Their masters' manners still contract, A NEW SIMILE, IN THE MANNER OF SWIFT. LONG had I sought in vain to find A likeness for the scribbling kind: The modern scribbling kind, who write In wit, and sense, and nature's spite: Till reading (I forget what day on) A chapter out of Tooke's Pantheon, I think I met with something there, To suit my purpose to a hair; But let us not proceed too furious'; First please to turn to god Mercurius : You'll find him pictur'd at full length In book the second, page the tenth : The stress of all my proofs on him I lay, And now proceed we to our simile. Imprimis, pray observe his hat, Wings upon either side-mark that. Well! what is it from thence we gather? Why these denote a brain of feather. A brain of feather? very right, With wit that's flighty, learning light; Such as to modern bards decreed; A just comparison-proceed. In the next place, his feet peruse, Wings grow again from both his shoes; Design'd, no doubt, their part to bear, For, in a modern poet's flights, His feet are useful as his head. Though ne'er so much awake before, And here my simile almost tript, Well! what of that? out with it-stealing; In which all modern bards agree, Being each as great a thief as he : DESCRIPTION OF AN AUTHOR'S BED-CHAMBER. (From the Citizen of the World.) WHERE the Red Lion, staring o'er the way, face: The morn was cold, he views with keen desire With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scor'd, And five crack'd tea-cups dress'd the chimneyboard; A night-cap deck'd his brows instead of bay, THE CLOWN'S REPLY. JOHN TROTT was desired by two witty peers, To tell them the reason why asses had ears? 'An't please you, (quoth John) I'm not given to letters, Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters; Howe'er, from this time, I shall ne'er see your graces, As I hope to be sav'd! without thinking on Asses, Edinburgh, 1753. AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG. (From the Vicar af Wakefield). GOOD people all, of every sort, Give ear unto my song; In Isling-town there was a man, A kind and gentle heart he had, And in that town a dog was found, Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, This dog and man at first were friends; The dog, to gain his private ends, Around from all the neighbouring streets The wondering neighbours ran, And swore the dog had lost his wits, To bite so good a man. The wound it seem'd both sore and sad To every christian eye; And while they swore the dog was mad, They swore the man would die. But soon a wonder came to light, The man recover'd of the bite, |