Whether o'er hill, morafs, or mound,

You make your sportsman fallies; Or that your prey in gardens found Is urg'd through walks and alleys. Yet, in the fury of the chace,

No flope could e'er retard you; Bleft if one fly repay the race,

Or painted wings reward you.

Fierce as Camilla o'er the plain
Purfued the glittering ftranger;.
Still ey'd the purple's pleafing ftain,
And knew not fear nor danger.
'Tis you difpenfe the favourite meat
To nature's filmy people;

Know what conferves they chufe to eat,
And what liqueurs to tipple.

And if her brood of infects dies,

You fage affiftance lend her;
Can stoop to pimp for amorous flies,
And help them to engender,

'Tis you protect their pregnant hour;
And when the birth's at hand,
Exerting your obstetric power,

Prevent a mothless land.

Yet oh! howe'er your towering view
Above grofs objects rifes,

Whate'er refinements you pursue,
Hear, what a friend advifes:

A friend,

A friend, who, weigh'd with yours, must prize

Domitian's idle paffion;

That wrought the death of teazing flies,

But ne'er their propagation.

Let Flavia's eyes more deeply warm,
Nor thus your hearts determine,
To flight dame nature's faireft form
And figh for nature's vermin.

And fpeak with fome refpect of beaux,
Nor more as triflers treat 'em :
'Tis better learn to fave one's cloaths,
Than cherish moths, that eat 'em.

The EXTENT of COOKERY.

"Aliufque et idem."

WHEN Tom to Cambridge first was fent,

A plain brown bob he were;

Read much, and look'd as though he meant

To be a fop no more.

See him to Lincoln's Inn repair,

His refolution flag;

He cherishes a length of hair,

And tucks it in a bag.

Nor Coke nor Salkeld he regards,

But gets into the house,

And foon a judge's rank rewards

His pliant votes and bows.

Adi

Adieu, ye bobs! ye bags, give place!

Full bottoms come instead!

Good Lord! to fee the various ways

Of dreffing-a calve's head!

The PROGRESS of ADVICE.

A Common CASE.

"Suade, nam certum eft."

AYS Richard to Thomas (and feem'd half afraid)

SAYS

"I am thinking to marry thy miftrefs's maid:
Now, because Mrs. Lucy to thee is well known,
I will do 't if thou bidft me, or let it alone.

Nay don't make a jeft on't; 'tis no jest to me;
For 'faith I'm in earnest, so pr'ythee be free.

I have no fault to find with the girl fince I knew her,
But I'd have thy advice, ere I tye myself to her.”

Said Thomas to Richard, " To speak my opinion.
There is not fuch a bitch in king George's dominion,
And I firmly believe, if thou knew'ft her as I do,
Thou wouldst chufe out a whipping-poft, first to be ty'd to.

She's peevish, he's thievifh, fhe's ugly, fhe's old,
And a liar, and a fool, and a flut, and a fcold."
Next day Richard hasten'd to church and was wed,
And ere night had inform'd her what Thomas had faid.

A BAL

Trahit fua quemque voluptas."

ROM Lincoln to London rode forth our young fquire,
To bring down a wife, whom the fwains might admire:
But, in fpite of whatever the mortal could fay,
The goddess objected the length of the way!

To give up the opera, the park, and the ball,
For to view the ftag's horns in an old country-hall;
To have neither China nor India to fee!

Nor a laceman to plague in a morning-not she!

To forfake the dear play-houfe, Quin, Garrick, and Clive,
Who by dint of mere humour had kept her alive;
To forego the full box for his lonesome abode,
Oheavens! she should faint, she should die on the road
To forego the gay fashions and geftures of France,
And leave dear Auguste in the midst of the dance,
And Harlequin too!-'twas in vain to require it ;
And she wonder'd how folks had the face to defire it.
She might yield to resign the fweet-fingers of Ruckholt,
Where the citizen-matron feduces her cuckold;

But Ranelagh foon would her footsteps recall,

And the music, the lamps, and the glare of Vauxhall. To be fure fhe could breathe no where elfe but in town, Thus fhe talk'd like a wit, and he lock'd like a clown; But the while honeft Harry defpair'd to fucceed,

A coach with a coronet trail'd her to Tweed.

SLEN

SLENDER's Ghoft. Vide SHAKESPEAR,

ENEATH a church-yard yew,

BE

Decay'd and worn with age,

At dusk of eve methought I fpy'd

Poor Slender's ghost, that whimpering cryed,
O fweet, O fweet Anne Page!

Ye gentle bards! give ear!

Who talk of amorous rage,

Who fpoil the lily, rob the rose,

Come learn of me to weep your woes:

O fweet, O fweet Anne Page!
Why fhould fuch labour'd strains
Your formal Muse engage?

I never dreamt of flame or dart,
That fir'd my breaft or pierc'd my heart,
But sigh'd, O sweet Anne Page!

And you! whose love-fick minds
No med'cine can affuage!
Accufe the leech's art no more,
But learn of Slender to deplore;
O sweet, O sweet Anne Page!

And ye! whose souls are held,

Like linnets in a cage!

Who talk of fetters, links, and chains,

Attend and imitate my strains!

O fweet, O fweet Anne Page!