Short is thy voy'ge, protract it how you can, Proceed then mortal, nor curtail thy fpan The ftorms of paffion, whirlpools of despair, The ftraits of trouble, and the clouds of care; Thefe, tho' they threat, fhall quickly pafs away, Short is thy voy'ge, and short like that are they.

P

A DISH OF TEA.

RETTY charmer, gloffy difh,
Daily object of my wish,

Let me fip thy liquid tea,
Liquid leaf of indian tree;
How I feel my fpirits flow,
And my vigour in me glow;
When from teapot you distil,
Little teapot's smoking rill,
And you lofe your golden ftream
In a filver flood of cream;
And I lift thee to my lip,
And like nectar thee I fip;
Oh, how charming is the blifs
Of thy aromatic kifs.

Happy he, who twice a day
Thus can tafte his life away;
Who with each returning morn,
After walking o'er the lawn;
And at night again can fip
India's fragrance from thy lip,
Purer joys by far he knows,
Than from frantic Bacchus flows.

VERSES left on a Table at a CHOP-HOUSE, near the ROYAL EXCHANGE.

D

EAR Betty, emblem of thy chop-house ware, As broth reviving, and as french-bread fair As thy fweet eyes, no cruet half fo bright, Tho' of cut-glafs, by a wax taper's light; [touch, Thy hands for softness, shame the sweet-bread's Thy fingers all exceed the radish much; Blue veins appear upon thy lovely skin, Like dainty mould on cheshire cheese fo thin; No Durham muftard made the day before, Is half fo quick as you from two till four; Sharp as my knife, and piercing as my fork, Is thy clear wit, and oh when country pork In season comes, how does thy comic voice Join in the feast, like that and apple fauce; As leaves of endive is thy curling hair, Thy forehead like a muffin bak'd so fair; And when I fain would paint thy gentle mind, I talk of pigeons and of lambkins kind, Ere the vile butcher, or the poulterer drew That knife, which fent them to be dreft by you. Oh Betty, could I turn and fhift my love, With the fame art that you your steaks can move, My heart thus cook'd,might prove a chop-house feast And you alone should be the welcome guest, But deareft girl, the flames that you impart Like chop on gridiron broil my tender heart;

Which

Which if thy kindly helping hand ben't nigh, Muft like an unturn'd chop, hifs, burn, and fry; And must at last, thou fcorcher of my foul, Shrink and become an undiitinguish'd coal.

A

SONNETT.

10 heal the wound a bee had made

TUpon my Chloe's face,

Honey upon her cheek fhe laid,

And bade me kiss the place.
Pleas'd, I obey'd, but from the wound
Imbib'd both fweet and fmart,

The honey on my lips I found,
The fting within my heart.

COSMELIA.

OSMELIA's charms infpire my lays,
Who young in nature's fcorn,

COS

Blooms in the winter of her days

Like Glastonbury thorn.

Cofmelia cruel at threefcore,

Like bards in modern plays,
Four acts of life paft guiltlefs o'er
But in the fifth fhe flays.

When e'er impatient for the blifs,
Within her arms you fall,

The plaifter'd fair receives the kifs,
thro' a wall.

Like Thisbe

A GENTLEMAN to a SURGEON letting his Mistress

FON

Blood.

OND man that canft believe her blood
Will from thofe purple chrystals flow,
Or that the
pure untainted flood

Can any foul diftemper know,
Or that thy weak fteel can incise,
The chrystal cafe wherein it lies.

Know, that quick blood proud of his feat
Runs dancing thro' her azure veins;
Whofe harmony nor cold nor heat
Disturbs, whofe hue no tincture ftains;
And the hard rock wherein it dwells
The keeneft dart of love repells.

But thou reply'ft, Behold fhe bleeds,
Fool, thou'rt deceiv'd, and doft not know.
The myftic knot whence this proceeds,
How lovers in each other grow;

Thou ftrok'ft her arm, but 'twas my
Shed all the blood, felt all the fmart.

heart

The PRESBYTERIAN PARSON'S BREECHES.

INDAR, thrice facred fhade, arife

With deep folemnity,

Aid me to spurn the vulgar duft,
Aid me to reach the sky.
Let others in the Morning Post
Write their ignoble name,

My

216 THE PRESBYTERIAN PARSON'S BREECHES.

My mufe among the ftars fhall fix

Her everlasting fame.

Let Garrick roufe "To Arms to Arms"

And thunder "Who's afraid"
To make the Coxheath Hero ftrut
And fhew his fierce cockade.
Let laureat Whitehead flatter kings
To fill his purfe with riches,
My mufe purfues a nobler theme,
A parfon's greasy breeches.

Thefe breeches were not made of filk,
Of cloth or velvet either;
The breeches that fublime my lays
Were made of courtly leather.
That they might match the fable coat
He wore upon his back,

(For priests delight in etiquette)

Much greafe had dy'd them black.
The doctor that he might expound
His text with comely grace,
Each Saturday was wont to shave
His venerable face.

Now aid me then ye

mufes all,

To fing in lofty stave,

How useful thefe fame breeches were
While he his face did fhave.

They ferv'd him for a razor-ftrap
Whereon his blade to whet;

For a rough edge were fure enough,
To make a Calvin fret.

And