And wou'd make no more

Of king Arthur's*, by the score,
Than all the world befide does.

In books of geo-graphy,

He made the maps to flutter:

A river or a fea

Was to him a dish of tea;

And a kingdom, bread and butter.

But if fome mawkish potion

Might chance to over-dose him,

To check its rage,

He took a page

Of logic-to compofe him

A trap, in hafte and anger,

Was bought, you need not doubt on't; And, fuch was the gin,

Where a lion once got in,

He could not, I think, get out on't.

With cheese, not books, 'twas baited,
The fact I'll not belye it-

Since none-I'll tell you that-
Whether fcholar or rat

Mind books, when he has other diet.

But more of trap and bait, Sir,

Why should I fing, or either?

Since the rat, who knew the flight,
Came in the dead of night,

And dragg'd them away together:
Both trap and bait were vanish'd,
Through a fracture in the flooring
Which, though so trim

It now may feem,

Had then-a dozen or more in.

Then anfwer this, ye fages!

Nor deem a man to wrong ye,

Had the rat which thus did feize on

The trap, lefs claim

reafon,

Than many a fcull amo

Dan Prior's mice, I own it,

Were vermin of condition; But this rat who merely learn'd What rats alone concern'd, Was the greater politician.

That England's topsy-turvy,

Is clear from thefe mishaps, Sir;
Since traps we may determine,
Will no longer take our vermin,
But vermin* take our traps, Sir.

Let fophs, by rats infested,

Then truft in cats to catch 'em;

Left

Written at the time of the Spanish depredations,

Left they grow as learn'd as we,
In our ftudies; where, d' ye fee,

No mortal fits to watch 'em.

Good luck betide our captains;
Good luck betide our cats, Sir:
And grant that the one

May quell the Spanish Don,

S

And the other destroy our rats, Sir.

On certain PASTORALS.

O rude and tunelefs are thy lays,
The weary audience vow,

'Tis not th' Arcadian fwain that fings,

But 'tis his herds that low.

On Mr. C of KIDDERMINSTER'S Poetry,

THY

HY verfes, friend, are Kidderminster stuff,
And I must own you've meafur'd out enough.

To the VIRTUOSOS.

AIL, curious wights! to whom so fair
The form of mortal flies is!

Who deem thofe grubs beyond compare,

Which common fenfe despises.

Whether

Famous for a coarfe woollen manufacture.

Whether o'er hill, morafs, or mound,

You make your sportsman fallies; Or that your prey in gardens found Is urg'd through walks and alleys. Yet, in the fury of the chace,

No flope could e'er retard you; Bleft if one fly repay the race,

Or painted wings reward you.

Fierce as Camilla o'er the plain
Pursued the glittering ftranger;
Still ey'd the purple's pleafing ftain,
And knew not fear nor danger.

"Tis you difpenfe the favourite meat
To nature's filmy people;

Know what conferves they chufe to eat,
And what liqueurs to tipple.

And if her brood of infects dies,

You fage affiftance lend her;
Can stoop to pimp for amorous flies,
And help them to engender.

'Tis you protect their pregnant hour;
And when the birth's at hand,
Exerting your obstetric power,

Prevent a mothless land.

Yet oh! howe'er your towering view
Above grofs objects rises,

Whate'er refinements you purfue,
Hear, what a friend advifes:

A friend,

A friend, who, weigh'd with yours, must prize

Domitian's idle paffion;

That wrought the death of teazing flies,

But ne'er their propagation.

Let Flavia's eyes more deeply warm,
Nor thus your hearts determine,
To flight dame nature's fairest form
And figh for nature's vermin.

And speak with some respect of beaux,
Nor more as triflers treat 'em :
'Tis better learn to fave one's cloaths,
Than cherish moths, that eat 'em.

WHEN Tom to Cambridge first was fent,

A plain brown bob he wore;

Read much, and look'd as though he meant

To be a fop no more.

See him to Lincoln's Inn repair,

His refolution flag;

He cherishes a length of hair,

And tucks it in a bag.

Nor Coke nor Salkeld he regards,

But gets into the house,

And foon a judge's rank rewards
His pliant votes and bows.