EPIGRAM FROM THE FRENCH. SIR, I admit your gen'ral rule, But you yourself may serve to show it, EPITAPH. WELL then, poor G lies under ground! So there's an end of honest Jack. So little justice here he found, 'Tis ten to one he'll ne'er come back. EPIGRAM. ON THE TOASTS OF THE KIT-CAT CLUB. ANNO 1716. WHENCE deathless KIT-CAT took its name, Few critics can unriddle: Some say from PASTRY COOK it came, And some, from CAT and FIDDLE. Of old cats and young KITS. TO A LADY, WITH THE TEMPLE OF FAME. WHAT'S fame with men, by custom of the nation, About them both why keep we such a pother? VERSES To be placed under the Picture of England's Arch Poet, [Sir Richar Blackmore,] containing a complete Catalogue of his Works. SEE who ne'er was or will be half read! Who first sung Arthur,* then sung Alfred ;f Maul'd human wit, in one thick satire;** Undid Creation‡‡ at a jerk; And of redemption§§ made damn'd work. *Two heroic poems in folio, twenty books. † An heroic poem, in twelve books. An heroic poem in folio, ten books. Instructions to Vanderbank, a tapestry weaver. Hymn to the Light. **Satire against Wit. ++ Of the Nature of Man. Creation, a poem, in seven books. The Redeemer, another heroic poem, in six books. Then took his Muse, at once, and dipp'd her What wonders there the man grown old did! But judg'd R'oboam his own son. Made Jeremy full sore to cry, What punishment all this must follow? To treat him like her sister Scot? Shall William dub his better end ?** Or Marlb'rough serve him like a friend? *Translation of all the Psalms. + Canticles and Ecclesiastes. Paraphrase of the Canticles of Moses and Deborah, &c. The Lamentations. The whole book of Job, a poem, in folio. ** Kick him on the breech, not knight him on the shoulder. BOUNCE TO FOP: AN EPISTLE FROM A DOG AT TWICKENHAM TO A DOG AT COURT. To thee, sweet Fop, these lines I send, Yet thence to think I'd bite your head off! To lay your head in ev'ry lap, And, when they think not of you-snap! That idle gipsies, rogues in rags, Who poke at me, can make no brags; A butcher, though he brings me meat; And, let me tell you, have a nose Your pilf'ring lord, with simple pride, For Bounce can keep his house and gate. Before my children set your beef, From me they suck a little grace : While your fine whelps learn all to steal, Bred up by hand on chick and veal. My eldest born resides not far, Where shines great Strafford's glittering star: My second (child of fortune!) waits At Burlington's Palladian gates: (Happiest of dogs!) in Cobham's walks: * Alii legunt Harvequinis. |