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.

Adieu ye bobs! ye bags give place!

Full-bottoms come instead!

Good Lord! to see the various

Of dreffing-a Calve's head!

ways

THE PROGRESS OF ADVICE. A COMMON CASE.

BY THE SAME.

Suade, nam certum eft.

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

SAYS

I am thinking to marry thy mistress's maid: Now because Mrs. Martha to thee is well known, I will do't if thou bid'ft 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 prithee 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 would'st chuse out a whipping-post, first, to be ty'd to. She's peevish, fhe's thievifh, fhe's ugly, fhe's old, And a lyar, and a fool, and a flut, and a fcoldNext day Richard hasten'd to church and was wed, And ere night had inform'd her what Thomas had faid.

SLENDER'S

B

GHOST.

BY THE SAME.

Cura leves loquuntur, ingentes flupent.

ENEATH a church-yard yew,

Decay'd and worn with age,

At dusk of eve, methought I spy'd

Poor Slender's ghoft, that whimpering cry'd, }

O fweet! O fweet Anne Page!

Ye gentle bards, give ear!

Who talk of amorous rage,

Who spoil the lily, rob the rose;

Come learn of me to weep your woes;

O fweet! O fweet Anne Page!

Why

Why fhould fuch labour'd strains
Your formal Mufe engage?

I never dreamt of flame or dart,
That fir'd my breast, or pierc'd my heart,
But figh'd, O fweet Anne Page!

And you, whofe love-fick minds
No medicine can affuage!
Accuse the leech's art no more,
But learn of Slender to deplore;
O fweet! O fweet Anne Page!

And

you, whose fouls 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!

And you, who boaft or grieve,
What horrid wars ye wage!

Of wounds receiv'd from many an eye,
Yet mean as I do when I figh

O fweet! O fweet Anne Page!

Hence every fond conceit

Of thepherd, or of sage!

"Tis Slender's voice, 'tis Slender's way,

Expreffes all you have to say

O fweet! O fweet Anne Page!

Upon

Upon RIDDLES.

H

BY THE SAME.

AVE you not known a small machine
Which brazen rings environ,

In many a country chimney feen,
Y-clep'd a tarring-iron ?

Its puzzling nature to display,

Each idle clown may try, Sir, Though when he has acquired the way, He's not a jot the wifer.

'Tis thus with him, who fond of rhime
In Wit's low fpecies piddles;

And tries his thoughts, and wastes his time
In explicating riddles.

Shall idle bards, by fancy led,

(With wrathful zeal I speak it) Write with defign to plague my head,

Who have no right to break it?

He

He writes the best, who, writing, can

Both please and teach together:
But 'tis the devil of a plan,

That can accomplish neither.

Ye readers, hear! ye writers too!
O fpare your darkling labours!
For though they please, not profit, you,
They plague and hurt your neighbours.
Go learn of POPE; then judge aright,
Which way to Fame's the furer:
To put the truth in fairest light,
Or render it obfcurer.

VERSES to a Writer of RIDDLES.

A

H! boaft not those obfcuring lays,

Nor think it fure and certain,

That every one can draw a face,

Who can produce a curtain.

POPE does the flourish'd truth no hurt,

While graceful flowers disguise it ;
Thou daub'ft it fo with mud and dirt,

That not a foul efpies it.