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From ev'ry meal, Pontack in plenty,
To half a pint one day in twenty:
From Ford attending at her call,
To vifits of
From Ford who thinks of nothing mean,
To the poor doings of the Dean :
From growing richer with good cheer,
To running out by starving here.

But now arrives the dismal day;
She must return to Ormond Quay
The coachman stopt; she look'd, and fwore
The rascal had miftook the door ;
At coming in you saw her foop;
The entry brush'd against her hoop;
Each moment rising in her airs,
She curs'd the narrow winding stairs :
Began a thousand faults to fpy ;
The ceiling hardly fix feet high ;
The smutty wainscot full of cracks :
And half the chairs with broken backs:
Her quarter's out at Ladyday,
She vows she will no longer stay
In lodgings, like a poor Grizette,
While there are lodgings to be let.

Howe'er, to keep her spirits up,
She fent for company to fup:
When all the while you might remark,
She Atrove in vain to ape Wood-park.
Two bottles calPd for (half her store,
The cupboard could contain but four) :
A fupper worthy of herself,
Five nothings in five plates of delf.

Thus for a week the farce went on;
When all her country-savings gone,

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Where the two ladies lodged.



She fell into her former scene,
Small beer, a herring, and the Dean.

Thus far in jeft: tho' now I fear,
You think my jesting too severe ;
But poets, when a hint is new,
Regard not whether false or true :
Yet raillery gives no offence,
Where truth has not the least pretence ;
Nor can be more securely plac'd,
Than on a nymph of Stella's taste.
I must confess, your wine and vittle

was too hard upon a little :
Your table neat, your linen fine;
And, tho’in miniature, you shine :
Yet when you figh to leave Wood-park,
The scene, the welcome, and the fpark,
To languish in this odious town,
And pull your haughty stomach down;
We think you quite mistake the case,
The virtue lies not in the place :
For tho' my raillery were true,
A cottage is Wood-park with you.



A quibbling ELEGY on the Worshipful
Judge BOAT.

Written in the year 1723.
To mournful ditties, Clio, change thy note,

Since cruel fate hath funk our Justice Boat.
Why should he fink, where nothing seem'd to press ?
His lading little, and his balaft less.
Toft in the waves of this tempestuous world,

At length, his anchor fix'd, and canvas furld,
To Lazy-hill * retiring from his court,
At his Ring's end * be founders in the port.
• Two villages near the sea, where boatmen and Scamen live.


With water * fill’d he could no longer float,
The common death of many a stronger boat. 10

A post so fillid, on nature's laws intrenches:
Benches on boats are plac'd, not boats on benches.
And yet our Boat, how shall I reconcile it?
Was both a boat, and in one sense a pilot.
With every wind he faild, and well could tack: 15
Had many pendents, but abhorrd a Jack t.
He's gone, altho' his friends began to hope,
That he might yet be lifted by a rope.

Behold the awful bench on which he fat;
He was as hard and pon'drous wood as that:
Yet, when his fand was out, we find at last,
That death has overset him with a blast.
Our Boat is now saild to the Stygian ferry,
There to supply old Charon's leaky wherry:
Charon in him will ferry souls to hell ;

A trade our Boat I hath practis'd here so well :
And Cerberus hath ready in his paws
Both pitch and brimstone to fill up his flaws.
Yet, spite of death and fate, I here maintain
We may place Boat in his old poff again.

The way is thus, and well deserves your thanks:
Take the three strongest of his broken planks ;
Fix them on high conspicuous to be seen,
Form'd like the triple tree near Stephen's Il green ;
And when we view it thus with thief at end on't, 35
We'll crỳ, Look, here's our Boat, and there's the


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ERE lies' Judge Boat within a coffin ;

Pray gentle folks forbear your foofing.
A Boat a judge ! yes ; where's the blunder ?
A wooden judge is no such wonder.
And in his robes you muft agreb,
No Boat was better deck'd than he.
'Tis needless to describe him fuller,
In short, he was an able fculler*.

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A receipt to restore STELLA's youth.

Written in the year 1724-5.


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HE Scottish hinds, too poor to house

In frosty nights their starving cows,
While not a blade of grass or hay
Appears from Michaelmas to May,
Must let their cattle range in vain
For food along the barren plain.
Meagre and lank with fasting grown,
And nothing left but skin and bone;
Expos'd to want, and wind, and weather,
They just keep life and foul together,
Till summer-Show'rs and evening's dew
Again the verdant glebe renew;
And as the vegetables rise,
The familh'd cow her want supplies :
Without an ounce of laft year's flesh;
Whate'er Me gains is young and fresh;
Grows plump and round, and full of mettle,
As rising from Medea's kettle,

B. b

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Query, Whether the author meant fcholar, and wilfully mit




With youth and beauty, to inchant
Europa's counterfeit gallantt.

Why, Stella, fould you knit your brow,
If I compare you to the cow ?
'Tis just the case ;. for you have fafted
So long, till all your flesh is wasted,
And must against the warmer days

Be sent to Quilca | down to grase ;
Where mirth, and exercise, and air,
Will soon your appetite repair :
The nutriment will from within,
Round all your body, plump your skin ;
Will agitate the lazy flood,
And fill your veins with sprightly blood :
Nor flesh nor blood will be the same,
Nor ought of Stella but the name ;
For what was ever understood

35 By human kind, but flesh and blood ? And if your flesh and blood be new, You'll be no more the former you ; But for a blooming nymph will pass, Just fifteen, coming summer's grass,

40 Your jetty locks with garlands crown'd: While all the 'squires for nine miles round, Attended by a brace of cuts, With jocky boots and silver spurs, No less than justices o'quorum,

45 Their cow-boys bearing cloaks before 'em, Shall leave deciding broken pates, To kiss your steps at Quilca gates. But left you should my skill disgrace, Come back before you're out of case:

50 + Jupiter is fabled to have splen Europa in the Paape of a bull

, Hawkes

# Dr Sheridan's house, feyen or eight miles from Dublin.

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