« EelmineJätka »
How many, Maids have Sharper's vows deceiv'd !
How many curs'd the moment they believ'd !
Yet his known Falsehoods could no Warning prove :
Ah! what is Warning to a Maid in Love?
But of what marble must that breast be form'd,
gaze on Basset, and remain unwarm’d?
When Kings, Queens, Knaves, are set in decent rank;
Expos'd in glorious heaps the tempting Bank,
Guineas, Half-guineas, all the shining train ;
The Winner's pleasure, and the Lofer's pain :
80 In bright Confusion open Rouleaus lie, They strike the Soul, and glitter in the Eye. Fir'd by the sight, all reason I disdain ; My Passions rise, and will not bear the rein, Look upon Basset, you who reason boast; And see if reason must not there be loft.
What more than marble must that heart compose,
Can hearken coldly to my Sharper's Vows ?
Then, when he trembles! when his Blushes rise!
When awful Love seems melting in his Eyes !
beats his Mechlin Cravat moves :
He loves,-I whisper to myself, he loves !
Such unfeign’d Passion in his looks appears,
I lose my Memory of my former Fears;
My panting heart confesses all his charms,
95 I yield at once, and sink into his arms.
Think of that moment, you who Prudence boast;
For such a moment, Prudence well were loft.
At the Groom-Porter's, batter'd Bullies play,
Some Dukes at Marybone bowl Time away..
But who the Bowl, or rattling Dice compares
To Baflet's heavenly Joys, and pleasing Cares?
Soft Simplicetta doats upon a Beau;
Prudina likes a Man, and laughs at Show.
Their several graces in my Sharper meet;
Strong as the Footman, as the Master sweet.
Cease your contention, which has been too long;
I grow impatient, and the Tea's too strong.
Attend, and yield to what I now decide;
The Equipage shall grace Smilinda's Side :
The Snuff-box to Cardelia I decree,
Now leave complaining, and begin your Tea,
UN JOUR DIT UN AUTEUR, &c.
NCE (says an Author, where I need not say)
Two Travellers found an Oyster in their way;
Both fierce, both hungry; the dispute grew strong,
While Scale in hand Dame Justice past along.
Before her each with clamour pleads the Laws,
Explain'd the matter, and would win the cause.
Dame Justice weighing long the doubtful Right,
Takes, opens, swallows it, before their sight.
The cause of strife remov'd so rarely well,
There take (says Justice) take you each a Shell.
We thrive at Westminster on Fools like you :
'Twas a fat Oyster-Live in peace - Adieu.
ANSWER to the following Question of
HAT IS PRUDERY?
'Tis a Beldam,
Seen with Wit and Beauty seldom.
'Tis a fear that starts at shadows.
'Tis (no, 'tis’nt) like Miss Meadows.
'Tis a Virgin hard of Feature,
Old, and void of all good-nature;
Lean and fretful; would seem wise ;
Yet plays the fool before she dies,
'Tis an ugly envious Shrew,
That rails at dear Lepell and You,
Occasioned by some Verses of his Grace the Duke
MUSE, "tis enough : at length thy labour ends,
And thou thalt live, for Buckingham commends.
Let Crowds of Critics now my verse affail,
Let Dennis write, and nameless numbers rail:
This more than
of thankless pain,
Time, health, and fortune, are not lost in vain.
Sheffield approves, consenting Phæbus bends,
And I and Malice from this hour are friends.
To a Play for Mr. Dennis's Benefit, in 1733, when
he was old, blind, and in great Distress, a little before his Death.
S when that Hero, who in each Campaign,
Had brav'd the Goth, and many a Vandal lain, Lay Fortune-struck, a spectacle of Woe! Wept by each Friend, forgiv'n by every Foe: Was there a generous, reflecting mind,
5 But pitied Belisarius old and blind ? Was there a Chief but melted at the Sight? A common Soldier, but who clubb'd his Mite?
Such, such emotions should in Britons rise,
When press’d by want and weakness Dennis lies;
Dennis, who long had warr'd with modern Huns,
Their Quibbles routed, and defy'd their Puns ;
A desperate Bulwark, sturdy, firm, and fierce
Against the Gothic Sons of frozen verse:
How chang'd from him who made the boxes groan, 15
And shook the stage with Thunders all his own!
Stood up to dath each vain Pretender's hope,
Maul the French Tyrant, or pull down the Pope !
If there's a Briton then, true bred and born,
Who holds Dragoons and wooden shoes in scorn;
If there's a Critic of distinguish'd rage;
If there's a Senior, who contemns this age ;
Let him to-night his just aslistance lend,
And be the Critic's, Briton's, Old Man's Friend.
HEN simple Macer, now of high renown,
First sought a Poet's Fortune in the Town,
'Twas all th’ Ambition his high soul could feel,
To wear red stockings, and to dine with Steel.
Some Ends of verse his Betters might afford ;
And gave the harmless fellow a good word.
Set up with these, he ventur'd on the Town,
And with a borrow'd Play out-did poor Crown.