And wou'd make no more Of king Arthur's*, by the score, In books of geo-graphy, He made the maps to flutter: A river or a fea Was to him a dish of tea; And a kingdom, bread and butter. But if fome mawkish potion Might chance to over-dose him, To check its rage, He took a page Of logic-to compofe him A trap, in hafte and anger, Was bought, you need not doubt on't; And, fuch was the gin, Where a lion once got in, He could not, I think, get out on't. With cheese, not books, 'twas baited, Since none-I'll tell you that- Mind books, when he has other diet. But more of trap and bait, Sir, Why should I fing, or either? Since the rat, who knew the flight, And dragg'd them away together: It now may feem, Had then-a dozen or more in. Then anfwer this, ye fages! Nor deem a man to wrong ye, Had the rat which thus did feize on The trap, lefs claim reafon, Than many a fcull amo Dan Prior's mice, I own it, Were vermin of condition; But this rat who merely learn'd What rats alone concern'd, Was the greater politician. That England's topsy-turvy, Is clear from thefe mishaps, Sir; Let fophs, by rats infested, Then truft in cats to catch 'em; Left Written at the time of the Spanish depredations, Left they grow as learn'd as we, No mortal fits to watch 'em. Good luck betide our captains; May quell the Spanish Don, S And the other destroy our rats, Sir. On certain PASTORALS. O rude and tunelefs are thy lays, 'Tis not th' Arcadian fwain that fings, But 'tis his herds that low. On Mr. C of KIDDERMINSTER'S Poetry, THY HY verfes, friend, are Kidderminster stuff, To the VIRTUOSOS. AIL, curious wights! to whom so fair Who deem thofe grubs beyond compare, Which common fenfe despises. Whether Famous for a coarfe woollen manufacture. 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 "Tis you difpenfe the favourite meat Know what conferves they chufe to eat, And if her brood of infects dies, You fage affiftance lend her; 'Tis you protect their pregnant hour; Prevent a mothless land. Yet oh! howe'er your towering view Whate'er refinements you purfue, 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, And speak with some respect of beaux, WHEN Tom to Cambridge first was fent, A plain brown bob he wore; 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 |