for this conduct had what I deferv'd; And, dealing honestly, was almost starv'd. But, thanks to my indulgent stars, I eat; Since I have found the fecret to be great. O, dearest Andrew, fays the humble droll, Henceforth may I obey, and thou control; Provided thou impart thy useful skill.

Bow then, fays Andrew; and, for once, I will.
-Be of your patron's mind, whate'er he says;
Sleep very much;
think little; and talk lefs:
Mind neither good nor bad, nor right nor wrong;
But eat your pudding, flave; and hold your tongue.
A reverend prelate ftopt his coach and fix,
To laugh a little at our Andrew's tricks.
But, when he heard him give this golden rule,
Drive on (he cried); this fellow is no fool.

A SIMILE.

DEAR Thomas, didft thou never pop

Thy head into a tin-man's shop?

There, Thomas, didft thou never fee
'Tis but by way of fimile)
A fquirrel fpend his little rage,
In jumping round a rowling cage;
The cage, as either fide turn'd up,
Striking a ring of bells at top? -
Mov'd in the orb, pleas'd with the chimés,

The foolish creature thinks he climbs:

But

But here or there, turn wood or wire,
He never gets two inches higher.

So fares it with those merry blades,
That frifk it under Pindus' fhades.
In noble fong, and lofty odes,

They tread on stars, and talk with gods;
Still dancing in an airy round,

Still pleas'd with their own verfes' found;
Brought back, how fast foe'er they go,
Always afpiring, always low.

THE FLIE S.

SAY,

AY, fire of infects, mighty Sol, (A fly upon the chariot-pole Cries out) what blue-bottle alive Did ever with fuch fury drive? Tell, Belzebub, great father, tell, (Says t'other, perch'd upon the wheel) Did ever any mortal fly

Raife fuch a cloud of duft as I?

My judgement turn'd the whole debate: My valour fav'd the finking state.

So talk two idle buzzing things;

Tofs up their heads, and stretch their wings.
But, let the truth to light be brought,
This neither fpoke, nor t'other fought:
No merit in their own behaviour:
Both rais'd, but by their party's favour.

From

From the GREEK.

GREAT Bacchus, born in thunder and in fire,

By native heat afferts his dreadful fire.

Nourish'd near fhady rills and cooling ftreams,
He to the nymphs avows his amorous flames.
To all the brethren at the Bell and Vine,
The moral fays; mix water with your wine.

FRAN

EPIGRAM.

RANK carves very ill, yet will palm all the meats; He eats more than fix, and drinks more than he eats. Four pipes after dinner he constantly smokes; And feafons his whiffs with impertinent jokes. Yet fighing, he fays, we muft certainly break; And my cruel unkindness compels him to speak ; For of late I invite him but four times a week.

}

ANOTHER.

TO John I ow'd great obligation;
But John unhappily thought fit,

To publish it to all the nation :

Sure John and I are more than quit.

ANO

ANOTHER.

YES, every poet is a fool,

By demonftration Ned can fhow it.
Happy, could Ned's inverted rule
Prove every fool to be a poet.

T

ANOTHER.

HY nags, the leaneft things alive!
So very hard thou lov'ft to drive;

I heard thy anxious coach-man fay,
It coft thee more in whips, than hay.

L

To a Perfon who wrote Ill, and spoke Worfe
against Me.

YE, Philo, untouch'd, on my peaceable shelf;

Nor take it amifs, that fo little I heed thee:

I've no envy to thee, and fome love to myfelf:

Then why should I anfwer; fince first I must read

thee?

Drunk with Helicon's waters and double-brew'd bub,
Be a linguist, a poet, a critic, a wag;
To the folid delight of thy well-judging club,
To the damage alone of thy bookfeller Brag.

Pue

Purfue me with fatire: what harm is there in 't?
But from all viva voce reflection forbear :
There can be no danger from what thou fhalt print :
There may be a little from what thou may'st swear.

WE

On the fame Perfon..

HILE, fafter than his coftive brain indites, Philo's quick hand in flowing letters writes :: His cafe appears to me like honest Teague's, When he was run away with by his legs. Phoebus, give Philo o'er himself command; Quicken his fenfes, or restrain his hand; Let him be kept from paper, pen, and ink: So may he cease to write, and learn to think.

"Quid fit futurum cras fuge quærere—"

FOR

OR what to-morrow fhall disclose,
May spoil what you to-night propofe :
England may change; or Cloe ftray
Love and life are for to-day.

:

A BALLAD of the NOTBROWNE MAYDE.
Written three hundred years fince *.

BE

A.

E it ryght, or wrong, these men among on women do complayne;

Affyrmynge this, how that it is a labour spent in vayne,

To

* So Prior. First printed about 1521, fays Capel.