From rhyme, as from a handfome face, Nonfenfe acquires a kind of grace; I therefore give it all its scope, That fenfe may unperceived elope : So minifters of baseft tricks (I love a fling at politicks) Amufe the nation, court, and king, With breaking Fowke, and hanging Byng; If match'd with fomething more alike Men, women, houses, horses, books, All borrow credit from their looks. Externals have the gift of striking, And lure the fancy into liking. А ѵтно я. Oh! I perceive the thing you mean— Call it St. James's Magazine. BOOK SELLER. Or the New British→→→ А и тно в. Oh! no more. One name's as good as half a fcore. BOOKSELLER. Your method, fir, will never do; You're right in theory, it's true. But then, experience in our trade Says, there's no harm in fome parade. Suppofe we faid, by Mr. Lloyd? Аётнок. The very thing I would avoid; And wrapt in darkness, laugh's unhurt, BOOKSELLER. True but a name will always bring A better fanction to the thing: And all your scribling foes are fuch, Their cenfure cannot hurt you much; And, take the matter ne'er fo ill, If you don't print it, fir, they wil AUTHOR. Well, be it fo-that ftruggle's o'er Nay, this fhall prove one fpur the more. Pleas'd if fuccefs attends, if not, I've writ my name, and made a blot. BOOKSELLER. But a good print. AUTHOR. The print? why there I trust to honeft LEACH's care. BOOKSELLER. You quite mistake the thing I mean, I'll fetch you, fir, a MAGAZINE; You fee that picture there-the QUEEN. AUTHOR. A dedication to her too! No, no, my friend, by helps like thefe, No HUMMING-BIRD, no PAINTED FLOWER, No WOODEN NOTES, no COLOUR'D MAP, Fall out, fall in, and crofs each other, BOOKSELLER. But would not ORNAMENT produce Some real grace, and proper ufe? A FRONTISPIECE would have its weight, Neatly engrav'd on copper-plate. AUTHOR. Plain letter-prefs fhall do the feat, What need of foppery to be neat? The Pafte-board Guard delights me more, That tands to watch a bun-houfe doora Than fuch a mockery of grace, And ornament fo out of place. BOOKSELLER. But one word more, and I have doneAPATENT might infure its run. AUTHOR. Patent! for what! can patents give Beyond the property of fale? Its end ftill fearing and foreseeing. BOOKSELLER. But fhould not fomething, fir, be faida Multum in Parvo, as they fay, AUTHOR. I wish there could-but that depends Not on myfelf, fo much as friends. I but fet up a new machine, With harness tight, and furnish'd clean Where fuch, who think it no difgrace, To fend in time, and take a place, The book-keeper shall minute down, And I with pleasure drive to town. BOOKSELLER. Ay, tell them that, fir, and then fay, What letters come in every day; And what great Wits your care procures, To join their focial hands with yours. Bid General ESSAY lead the van, y-Oh! the Style will fhew the man a Bid Major SCIENCE bold appear, With all his pot-hooks in the rear. AUTHOR. True, true-our News, our PROSE, our RHYMES, Shall fhew the colour of the times; My lord duke's butler, and the mayor's Or those who live on fcraps and bits, On flow'r and feed, and wind, and weather Shall through the seasons monthly fing Sweet WINTER, AUTUMN, SUMMER, SPRING MRS. SCOT. Your fervant, MADAM. Well, I fwear I'd giv'n you over-Child, a chair. MRS. BROWN. Lard! my dear, I vow I'm almost dead with fear. There is fuch fcrouging and fuch fqueezing, And I was always fhort of breath. MRS. BROWN. My good man, too-Lord blefs us! Wives Are born to lead unhappy lives, Although his profits bring him clear Almoft two hund. ed pounds a year, Keeps me of cafh fo fhort and bare, That I have not a gown to wear Except my robe, and yellow fack, And this old luteftring on my back. -But we've no time, my dear, to waste. Come, where's your cardinal, make haste. The KING, God bless his majesty, Ifay, Goes to the house of lords to-day, In a fine painted coach and eight, And rides along in all his ftate And then the Queen KITTY, my things,-I'll foon have done, It's time enough, you know at one. -Why, girl! fee how the creature stands! Some water here, to wash my hands. -Be quick-why fure the gipfy fleeps! -Look how the drawling daudle creeps, That bafon there-why don't you pour, Go on, I fay-stop, ftop-no moreLud! I could beat the huffey down, She's pour'd it all upon my gown. -Bring me my ruffles-can'ft not mind? And pin my handkerchief behind. Sure thou haft aukwardnefs enough, Go-fetch my gloves, and fan, and muff. -Well, heav'n be prais'd-this work is done, I'm ready now, my dear-let's run. Girl,-put that bottle on the fhelf, And bring me back the key yourself, MRS. BROWN. That clouded filk becomes you much, I wonder how you meet with fuch, But you've a charming tafte in dress, What might it coft you, Madam? MRS, SCOT. Gues MRS. BROWN. Oh! that's impoffible-for I Am in the world the worst to buy. MRS. Sco T. I never love to bargain hard, Five fhillings, as I think, a yard. -I was afraid it fhould be gone'Twas what I'd fet my heart upon. MRS. BROWN. Indeed you bargain'd with fuccefs, For its a most delightful dress. Befides, it fits you to a hair, And then 'tis flop'd with fuch an air. MRS. SCOT. I'm glad you think fo,-Kitty, here, -Come, come then, give mamma a kifs, MRS. BROWN. Oh Lard! MRS. SCOT. Pray go before, MRS. BROWN. I can't indeed, now. MRS. SCOT. MADAM, pray. MRS. BROWN. Well then, for once, i'll lead the way. Lard! what an uproar! what a throng! They kick and prance, and look fo bold, Come you from Palace-yard, old dame? Troth, do I, my young ladies, why? Was it much crowded when you came? And is his majefty gone by? MRS, BROWN. SCOT. Perdigious! I can hardly stand, Lord blefs me, Mrs. BROWN, your hand¡ -Good God! my cardinal and fack I, madam! no,-indeed, I fear You'll meet with fome misfortune here. -Stand back, I fay-pray, fir, forbear Why, don't you fee the ladies there? Put yourselves under my direction, Ladies, I'll be your fafe protection. MRS. SCOT. You're very kind fir; truly few Are half fo complaifant as you. We fhall be glad at any day This obligation to repay, And you'll be always fure to meet A welcome, fir, in-Lard! the ftrees |