"My kindred oft thine hide shall gall,

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Thy gown and caffock oft be torn. "And thy confed'rate dame, who brags "That she condemn'd me to the fire, "Shall rent her petticoats to rags,

"And wound her legs with ev'ry bri'r.

"Nor thou, Lord Arthur *, fhalt escape:
"To thee I often call'd in vain,
"Against that affaffin in crape;

"Yet thou could'ft tamely fee me slain.
Nor when I felt the dreadful blow,

"Or chid the Dean, or pinch'd thy spouse : "Since you could fee me treated fo,

(An old retainer to your house),

"May that fell Dean, by whofe command

"Was form'd this Machi'vellian plot,

"Not leave a thistle on thy land;

"Then who will own thee for a Scot ?

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Pigs and fanatics, cows and teagues, "Thro' all thy empire I foresee, "To tear thy hedges, join in leagues;

"Sworn to revenge my thorn and me. "And thou the wretch ordain'd by fate, Neal Gahagan, Hibernian clown, "With hatchet blunter than thy pate To hack my hallow'd timber down, "When thou suspended high in air, Dy'ft on a more ignoble tree,

"6 (For thou shalt fteal thy landlord's mare), "Then, bloody caitif, think on me.”

† Sir Arthur Achefon.

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On the five LADIES at SOT'S-HOLE*, with the DOCTOR† at their head.

N. B. The Ladies treated the Doctor."

Sent as from an officer in the army.

Written in the year 1728.

FAir ladies, number five,

Who in your merry

freaks

With little Tom contrive
To feast on ale and fteaks.

While he fits by a-grinning,

To see you safe in Sot's-hole, Set up with greasy linen,

And neither mugs nor pots whole. Alas! I never thought

A priest would please your palate; Befides, I'll hold a groat,

He'll put you in a ballad:

Where I fhall fee your faces

On paper daub'd fo foul,
They'll be no more like graces,
Than Venus like an owl;
And we shall take you rather
To be a midnight-pack
Of witches met together,
With Belzebub in black.

It fills my heart with woe

To think, fuch ladies fine Should be reduc'd fo low

To treat a dull divine.

An alehouse in Dublin famous for beef-steaks.
Dr Thomas Sheridan.

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Written in the year 1729.

AN afs's hoof alone can hold

That pois'nous juice which kills by cold.

Methought when I this poem read,

No veffel but an afs's head

Such frigid fuftian could contain;
I mean the head without the brain.
The cold conceits, the chilling thoughts"
Went down like ftupifying draughts:
I found my head began to fwim,
A numbness crept thro' ev'ry limb.
He kept a fchool.

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In hafte, with imprecations dire,

I threw the volume in the fire:

When, who could think? tho' cold as ice,
It burnt to ashes in a trice.

Tho' born in fnow, it dy'd in flame.

A LIBEL on the Reverend Dr DELANY, and his Excellency JOHN Lord CARTERET.

To Dr DELANY, occafioned by his epistle to his Excellency JOHN Lord CARTERET.

DE

Written in the year 1729.

Eluded mortals, whom the great
Chufe for companions tête à tête:
Who at their dinners en famille,
Get leave to fit whene'er you will ;
Then boafting tell us where you din'd,
And how his Lordship was fo kind;
How many pleasant things he spoke,
And how you laugh'd at every joke:
Swear he's a moft facetious man;
That and he are cup and cann :
you
You travel with a heavy load,
And quite mistake preferment's road.

SUPPOSE my Lord and you alone,
Hint the leaft int'reft of your own;
His vifage drops, he knits his brow,
He cannot talk of bus'nefs now:
Or mention but a vacant post,
He'll turn it off with, Name your toaft.

Nor could the nicest artist paint
A countenance with more constraint.

FOR as, their appetites to quench,
Lords keep a pimp to bring a wench;
So men of wit are but a kind
Of pandars to a vicious mind;
Who proper objects must provide
To gratify their luft of pride,

When weary'd with intrigues of state,
They find an idle hour to prate.
Then fhould you dare to ask a place,
You forfeit all your patron's grace,
And disappoint the fole defign,
For which he fummon'd you to dine.

THUS Congreve spent in writing plays,

And one poor office, half his days:

While Montague †, who claim'd the station
To be Mecenas of the nation,

For poets open table kept,

But ne'er confider'd where they flept:

Himself as rich as fifty Jews,

Was eafy, tho' they wanted fhoes;

And crazy Congreve fcarce could spare
A fhilling to discharge his chair:
Till prudence taught him to appeal
From Pean's fire to party zeal;
Not owing to his happy vein
The fortunes of his latter fcene,
Took proper principles to thrive;

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