Page images

A PLACE was faftned to the Hook,
And many a Score of Gudgeons took;
Yet, ftill fo happy was his Fate,
He caught his Fifb, and fav'd his Bait."
SID's Brethren of the Conj'ring Tribe
A Circle with their Rod defcribe,
Which proves a Magical Redoubt
To keep Mifchievous Spirits out:
Sid's Rod was of a larger Stride,
And made a Circle twice as wide,
Where Spirits throng'd with hideous Din,
And he ftood there to take them in.
But, when th' enchanted Rod was broke,
They vanish'd in a ftinking Smoak.
ACHILLES's Scepter was of Wood,
Like Sid's, but nothing near so good;
Tho', down from Ancestors divine
Tranfinitted to the Heroe's Line,
Thence, thro' a long Defcent of Kings,
Came an HEIR-LOOM, as Homer fings,
Tho' this Defcription looks fo big,
That Scepter was a faplefs Twig:
Which, from the fatal Day when firft
It left the Foreft where 'twas nurst,
As Homer tells us o'er and o'er,

Nor Leaf, nor Fruit, no Bloffom bore.
Sid's Scepter full of Juice did fhoot
In Golden Boughs, and Golden Fruit,
And He, the Dragon never fleeping,
Guarded each fair Hefperian Pippin.
No Hobby-Horfe, with gorgeous Top,
The deareftin Charles Mather's Shop,
Or glitt'ring Tinfel of May Fair,
Could with this Rod of Sid compare.
DEAR Sid, then why wert thou fo mad,
To break thy Rod like naughty Lad? na:


You fhould have kifs'd it in your Distress,
And then return'd it to your Miftrefs;
Or make it a New-market Switch,
And not a Rod for thy own Breech.
For fince old Sid has broken this,
His next will be a Rod in Pifs.

[merged small][ocr errors][ocr errors]



Of the firft Book of



And Addrefs'd to: a NOBLE LORD.


ARLEY, the Nation's Great Support, Returning home one day from Court, His Mind with Publick Cares poffeft, All Europe's Bus'ness in his Breit. Obferv'd a Perfon near Whiteball, Cheap'ning Old Authors on a Stall. The Prieft was pretty well in Cafe, And fhew'd fome Humour in his Face, Look'd with an Eafy Carelefs Mein; A perfect Stranger to the Spleen: Of Size that might a Pulpit fill, But more inclining to fit till. My Lord, who as a Man may fay't, Loves Mischief better than his Meat;


Was now difpos'd to crack a Jeft,
And bid Friend Lewis go in Queft.
This Lewis was a cunning Shaver,
And very much in Harley's Favour.
In Quest who might this Parfon be,
What was his Name, of what Degree:
If poffible to learn his Story,

And whether he were Whig or Tory?
Lewis his Patron's Humour knows;
Away upon his Errand goes:

And quickly did the Matter Sift,

Found out that it was Doctor S t.

A Clergy man of fpecial Note,

For fhunning thofe of his own Coat;

Which made his Brethren of the Gown,

Take care in time to run him down.
No Libertine, nor over Nice,'

Addicted to no fort of Vice.

Went where he pleas'd, faid what he thought,
Not Rich, but ow'd no Man a Groat.
In State Opinions Alamode,

But hated Whn like a Toad.


He had given the Faction many a Wound,
And Libell'd all the fundo round.
Kept Company with Men of Wit,
Who often Father'd what he writ.
His Works were Hawk't in every Street,
But feldom rofe above a Sheet.
Of late indeed the Paper Stamp,
Did very much his Genius cramp:
And fince he could not spend his Fire,
Is now contented to retire.
Said Harley, I defire to know
From his own Mouth if this be fo;
Step to the Doctor ftraight and fay,
de have him Dine with me to Day.

St feem'd to wonder what he meant,
Nor cou'd believe My Lord had fent :
So never offer'd once to ftir,
But coldly faid, Your Servant Sir.
Does he refufe me, Harley cry'd,
He does with Infolence and Pride.
Some few Days after Harley fpies,
The Doctor faften'd by the Eyes;
At Charing Cross among the Rout,
Where Painted Monfters are hung out:
He pull'd the String, and ftopt the Coach,
Beck'ning the Doctor to approach.
S, who would neither fly, nor hide,
Came fneaking by the Chariot's fide;
And offer'd many a Lame Excufe,
He never meant the leaft Abufe;
My Lord
The Honour you defign'd
Extreamly Proud But I had din'd
I am fure I never fhou'd neglect
No Man alive has more Refpect.
Well, I fhall think of that no more,
If you'll be fure to come at Four.
The Doctor now obeys the Summons,
Likes both his Company and Commons,
Difplays his Talent, fits till Ten;
Next Day invited, comes again:
Soon grows Domeftick, feldom fails,
Either at Morning, or at Meals :
Came early, and departed late;
In fhort the Gudgeon took the Bait:
My Lord wou'd carry on the Jeft,
And down to WINDSOR takes his gueft.
St much admires the Place and Air,
And longs to be a Canon there;

In Summer round the Park to Ride;
In Winter never to Refide.

« PreviousContinue »