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'Tis no hard matter to divine
How I, who love a wench and wine,
That Lamb or Locket can devise,
And can't tell what sixth sense, or whore is,
And Goody is his only Chloris:
How such a one should have intestine
Saline, and acid so infesting,
Is strange to me, and as obscure
A riddle almost as the cure.
The learned Sydenham does not doubt
Indeed I'm apt to think in you
Th' hypothesis is very true :
So ori and dori full,
That, hunting things through common-places,
And as when to an house we come
To know if any one 's at home,
We knock; so one must kick your shin,
Your brains (if any) sure would work well
MR. CUTHBERT JACKSON.
BY MR. MATTHEW GREEN,
of the Custom-House.
THIS motley piece to you I send,
The want of method pray excuse,
The child is genuine, you may trace Throughout the sire's transmitted face. Nothing is stol'n: my Muse, though mean, Draws from the spring she finds within;
Nor vainly buys what Gildon sells,
School-helps I want, to climb on high, Where all the ancient treasures lie, And there unseen commit a theft On wealth in Greek exchequers left, Then where? from whom? what can I steal, Who only with the moderns deal? This were attempting to put on Raiment from naked bodies won : They safely sing before a thief, They cannot give who want relief; Some few excepted, names well known, And justly laurel'd with renown, Whose stamp of genius marks their ware, And theft detects: of theft beware; From More so lash'd, example fit, Shun petty larceny in wit,
First know, my friend, I do not mean To write a treatise on the Spleen; Nor to prescribe when nerves convulse; Nor mend th' alarum watch, your pulse. If I am right, your question lay, What course I take to drive away The day-mare Spleen, by whose false pleas Men prove meer suicides in ease; And how I do myself demean In stormy world to live serene.
When by its magic lantern Spleen
Shew'd part was substance, shadow more;
"In life's rough tide I sunk not down,
I always choose the plainest food
To thee, I fly, by thee dilute—
I never sick by drinking grow, Nor keep myself a cup too low, And seldom Cloe's lodgings haunt, Thrifty of spirits, which I want.
Hunting I reckon very good