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And sends you in a bill of charges,
A cradle, brother, and a basket
(Granted as soon as e'er I ask it);
A coat not of the smallest scantling,
Frocks, stockings, shoes, to grace the bantling;
These too were sent (or I'm no drubber)
Nay, add to these the fine gum-rubber;
Yet these won't do, send t'other coat,
For, faith, the first 's not worth a groat,
Dismally shrunk, as herrings shotten,
Supposed originally rotten.
Pray let the next be each way longer,
Of stuff more durable, and stronger;
Send it next week, if you are able.
By this time, sir, you know the fable.
From this, and letters of the same make,
You'll find what 'tis to have a name-sake.
Cold and hard times, sir, here (believe it).
I've lost my curate too, and grieve it.

At Easter for what I can see,

(A time of ease and vacancy)
If things but alter, and not undone,
I'll kiss your hands, and visit London.
Molly sends greeting; so do I, sir;
Send a good coat, that's all; good-by, sir.

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TWO RIDDLES.

FIRST PRINTED IN THE EXAMINER, MDCCX.

SPHINX was a monster that would eat
Whatever stranger she could get;

Unless his ready wit disclosed
The subtle riddle she proposed.

Edipus was resolved to go,

And try what strength of parts would do.
Says Sphinx, On this depends your fate;
Tell me what animal is that

Which has four feet at morning bright,
Has two at noon, and three at night?
'Tis man, said he, who, weak by nature,
At first creeps, like his fellow creature,
Upon all four; as years accrue,
With sturdy steps he walks on two;
In age, at length, grows weak and sick,
For his third leg adopts a stick.

Now, in your turn, 'tis just, methinks,
You should resolve me, Madam Sphinx.
What greater stranger yet is he,

Who has four legs, then two, then three;
Then loses one, then gets two more,
And runs away at last on four?

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EPIGRAM EXTEMPORE.'

I STOOD, sir, patient at your feet,
Before your elbow chair;

But make a bishop's throne your seat,
I'll kneel before you there.

One only thing can keep you down,

For your great soul too mean;
You'd not, to mount a bishop's throne,

Pay homage to the queen.

1 This epigram is printed from a pamphlet published in 1751, entitled, The friendly and honest Advice of an old Tory to the Vice Chancellor of Cambridge,' 8vo.

NELL AND JOHN.

1 WHEN Nell, given o'er by the doctor, was dying, And John at the chimney stood decently crying; 'Tis in vain, said the woman, to make such ado, For to our long home we must all of us go!

2 True, Nell, replied John; but, what yet is the worst For us that remain, the best always go first; Remember, dear wife, that I said so last year, When you lost your white heifer, and I my brown

mare!

BIBO AND CHARON.

WHEN Bibo thought fit from the world to retreat,
As full of champagne as an egg's full of meat,
He waked in the boat; and to Charon he said,
He would be rowed back, for he was not yet dead.
Trim the boat, and sit quiet, stern Charon replied:
You may have forgot, you were drunk when you died.

WIVES BY THE DOZEN.

O DEATH! how thou spoil'st the best project of life! Said Gabriel, who still, as he buried one wife,

For the sake of her family, married her cousin; And thus, in an honest collateral line,

He still married on till his number was nine,

Full sorry to die till he made up his dozen.

FATAL LOVE.

POOR Hal caught his death standing under a spout, Expecting till midnight, when Nan would come out, But fatal his patience, as cruel the dame,

And cursed was the weather that quenched the man's flame.

Whoe'er thou art, that read'st these moral lines, Make love at home, and go to bed betimes.

THE MODERN SAINT.

HER time with equal prudence Silvia shares,
First writes a billet-doux, then says her prayers;
Her mass and toilet; vespers and the play;
Thus God and Ashtaroth divide the day.
Constant she keeps her Ember-week and Lent,
At Easter calls all Israel to her tent;
Loose without bawd, and pious without zeal,
She still repeats the sins she would conceal.
Envy herself from Silvia's life must grant,
An artful woman makes a modern saint.

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THE PARALLEL.

PROMETHEUS, forming Mr Day,
Carved something like a man in clay.
The mortal's work might well miscarry;
He, that does heaven and earth control,
Alone has power to form a soul,
His hand is evident in Harry.

Since one is but a moving clod, T'other the lively form of God; Squire Wallis, you will scarce be able To prove all poetry but fable.

TO A YOUNG LADY,

WHO WAS FOND OF FORTUNE TELLING.

You, madam, may with safety go,
Decrees of destiny to know;

For at your birth kind planets reigned,
And certain happiness ordained:
Such charms as yours are only given
To chosen favourites of heaven.

But, such is my uncertain state,
'Tis dangerous to try my fate;
For I would only know from art
The future motions of your heart,
And what predestinated doom
Attends my love for

years to come;
No secrets else, that mortals learn,
My cares deserve, or life concern;
But this will so important be,

I dread to search the dark decree;
For, while the smallest hope remains,
Faint joys are mingled with my pains;
Vain distant views my fancy please,
And give some intermitting ease:
But should the stars too plainly show
That you have doomed my endless woe,
No human force, or art, could bear
The torment of my wild despair.

This secret then I dare not know,

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