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SMIL. What more than marble must that heart
Can hearken coldly to my Sharper's vows?
Then when he trembles ! when his blushes rise !
When awful love seems melting in his eyes !
With eager beats his Mechlin cravat moves :
He loves—I whisper to my myself, he loves !
Such unfeign'd passion in his looks appears,
I lose all memory of my former fears ;
My panting heart confesses all his charms,
I yield at once, and sink into his arms.
Think of that moment, you who prudence boast;
For such a moment prudence well were lost.
CARD. At the Groom-porter's batter'd bullies
Some dukes at Marybone bowl time away ;
But who the bowl or rattling dice compares
To basset's heavenly joys and pleasing cares?
Smil. Soft Simplicetta dotes upon a beau;
Prudina likes a man, and laughs at show :
Their several graces in my Sharper meet,
Strong as the footman, as the master sweet.
Lov. Cease your contention, which has been
I grow impatient, and the tea's too strong.
Attend, and yield to what I now decide;
The equipage shall grace Smilinda's side;
The snuff-box to Cardelia I decree:-
Now leave complaining, and begin your tea.
Un jour, dit un auteur, &c.
ONCE (says an author, where I need not say)
Two travellers found an oyster in their
Both fierce, both hungry, the dispute grew strong,
While, scale in hand, dame Justice pass'd along.
Before her each with clamour pleads the laws,
Explain’d the matter, and would win the cause.
Dame Justice, weighing long the doubtful right,
Takes, opens, swallows it before their sight.
The cause of strife removed so rarely well,
• There take, (says Justice) take ye each a shell. -
We thrive at Westminster on fools like you:
'Twas a fat oyster-live in peace-Adieu.'
THE FOLLOWING QUESTION OF MRS. HOWE.
What is prudery?
'Tis a beldam,
Seen with wit and beauty seldom.
'Tis a fear that starts at shadows;
'Tis (no 'tis n't) like Miss Meadows.
'Tis a virgin hard of feature,
Old, and void of all good nature;
Lean and fretful; would seem wise,
Yet plays the fool before she dies.
'Tis an ugly envious shrew,
That rails at dear Lepell and you.
HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM.
MUSE, 'tis enough, at length thy labour ends,
And thou shalt live, for Buckingham commends.
Let crowds of critics now my verse assail,
Let Dennis write, and nameless numbers rail ;
This more than pays whole years of thankless pain;
Time, health, and fortune, are not lost in vain.
Sheffield approves, consenting Phæbus bends,
And I and Malice from this hour are friends.
A PROLOGUE TO A PLAY FOR MR. DENNIS'S BENEFIT, in 1733,
WHEN HE WAS OLD, BLIND, AND IN GREAT DIS
TRESS, A LITTLE BEFORE HIS DEATH.
As when that hero, who in each campaign
Had braved the Goth, and many a Vandal slain,
Lay fortune-struck, a spectacle of woe!
Wept by each friend, forgiven by every foe;
Was there a generous, a reflecting mind,
But pitied Belisarius old and blind?
Was there a chief, but melted at the sight?
A common soldier, but who clubb’d his mite?
Such, such emotions should in Britons rise,
When press'd by want and weakness Dennis lies;
Dennis ! who long had warr'd with modern Huns,
Their quibbles routed, and defied their puns;
A desperate bulwark, sturdy, firm, and fierce,
Against the gothic sons of frozen verse!
How changed from him who made the boxes groan,
And shook the stage with thunders all his own!
Stood up to dash each vain pretender's hope,
Maul the French tyrant, or pull down the pope !
If there's a Briton then, true bred and born,
Who holds dragoons and wooden shoes in scorn ;
If there's a critic of distinguish'd rage;
If there's a senior who contemns this age;
Let him to-night his just assistance lend,
And be the critic's, Briton's, old man's, friend.
A CHARACTER. WHEN simple Macer, now of high renown, First sought a poet's fortune in the town, 'Twas all the' ambition his high soul could feel To wear red stockings, and to dine with Steele: Some ends of verse his betters might afford, And gave
the harmless fellow a good word. Set up
with these he ventured on the town, And with a borrow'd play outdid poor Crown. There he stopp'd short, nor since has writ a tittle, But has the wit to make the most of little ; Like stunted hide-bound trees, that just have got Sufficient
sap at once to bear and rot. Now he begs verse, and what he gets commends, Not of the wits his foes, but fools his friends.
So some coarse country wench, almost decay'd, Trudges to town, and first turns chambermaid;
Awkward and supple each devoir to pay,
She flatters her good lady twice a day;
Thought wondrous honest, though of mcan degree,
And strangely liked for her simplicity :
In a translated suit then tries the town,
With borrow'd pins and patches not her own;
But just endured the winter she began,
And in four months a batter'd harridan:
Now nothing left, but wither’d, pale, and shrunk,
To bawd for others, and go shares with punk.
FLUTTERING spread thy purple pinions,
Gentle Cupid ! o'er my heart; I a slave in thy dominions :
Nature must give way to art. Mild Arcadians, ever blooming,
Nightly nodding o'er your flocks, See my weary days consuming
All beneath yon flowery rocks. Thus the Cyprian goddess weeping,
Mourn'd Adonis, darling youth ! Him the boar, in silence creeping,
Gored with unrelenting tooth. Cynthia! tune harmonious numbers;
Fair Discretion ! string the lyre; Soothe my ever-waking slumbers;
Bright Apollo ! lend thy choir.