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MATTHEW GREEN.

1696-1737.

Author of the Spleen, a poem of considerable merit. He filled a place in the Custom-house in London.

AN EPIGRAM,

On the Reverend Mr. Laurence Eachard's, and Bishop Gilbert Burnet's histories.

GIL's history appears to me

Political anatomy,

A case of skeletons well done,
And malefactors every one.

His sharp and strong incision pen

Historically cuts up men,

And does with lucid skill impart

Their inward ails of head and heart.
Laurence proceeds another way,

And well-dress'd figures does display:
His characters are all in flesh,

Their hands are fair, their faces fresh;

And from his sweetning art derive
A better scent than when alive;

He wax-work made to please the sons,
Whose fathers were Gil's skeletons.

The Sparrow and Diamond.

A SONG.

I lately saw what now I sing,
Fair Lucia's hand display'd;
This finger graced a diamond ring,
On that a sparrow play'd.

The feather'd play-thing she caress'd,
She stroak'd its head and wings;
And while it nestled on her breast,
She lisp'd the dearest things.

With chisel bill a spark ill set

He loosen'd from the nest,

And swallow'd down to grind his meat, The easier to digest.

She seized his bill with wild affright,

Her diamond to descry:

'Twas gone! she sicken'd at the sight, Moaning, her bird would die.

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The tongue-ty'd knocker none might use,
The curtains none undraw,

The footmen went without their shoes,
The street was laid with straw.

The doctor used his oily art

Of strong emetick kind,

The apothecary play'd his part,

And engineer'd behind.

When physick ceased to spend its store

To bring away the stone,

Dicky, like people when given o'er,

Picks up when let alone.

His eyes dispell'd their sickly dews,
He pecked behind his wing ;
Lucia recovering at the news,
Relapses for the ring.

Meanwhile within her beauteous breast

Two different passions strove ;

When avarice ended the contest,

And triumph'd over love.

Poor little, pretty, fluttering thing,

Thy pains the sex display, Who only to repair a ring

Could take thy life away!

Drive avarice from your breasts, ye fair,

Monster of foulest mien,

Ye would not let it harbour there,
Could but its form be seen.

It made a virgin put on guile,
Truth's image break her word,
A Lucia's face forbear to smile,
A Venus kill her bird.

THOMAS SHERIDAN.

County of Cavan, Ireland, 1738.

The friend, and butt of Swift and his contemporaries, of whom it is said by the Dean, "He is a generous honest good-natured man; but his perpetual want of judgment and discretion makes him act as if he were neither generous, honest, nor good-natured." Doctor Sheridan was somewhat wrong headed.

A new Simile for the Ladies.

I OFTEN tried in vain to find
A simile for womankind;

A simile, I mean, to fit 'em;
In every circumstance to hit 'em.
Through every beast and bird I went,
I ransacked every element;
And after peeping through all nature,
To find so whimsical a creature,
A Cloud presented to my view
And strait this parallel I drew :

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