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Lady Betty obferv'd it, then pulls out a pin,
And varies the grain of the stuff to his grin;
And, to make roafted filk to resemble his raw-bone,
She rais'd up a thread to the jet of his jaw-bone;
Till at length in exactest proportion he rose,

From the crown of his head to the arch of his nofe. And if Lady Betty had drawn him with wig and all, 'Tis certain the copy had out-done the original.

Well, that's but my out-fide, fays Dan with a vapour. Say you fo, fays my Lady; I've lin'd it with paper. PATR. DELANY Sculp.

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LARISSA draws her fciffars from the cafe
To draw the lines of poor Dan Jackson's face.
One floping cut made forehead, nofe, and chin,
A nick produc'd a mouth, and made him grin,
Such as in taylors' measure you have feen.
But ftill were wanting his grimalkin eyes,
For which grey worfted-ftocking paint supplies.
Th' unravel'd thread through needle's eye convey'd
Transferr'd itself into his pafte-board head.
How came the fciffars to be thus out-done?
The needle had an eye, and they had none.
O wondrous force of art! now look at Dan —
You'll fwear the pafte-board was the better man.
"The devil! fays he, the head is not fo full !"

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DAN'S evil genius in a trice

Had stripp'd him of his coin at dice.

Cloe, obferving this difgrace,

On Pam cut out his rueful face.

By G-, fay Dan, 'tis very hard,

Cut out at dice, cut out at card!



WHILST you three merry poets traffic

To give us a description graphic

Of Dan's large nofe in modern Sapphic;

I spend my time in making Sermons,
Or writing libels on the Germans,
Or murmuring at Whigs' preferments.

But when I would find rhyme for Rochfort,
And look in English, French, and Scotch for 't,
At laft I'm fairly forc'd to botch for 't.

Bid Lady Betty recollect her,

And tell, who was it could direct her
To draw the face of such a spectre.

I must confefs, that as to me, Sirs,
Though I ne'er faw her hold the fciffars,
I now could fafely fwear it is hers.


"Tis true, no nofe could come in better;
'Tis a vast subject stuff'd with matter,
Which all may handle, none can flatter.

Take courage, Dan; this plainly shows,
That not the wifeft mortal knows
What fortune may befall his nofe.

Shew me the brightest Irish toast,

Who from her lover e'er could boast
Above a fong or two at most ;

For thee three poets now are drudging all

To praise the cheeks, chin, nose, the bridge and all,
Both of the picture and original.

Thy nofe's length and fame extend
So far, dear Dan, that every friend
Tries, who shall have it by the end.
And future poets, as they rise,
Shall read with envy and furprize
Thy nofe outfhining Cælia's eyes.



"My verfe little better you 'll find than my face is, "A word to the wife


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ut pictura poëfis.”

HREE merry lads, with envy stung,
Because Dan's face is better hung,
Combin'd in verfe to rhyme it down,
And in its place fet up their own;

As if they'd run it down much better

By number of their feet in metre,

Or that its red did caufe their fpite,
Which made them raw in black and white.
Be that as 'twill, this is moft true,
They were infpir'd by what they drew.
Let then fuch criticks know, my face
Gives them their comelinefs and grace :
Whilft every line of face does bring
A line of grace to what they fing.
But yet, methinks, though with difgrace
Both to the picture and the face,
I fhould name them who do rehearse
The story of the picture-farce;

The Squire, in French as hard as ftone,
Or ftrong as rock, that 's all as one,
On face on cards is very brifk, Sirs,
Becaufe on them you play at whisk, Sirs.
But much I wonder, why my crany
Should envy'd be by De-el-any:
And yet much more, that half-name fake
Should join a party in the freak.

For fure I am it was not fafe

Thus to abuse his better half,

As I shall prove you, Dan, to be,

Divifim and conjunctively.

For if Dan love not Sherry, can
Sherry be any thing to Dan?
This is the cafe whene'er you fee
Dan makes nothing of Sherry;



Or fhould Dan be by Sherry o'erta'en,

Then Dan would be poor Sherridane ;
'Tis hard then he fhould be decry'd
By Dan with Sherry by his fide.
But, if the cafe must be fo hard,
That faces fuffer by a card,
Let criticks cenfure, what care I?
Back-biters only we defy,

Faces are free from injury.


YOU fay your face is better hung

Than ours

- by what? by nose or tongue?

In not explaining, you are wrong

to us, Sir.

Because we thus muft ftate the cafe,
That you have got a hanging face,
Th' untimely end 's a damn'd difgrace

of noofe, Sir.

But yet be not caft down: I fee
A weaver will your hangman be;
You'll only hang in tapestry-

with many.

And then the ladies, I fuppofe,
Will praise your longitude of nofe,
For latent charms within your cloaths,

dear Danny.


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