FROM

MARSEILLES,

TO MY

SISTERS AT CRUX.EASTON,

MAY 1735.

By the Same.

SCENE, the Study at Crux-Easton. Molly and Fanny are sitting at work ;

enter to them Harriot in a passion.

HARRIOT.
Lord! sister, here's the butcher come,
And not one word from brother Tom ;
The punctual spark, that made his boast
He'd write by every other post !
That ever I was so absurd
To take a man upon his word !
Quoth Frances, Child, I wonder much
You could expect him to keep touch :
'Tis so, my dear, with all mankind;
When out of sight you're out of mind.
Think you

he'd to his sisters write ?
Was ever girl so unpolite!
Some fair Italian stands possess'd,
And reigns sole mistress in his breast;

To her he dedicates his time,
And fawns in prose, or sighs in rhyme.
She'll give him tokens of her love,
Perhaps not easy to remove;
Such as will make him large amends
For loss of sisters, and of friends.

Cries Harriot, When he comes to France, I hope in God he'll learn to dance, And leave his aukward habits there, I'm sure he has enough to spare.

O could he leave his faults, saith Fanny,
And bring the good alone, if any,
Poor brother Tom! he'd grow so light,
The wind might rob us of him quite !
Of habits he

may
well get

clear ;
Ill humors are the faults I fear,
For in my life I ne'er saw yet
A creature half so passionate.
Good heav'ns! how did he rave and tear,
On my not going you know where ;
I scarcely yet have got my dread off:
I thought he'd bite my sister's head off.
'Tween him and Jenny what a clatter
About a fig, a mighty matter!
I could recount a thousand more,
But scandal's what I most abhor.

Molly, who long had patient sat, And heard in silence all their chat,

Observing how they spoke with rancor,
Took up my cause, for which I thank her.
What eloquence was then display'd !
The charming things that Molly said,
Perhaps it suits not me to tell ;
But faith! she spoke extremely well.
She first, with much ado, put on
A prudish face, then thus begun.

Heyday! quoth she, you let your tongue Run on most strangely, right or wrong. 'Tis what I never can connive at; Besides, consider'whom you drive at; A person of establish'd credit, Nobody better, though I say it. In all that's good, so tried and knowny Why, Girls, 'he's quite a proverb grown, His worth no mortal dares dispute : Then he's your Brother too to boot.

At this she made a moment's pause,
Then with a sigh resun'd the cause.
Alas ! my dears, you little know
A sailor's toil, a trav'ler's woe;
Perhaps this very hour he strays
A lonely wretch through desert ways;
Or shipwreck'd on a foreign strand,
He falls beneath some ruffian's hand :
Or on the naked rock he lies,
And pinch'd by famine wastes and dies.

Can you

this hated Brother see Floating, the sport of wind and sea ? Can you his feeble accents hear, Though but in thought, nor drop a tear? He faintly strives, his hopes are fled, The billows booming o'er his head ; He mounts upon the waves again, He calls on us, but calls in vain ; To death preserves his friendship true, And mutters out a kind adieu. See now he rises to our sight, Now sinks in everlasting night.

Here Fanny's color rose and fell, And Harriot's throat began to swell : One sidled to the window quite, Pretending some unusual sight, The other left the room outright; While Molly laugh’d, her ends obtain'd, To think how artfully she feign’d.

FROM

FRANCIS FAWKES, M. A.

то

HIS WIFE.

A

JOURNEY TO DONCASTER;

OR, A CURIOUS JOURNAL OF FIVE DAYS,

Wrote with a Pencil in a Chaise.

Dear ANNE,
IN

prose I've wrote you many a journal
Of travels, which I hope you'll burn all,
And now for once I write in rhyme
To tell you how I spend my time,
And what adventures may ensue
While I am hasting down to you.

On Sep. the second day I went
To London from my house in Ken ;
And, as good luck would have it, found
A friend for shire of Ebor bound:
It proving temperate, pleasant weather,
We soon agreed to go together,