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To A F U I E N D.
HAVE you ne'er seen, my gentle squire,
Sal thought, and thought, and miss'dher aim, And Ned, ne'er studying, won the game.
Methinks, old friend, 'tis wond?rous true,
Thro' fragrant scenes the trifler roves,
Sal found her deep-laid schemes were vain,
Well, now who wins ?—why, still the sameFor Sal has lost another game.
"I've done ; (stie mutter'd) I was saying,
Thus Sal, with tears in either eye; While victor Ned sate titt'ring by.
Thus I, long envying your success,
You, who can frame a tuneful song,
What is this wreath, so green! so fair!
Ah no! 'tis genius gives you fame, And Ned, thro' skill, secures the game. A Solemn MEDITATION. The POET and the DUN. 1741,
H AT is this life, this active guest,
» » Which robs our peaceful clay of rest? This trifle, which while we retain, Causes inquietude and pain? This breath, which we no sooner find, Than in a moment 'tis resign'd? Whose momentary noise, when o'er, Is never, never heard of more! And even monarchs, when it ends, Become osfensive to their friends; Emit a putrid noisome smell, To those that lov'd 'em, e'er so well!
Pond'ring these things, within my heart, Surely, said I—life is a f—t!
'These are Messengers
^Omes.a dun in the morning and raps at my door—
"I made bold to call--'tis a twelvemonth and more— I'm sorry, believe me, to trouble you thus, Sir,— But Job wou'd be paid, Sir, had Job been a mercer.' My friend have but patience— " Ay these are your ways." I have got but one shilling to serve me two days— But Sir—prithee take it, and tell your attorney, If I han't paid your bill, I have paid for your journey.
Well, now thou art gone, let me govern my passion, And calmly consider—consider? vexation! Whatwhore that must paint, andmustputon falselocks, And counterfeit joy in the pangs of the pox! Whatbeggar'swife's nephew,now starv'd,& nowbeaten, Who, wanting to eat, fears himself shall be eaten! What porter, what turnspit, can deem his case hard! Or what dun boast of patience that thinks of a bard! Well, I'll leave this poor trade, for no trade can be poorer, Turn shoe-boy, or courtier, or pimp, or procurer; Get love, and respect, and good living, and pelf, And dun some poor dog of a poet myself.