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Of Sherlock * thus, for preaching famd,

The sexton reason'd well ;
And justly balf the merit claim'd,

Because he rang the bell.

A LOVE POEM

FROM A PHYSICIAN TO HIS MISTRESS,

WRITTEN AT LONDON.

BY

poets we are well assurd
That love, alas ! can ne'er be curd:
A complicated heap of ills,
Despising boluses and pills.
Ah! Chloe, this I find is true,
Since first I gave my heart to you.
Now, by your cruelty hard bound,
I strain my guts, my colon wound.
Now jealousy, my grumbling tripes
Assaults with grating, grinding gripes.
When pity in those eyes I view,
My bowels wambling make me spew.
When I an amorous kiss design'd,
I belch'd a hurricane of wind.
Once you a gentle sigh let fall;
Remember how I suck'd it all :
What colick pangs from thence I felt,
Had

you but known, your heart would melt, Like ruffling winds in caverns pent, Till Nature pointed out a vent.

* The dean of St. Paul's, father to the bishop. H.

How have you torn my heart to pieces
With maggots, humours, av:l caprices!
By which I got the hemorrhoids;
And loathsome worms my anus voids.
Whene'er I hear a rival nam’d,
I feel my body all inflam'd;
Which, breaking out in boils and blanes,
With yellow filth my linen stains;
Or, parch'd with unextinguishod thirst,
Smallbeer I guzzle till I burst;
And then I drag a bloated corpus,
Swell'd with a dropsy, like a porpoise;
When, if I cannot purge or stale,
I must be tapp'd to fill a pail.

TO DEAN SWIFT,

BY SIR ARTHUR ACHESON.

1729

Good cause have I to sing and vapour,
For I am landlord to the Drapier:
He, that of every ear's the charmer,
Now condescends to be my farmer,
And grace my villa with his strains;
Lives such a bard on British plains?
No; not in all the British court;
For none but witlings there resort,
Whose names and works (though dead) are made
Immortal by the Dunciad;
And, sure as monument of brass,
Their fame to future time shall pass ;
How, with a weakly warbling tongue,
Of brazen knight they vainly sung:

A subject for their genius fit;
He dares defy both sense and wit.
What dares he not? He can, we know it,
A laureat make that is no poet;
A judge, without the least pretence
To common law, or common sense;
A bishop that is no divine;
And coxcombs in red ribbons shine:
Nay, he can make, what's greater far,
A middle state 'twixt peace and war;
And say, there shall, for years together,
Be
peace

and war, and both, and neither.
Happy, O Market-hilll at least,
That court and courtiers have no taste :
You never else had known the Dean,
But as of old, obscurely lain;
All things gone on the same dull track,
And Drapier's-hill * been still Drumlack ;
But now your name with Penshurst vies,
And wing'd with fame shall reach the skies.

DEAN SWIFT AT SIR ARTHUR ACHESON'S,

IN THE NORTH OF IRELAND.

The Dean would visit Market-bill,

Our invitation was but slight;
I said" Why let him, if he will :"

And so I bade sir Arthur write.

* The Dean gave this name to a farm called Drumlack, which he rented of sir Arthur Acheson, whose seat lay between that and Market-hill; and intended to build a house upon it, but afterward changed his mind. F.

Nor thou, lord Arthur *, shalt escape;

To thee I often call'd in vain, Against that assassin in crape ;

Yet thou could'st tamely see me slain : Nor, when I felt the dreadful blow,

Or chid the Dean, or pinch'd thy spouse ; Since you could see me treated so

(An old retainer to your house): May that fell Dean, by whose command

Was form'd this Machiavelian ploi, Not leave a thistle on thy land;

Then who will own thee for a Scot?

Pigs and fanaticks, cows and teagues,

Through all my empire I foresee, To tear thy hedges, join in leagues,

Sworn to revenge my thorn and me. And thou, the wretch ordain'd by fate,

Neal Gahagan, Hibernian clown, With hatchet blunter than thy pate,

To hack my hallow'd timber down ; When thou, suspended high in air,

Diest on a more ignoble tree, (For thou shalt steal thy landlord's mare),

Then, bloody caitif! think on me.”

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* Sir Arthur Acheson. F.

EPITAPH, ,

IN BERKELEY CHURCHYARD, GLOUCESTERSHIRB.

Here lies the earl of Suffolk's fool,

Men call’d him Dicky Pearce ;
His folly serv'd to make folks laugh,

When wit and mirth were scarce.
Poor Dick, alas! is dead and gone,

What signifies to cry?
Dickies enough are still behind,
To laugh at by and by.

Buried June 18, 1728, aged 63.

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MY LADY'S * LAMENTATION AND COMPLAINT AGAINST THE DEAN.

JULY 28, 1728.

SURE never did man see His malice is plain,
A wretch like poor Nancy, Halloping the dean.
So teas'd day and night

The Dean never stops,
By a Dean and a Knight. When he opens his chops;
To punish my sins, I'm quite overrun
Sir Arthur begins,

With rebus and pun. And gives me a wipe Before he came here, With Skinny and Snipe: To spunge for good cheer,

* Lady Acheson.. F.

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