and be friends.
LORD MAYOR'S DAY.
-Quod optanti divům promittere nemo
SCARCE had Aurora chas'd the shades of night,
For Goddess Chance, to make the people stare, Had pitch'd upon her husband for a May’r.
In ancient times, when Britain's laurels grew, The rival City had her Poet too ; Then Laureat Settle, in harmonious lays, Immortaliz'd her feasts and public days; Her grand parades majestic roll’d along, Supreme in ode, and mock-heroic song; And while King Charles's praise was Dryden's care, He found as many virtues in the May'r.
But times are chang'd; and many a tuneful strain The civic bounty courts, but courts in vainE'en Virgil, who in British cap and gown, Now humbly asks the favour of the town, Shall find, perhaps, no market for his rhymes, That pleas'd Mæcenas, in Augustan times; And, forc'd by Dulness to his native home, Without a patron travel back to Rome.
Now walk'd Belinda forth, superbly sheen, “She look'd a goddess, and she mov’d a queen!” To make her blooming, Art its colours lent, And nought she lack'd that Fashion could invent. Rare articles for show, and few for use, Hat à-la-mode, and mantle à-la-russe;