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''Tis like the sun because 'tis gilt,

* Besides it travels in a belt.

* 'Tis like the Dutch, we plainly see, 'Because that state, whenever we

* A push for our own int'rest make, 'Does instantly our sides forsake.'

The moon?—'Why, when all's said and done, 'A sword is very like the moon; 'For if his majesty (God bless him)

* When county sheriff comes t' address him, 'Is pleas'd his favours to bestow

'On him before him kneeling low,

* This o'er his shoulders glitters bright,

'And gives the glory to the knight (night:)

* 'Tis like a kilderkin no doubt,

'For its not long in drawing out.
''Tis like a doctor; for who will

* Dispute a doctor's power to kill?'
But why a sword is like a whale
Is no such easy thing to tell;

'But since all swords are swords, d'ye see,
'Why, let it then a backsword be,

* Which if well us'd, will seldom fail

* To raise up somewhat like a whale.'


One day I call'd, and, Philo out,
I op'd the door and look'd about;
When all his goods being full in view,
I took this inventory true*

Item.—A bed without a curtain,
A broken jar to empty dirt in,
A candlestick, a greasy night cap,
A spitting pot to catch what might hap;
Two stockings darn'd with numerous stitches,
A piece of shirt, a pair of breeches;


A tliree lcgg'd stool, a four legg'd table,

Were fill'd with books unfit for rabble;

Sines, tangents, secants, radius, co-sines,

Sub-tangents, segments, and all those signs;

Enough to show the man who made em

Was full as mad as he who read 'em:

An almanack of six years standing,

A cup with ink, and one with sand in;

One corner held his books and chest, «

And round the floor were strew'd the rest;

That all things might be like himself,

He 'd neither closet, draw or shelf;

Here, p— pot, sauce-pot, broken platter,

Appear'd like heterogeneous matter.

In ancient days the walls were white,

But who 'gainst damps and snails can fight?

They 're now in wreathy ringlets bound,

Some square, some oval, and some round;

The antiquarian there may find

.Each hieroglyphic to his mind;

Such faces tliere may fancy trace,

As never yet knew time or place;

And he who studies maps or plans,

Has all the work done to his hands;

In short, the room, the goods, and author,

Appear'd to be one made for t' other.



* Good-morrow, dear Miss Fly,' quoth gallant


* Good-morrow, sir,'—reply'd Miss Fly to him.

'Walk in, Miss, pray, and see what I 'm about.' '1 'm much obliged t' ye,' Miss Fly rejoin'd; -' My eyes are both so very good I find,

* That I can plainly see the whole without** L

110 A TALE.

'Fine weather, Miss!'—'Yes, very, very, fine,'

Quoth Miss—' prodigious fine indeed!' 'But why so coy?' quoth Grim, 'that you decline 'To put within my bow'r your pretty head?' ''Tis simply this,' Quoth cautious Miss; 'I fear you 'd like my pretty head so well, 'You 'd keep it for yourself, sir:—who can tell?'

'Then let me squeeze your lovely hand my dear, .

'And. prove that all your dread is foolish, vain.* 'I 've a sore finger, sir; nay, more, I fear,

'You really would not let it go again.' 'Poh, poh, child, pray dismiss your idle dread; 'I would not hurt a hair of that sweet head,—

'Come, then, with one kind kiss of friendship meet me.' 'La sir,' quoth Miss, with seeming artless tongue, 'I fear our salutation would be long;

'So laving, too, I fear that you would—eat me.'

So saying, with a smile she left the rogue,

To weave more lines of death, and plan for prog.



No plate had John and Joan to hoard,
Plain folk in humble plight;

One only tankard crown'd their board,
And that was fill'd each night:

Along whose inner bottom sketch'd,

In pride of chubby grace.
Some rude engraver's hand had etch'd,

A baby Angel's face.


John swallow'd first a mod'rate sup;

But Joan was not like John,
For when her lips once touch'd the cup,

She swill'd till all was gone.

John often urg'd her to drink fair,

But she ne'er chang'd a jot; She lov'd to see the angel there,

And therefore drain'd the pot.

When John found all remonstrance vain,

Another card he play'd;
And where the angel stood so plain,

He got a devil pourtray'd.

Joan saw the horns, Joan saw the tail,

Yet Joan as stoutly quaff'd, And ever when she siez'd her ale,

She clear'd-it at a draught.

John star'd, with wonder petrify'd,

His hairs rose on his pate;
And, 'Why dost guzzle now,' he cry'd,

'At this enormous rate.'

'O John,' said she, 'am I to blame?

'lean 't in conscience stop: 'For sure 't would be a burning shame,

'To leave the devil a drop."


'twas aung of old, how one Amphion
Could by his verses tame a lion;
And by his strange enchanting tunes
Make bears and wolves dance rigadoons:
His songs could call the timber down,
And form it into house or town;


But it is plain now in these times
No house is rais'd by poet's rhymes;
They for themselves can only rear
A few old castles in the air.

Poor are the brethren of the bays,
Down from high strains to ekes and ayes;
The muses too are virgins yet,
And may be till they portions get;
Yet still thedoating rhymer dreams,
And sings of Helicon's bright streams;
'But Helicon for all his clatter,
Yields nothing but insipid water;
Yet ev'n athirst, he sweetly sings,
Of nectar and Elysian springs.
The grave physician, who by physic
Like death dispatches him that is sick>
Pursues a sure and thriving trade;
Tho' patients die, the doctor 's paid;
Licens'd to kill, he gains a palace,

For what another mounts a gallows.
In shady groves the muses play,

And love in flow'ry meads to stray;

Pleas'd with a bleaky barren ground,

Where rip'ning fruits are never found.
But then some say you purchase famo>

And gain a never dying name;

Great recompense for real trouble!

To be rewarded with a bubble.
Thus soldiers who in many battles

Get bangs and blows, and God knows what else,

Are paid with fame and wooden leg,

And gain a pass, with leave to beg.



Sometimes, great kings will condescend
A little with their subjects to unbend!


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