The whole are vanish'd—save th' immortal mind,
Gone like a dream-nor left a rack behind.

EPIGRAM

ON THE PT L- -T'S MARRIAGE, AND

NATURAL CONSEQUENCES.

ITS

WHAT news, pray, in London ?—P—————— 's married his

maid;

And the lady, in gratitude, twins hath display'd!
The poetical Benedict wanted a fon,

And his rib hath oblig'd him with two boys for one!

MICHAEL MALMSEY,

T

ORIGINAL ODE,

[From the Oracle.]

What should hinder

A new PETER PINDAR

From lighting his candle at a cinder?

HANKS to the goodnefs of the times,
Pindar in fatire does no longer dabble,
Nor, to please the rabble,

Does he publish Hudibraftic rhimes.
Or he, perchance, fagaciously has found,
'Gainft kings 't is vain to fcribble,
Or to exprefs his hate

Of Minifters of State,

Thinking to hook them with a biting bait ;
He finds, I fay, they will not nibble;
For poets, at St. James's, they don't care,
And hold cheap the fatirizing fry;
They'd rather read the red book-that I'll fwear:
A poet is fo odd a fish,

They think him not a courtly difh,

And they can't relish him, unless in pye.

Because then Peter's Mufe, an arrant jade,
Has left off trade,

Shall Satire drop,

Nor find a crop

Of modern follies, and of modern vices,
To offer at her fhrine for facrifices?

'Tis pity that it were not fo!

But, where'er you go,

You'll find the crop as plentiful as wheat;
'Tis fhrewdly faid, whate'er you have,
'Tis ten to one you purchas'd from a knave,
And that you feed a rogue whene'er you eat!
But this, I ween, is not the voice of candour,
"T is mifanthropic flander,
Always in extremes,

Muttering malignant dreams,

And crude inventions of her own,
Damning alike the cottage and the throne!
No: I've not French philofophy enough
To listen to fuch stuff;

Nor can I think that every man's a knave;
Indeed 't would puzzle any pate
To draw a proper estimate

Of all the wife, the honeft, and the brave;
But this I know, Dean Swift has faid-
(The Dean had fomewhat of a head)-

"There are more fools than knaves." How could he tell?
Why, "elfe the knaves could never live fo well!"
The fhafts of Satire should not be confin'd,
Or to the knavish, or the foolish mind:
Follies and vices are her proper game,

And on their ruin the fhould build her fame.

'Tis indeed a pity,

That if a writer's e'er fo witty,

His verfe will feldom captivate the town,
Unless he picks his man and knocks him down.
In this, we know full well,

Facetious Peter did excel.

But then it must be candidly confeft,

Inftead of vicious men, he fometimes fix'd upon the best!
To make the worse appear the better reafon,

And with a broad grin to evade high treafon,

Was the peculiar forte of Peter,

In all his fkimble-fkamble metre.

And

And this he manag'd with fuch art,
As to defy the pillory and the cart.
But now he's run

His race of fun,

His Muse exhaufted, or control'd
With a galling bridle;
Or, as I am told,

He is himself grown devilish idle !

Then let a new Democritus arise, Exalting Virtue to her native fkies; While Vice with Ridicule he keenly ftings,

Nor fears, nor flatters, people, ministers, or kings!

EPIGRAM.

PHILO-PINDAR.

WHAT! a new Peter Pindar?-Delightful, no doubt;

Yet 't were manners to wait till the old were worn out.

TOM TICKLE.

THE PARSON AND HIS MAID: A TALE.
[From the Morning Chronicle.]

AN overgrown Vicar, who often had made

A little too free with his buxom housemaid,
At length found it prudent, for fear of difgrace,
To look for another to fill up the place.

Another foon came, who with fly, fober look
Fairly own'd she was not very much of a cook;
As a fempftress or housemaid but little fhe knew;
And confefs'd that she neither could wash, bake, nor brew :
Yet ftill the arch gypsey, demure as a Turk,

Demanded ten guineas a year for her work.

"Ten guineas-for what?" fays the Vicar, half wild. "Please your Rev'rence," fays he, "I am never with

EPIGRAMS.

ON THE MARRIAGE OF MR. LAMB TO MISS TOOGOOD.

66

WOMAN too good! that I'll never believe:

"A Was e'er fuch a thing from the days of old Eve?" "There is, I am fure; and I've made her my wife, To bless me with comfort the reft of my life."

"Alas! my good friend, your fine scheme will For indeed he will never be too good again."

BENEDICK.

ANOTHER.

EACH married man," Dick roundly faid,

"His antlers needs muft

carry :
":"
"Your father thought the fame," quoth Ned,
"And therefore ne'er would marry!"

Woburn.

P.

SYMPATHY.

TO JULIA.BY T LITTLE ESQ

OUR

-fine me fit nulla Venus.

UR hearts, my love, were doom'd to be
The genuine twins of Sympathy;

They live with one sensation:
In joy or grief, but most in love,
Our heartfirings mufically move,
And thrill with like vibration.
How often have I heard thee fay,
Thy vital pulfe fhall ceafe to play
When mine no more is moving!
Since now to feel a joy alone
Were worse to thee than feeling none,
Such fympathy 's in loving!

And, oh how often in thofe eyes,
Which melting beam'd, like azure skies,
In dewy vernal weather;
How often have I raptur'd read
The burning glance, that filent faid,
"Now, love, we feel together!"

JULIA'S KISS,

BY T. LITTLE, ESQ

WHEN infant Blifs in rofes flept,
Cupid upon his flumber crept,
And while a balmy figh he ftole,
Exhaling from the infant's foul,

He

He fmiling faid, "With this, with this,
I'll fcent my Julia's buruing kifs !"

Nay more, he stole to Venus' bed,
Ere yet the fanguine flush had fled,
Which Love's divineft, dearest flame
Had kindled through her panting frame.
Her foul still dwelt on memory's themes,
Still floated in voluptuous dreams,
And every joy the felt before,

In flumber now was acting o'er.
From her ripe lips, which feem'd to thrill
As in the war of kiffes ftill,

And an❜rous to each other clung,
He stole the dew that trembling hung,
And fmiling faid, "With this, with this,
I'll bathe my Julia's burning kifs !"

ELEGIAC STANZAS.

BY T. LITTLE, ESQ

Sic juvat perire.

WHEN wearied wretches fink to fleep,
How heavenly soft their flumbers lie!

How fweet is death to those who weep, .
To those who weep and long to die!

Saw you the foft and graffy bed,

Where flowrets deck the green earth's breast ?

'Tis there I wish to lay my head,

'Tis there I wish to fleep at reft!

Oh! let not tears embalm my tomb,

None but the dews by twilight given !

Oh! let not fighs difturb the gloom,

None but the whispering winds of heaven!