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E. of DORSE T.
HO' Artemifia talks, by fits,
Of councils, claffics, fathers, wits;
And were a cleaner fmock.
Haughty and huge as High-Dutch bride,
Are oddly join'd by fate :
On her large fquab you find her spread,
That lies and ftinks in state.
She wears no colours (fign of grace)
On any part except her face;
All white and black befide:
Dauntless her look, her gefture proud,
Her voice theatrically loud,
And mafculine her ftride.
So have I feen, in black and white
A prating thing, a Magpye hight,
A ftately, worthless animal,
That plies the tongue, and wags the tail,
HRYNE had talents for mankind,
Her learning and good breeding fuch,
Obfcure by birth, renown'd by crimes,
At length fhe turns a Bride:
In di'monds, pearls, and rich brocades,
And flutters in her pride.
So have I known those Infects fair
(Which curious Germans hold fo rare)
Still vary shapes and dyes;
Still gain new Titles with new forms;
First grubs obfcene, then wriggling worms,
The Happy Life of a COUNTRY PARSON.
PArfon, these things in thy poffeffing
Are better than the Bishop's bleffing.
A Wife that makes conferves; a Steed
Gazettes fent gratis down, and frank'd,
A Chryfoftom to smooth thy band in.
The Polyglott---three parts,--my text,
now to my next.
Lo here the Septuagint,
To fum the whole,
the close of all.