THOSE get the least that take the greatest pains, But most of all i' th' drudgery of brains i A natural fign of weakness, as an ant Is more laborious than an elephant; And children are more bufy at their play Than those that wifely'ft pafs their time away.

ALL the inventions that the world contains, Were not by reafon first found out, nor brains; But pafs for theirs who had the luck to light Upon them by mistake or overfight.

TRIPLETS

A$

S mifers their own laws enjoin,

To wear no pockets in the mine,
For fear they should the ore purloin ;

So he that toils and labours hard
To gain, and what he gets has fpar'd,
Is from the use of all debarr'd.

And, though he can produce more spankers
Than all the ufurers and bankers,

Yet after more and more he hankers;

And

A

COUNTRY that draws fifty foot of water,
In which men live as in the hold of Nature,
And, when the fea does in upon them break,
And drowns a province, does but spring a leak;
That always ply the pump, and never think
They can be fafe, but at the rate they stink;
That live as if they had been run aground,

And, when they die, are caft away and drown'd;
That dwell in ships, like fwarms of rats, and prey
Upon the goods all nations' fleets convey;
And, when their merchants are blown-up and crackt,
Whole towns are caft away in storms, and wreckt zả
That feed, like Cannibals, on other fishes,'
And ferve their coufin-germans up in dishes :
A land that rides at anchor, and is moor'd,
In which they do not live, but go aboard..

то

TO HIS MISTRESS.

O not unjustly blame

D°

My guiltless breaft,

For venturing to difclofe a flame

It had fo long fuppreft.

In its own ashes it defign'd
For ever to have lain ;

But that my fighs, like blafts of wind,
Made it break out again.

то

THE SAME.

O not mine affection flight,

D Caufe my locks with age are white:

Your breasts have fnow without, and fnow within,
While flames of fire in your bright eyes are feen.

E. P I GR Α M

ON A CLUB OF SOTS.

THE jolly members of a toping club,

Like pipe-staves, are but hoop'd into a tub,

And in a close confederacy link,

For nothing else but only to hold drink.

HUDIBRAS'S

HUDIBRAS'S ELEGY*.

IN days of yore, when knight or squire

By Fate were fummon'd to retire, Some menial poet ftill was near,

To bear them to the hemisphere,

And there among the stars to leave them,
Until the gods fent to relieve them :

And fure our Knight, whose very fight wou'd
Entitle him Mirror of Knighthood,

Should he neglected lie, and rot,
Stink in his grave, and be forgot,
Would have just reason to complain,
If he fhould chance to rife again;
And therefore, to prevent his dudgeon,
In mournful doggrel thus we trudge on.
Oh me what tongue, what pen, can tell
How this renowned champion fell,

Neither this Elegy, nor the following Epitaph, is to be found in, The Genuine Remains of Butler, as published by Mr. Thyer. Both however having frequently been reprinted in The Pofthumous Works of Samuel Butler; and as they, befides, relate particularly to the hero of his principal poem; there needs no apology for their being thus preferved. Some other of the pofthumous poems would not have difgraced their fuppofed author; but, as they are fo pofitively rejected by MrThyer, we have not ventured to admit them. N..

But must reflect, alas! alas!

All human glory fades like grafs,
And that the strongest martial feats
Of errant knights are all but cheats!
Witness our Knight, who fure has done
More valiant actions, ten to one,
Than of More-Hall the mighty More,
Or him that made the Dragon roar;
Has knock'd more men and women down
Than Bevis of Southampton town,
Or than our modern heroes can,

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25

To take them fingly man by man.

No, fure, the grifly King of terror
Has been to blame, and in an error,
To iffue his dead-warrant forth

To feize a knight of fo much worth,
Juft in the nick of all his glory;

I tremble when I tell the story.

Oh! help me, help me, fome kind Muse,
This furly tyrant to abuse,

Who, in his rage, has been fo cruel
To rob the world of fuch a jewel!

A knight more learned, ftout, and good,
Sure ne'er was made of flesh and blood:
All his perfections were fo rare,
The wit of man could not declare
Which fingle virtue, or which grace,.
Above the rest had any place,

Or which he was most famous for,
The camp, the pulpit, or the bar;
VOL. II.

A a

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