Whose wit at beft was next to none,
And now that little next is gone.
Against the Court is always blabbing,
And calls the Senate-houfe a Cabin ;
So dull, that, but for fpleen and fpite,
We ne'er fhould know that he could write;
Who thinks the nation always err'd,
Because himself is not preferr'd:
His heart is through his Libel feen,
Nor could his malice fpare the Queen;
Who, had the known his vile behaviour,
Would ne'er have fhown him fo much favour.
A noble Lord * hath told his pranks,
And well deferves the nation's thanks.
Oh! would the Senate deign to show
Refentment on this public Foe;
Our Nightingale might fit a cage,
There let him ftarve, and vent his rage;
Or would they but in fetters bind,
This enemy of human-kind!
Harmonious Coffee +, fhow thy zeal,
Thou champion for the common-weal:
Nor on a theme like this repine,
For once to wet thy pen divine:
Beftow that Libeler a lafh,'
Who daily vends feditious trash :
Who dares revile the nation's wisdom,
But in the praife of virtue is dumb:

* L. Allen, the fame who is meant by Traulus. D. S.

A Dublin Garreteer.

That Scribler lafh, who neither knows
The turn of verfe, nor ftyle of profe;
Whofe malice, for the worft of ends,
Would have us lofe our English friends;
Who never had one public thought,
Nor ever gave the poor a groat.
One clincher more, and I have done,
I end my labours with a pun.
Jove fend this Nightingale may fall,
Who spends his day and Night in gall!
So, Nightingale and Lark, adieu;
I fee the greatest owls in you
That ever fcreecht, or ever flew.

ON THE IRISH-CLUB.

YE paultry underlings of ftate,

Ye fenators, who love to prate;

Ye rafcals of inferior note,
Who for a dinner fell a vote;
Ye pack of penfionary peers,
Whofe fingers itch for poets' ears;
Ye bishops far remov❜d from faints,
Why all this rage? Why thefe complaints?
Why against printers all this noise?
This fummoning of blackguard boys?
Why fo fagacious in your gueffes ?

}

Your effs and tees, and arrs, and esses?

*See a new fong on a feditious pamphlet, vol. I. p. 193.

Take

Take my advice; to make you fafe,
I know a shorter way by half.

The point is plain: remove the cause ;
Defend your liberties and laws.

Be fometimes to your country true,
Have once the public good in view:
Bravely defpife Champagne at Court,
And chufe to dine at home with Port:
Let Prelates, by their good behaviour,
Convince us they believe a Saviour ;
Nor fell what they fo dearly bought,
This country, now their own, for nought.
Ne'er did a true fatiric Mufe

Virtue or Innocence abúfe;
And 'tis against poetic rules
To rail at men by nature fools:
But *

THE PROGRESS OF MARRIAGE*.

E

TATIS SUÆ fifty-two,

A rich Divine * began to woo

A handfome, young, imperious girl,
Nearly related to an Earl.

Her parents and her friends confent,

The couple to the temple went:

They first invite the Cyprian queen ;

'Twas anfwer'd, "She would not be feen :"

The date and hero of this poem are unknown. N.

The

The Graces next, and all the Mufes,
Were bid in form, but fent excuses.
Juno attended at the porch,

With farthing-candle for a torch;
While mistress Iris held her train,
The faded bow distilling rain.

Then Hebe came, and took her place,
But fhew'd no more than half her face. 1
Whate'er thofe dire forebodings meant,
In mirth the wedding-day was fpent;
The wedding-day, you take me right,
I promise nothing for the night.

The Bridegroom, dreft to make a figure,
Affumes an artificial vigour;

A flourisht night-cap on, to grace
His ruddy, wrinkled, fmiling face;
Like the faint red upon a pippin,
Half wither'd by a winter's keeping.
And thus fet out this happy pair,
The Swain is rich, the Nymph is fair;
But, what I gladly would forget,
The Swain is old, the Nymph coquette.
Both from the goal together start; '
Scarce run a step before they part ¡
No common ligament that binds
The various textures of their minds;

Their thoughts and actions, hopes and fears,
L.efs correfponding than their years.

Her spouse defires his coffee foon,

She rifes to her tea at noon.

While he goes out to cheapen books,
She at the glass consults her looks;
While Betty's buzzing in her ear,
Lord, what a dress these parsons wear!

So odd a choice how could fhe make!
Wish'd him a colonel for her fake.
Then, on her fingers ends, the counts,
Exact, to what his age amounts.

The Dean, the heard her uncle say, 1.
Is fixty, if he be a day ;

His ruddy cheeks are no disguise;
You fee the crows-feet round his eyes.
At one fhe rambles to the shops,
To cheapen tea, and talk with fops;
Or calls a council of her maids,
And tradesmen, to compare brocades.
Her weighty morning-bufinefs o'er,
Sits down to dinner juft at four;
Minds nothing that is done or faid,
Her evening-work fo fills her head.
The Dean, who us❜d to dine at one,
Is maukish, and his ftomach gone;

In thread-bare gown, would scarce a louse hold,
Looks like the chaplain of his houfhold;
Beholds her, from the chaplain's place,
In French brocades, and Flanders lace;
He wonders what employs her brain,
But never asks, or asks in vain;

His mind is full of other cares,
And, in the sneaking parson's airs,