To A F U I E N D.

HAVE you ne'er seen, my gentle squire,
The humours of your kitchen fire?
Says Ned to Sal, "I lead a spade,
"Why don't ye play ?—the girl's afraid-
Play something—any thing—'but play—
'Tis but to pass the time away—
Phoo—how she stands—biting her nails—
As tho' she play'd'for half her vails—
Sorting her cards, hagling and picking—
We. play for nothing, do us, chicken ?—
That card will do—'blood never doubt it,
It's not worth-while to think about it."

Sal thought, and thought, and miss'dher aim, And Ned, ne'er studying, won the game.

Methinks, old friend, 'tis wond?rous true,
That verse is but a game at loo.
While many a bard, that shews so clearly
He writes for his amusement merely,
Is known to study, fret, and toil;
And play for nothing, all the while:
Or praise at most; for wreaths of yore
Ne'er signify'd a farthing more:
'Till having vainly toii'd to gain it,
He sees your flying pen obtain it.


Thro' fragrant scenes the trifler roves,
And hallow'd haunts that Phoebus loves;
"Where with strange heats his bosom glows,
And mystic flames the God bestows.
You now none other flame require,
Than a good blazing parlour fire -,
Write verses—to defy the scorners,
In shit-houses and chimney-corners.

Sal found her deep-laid schemes were vain,
The cards are cut—come deal again—
No good comes on it when one lingers—
I'll play the cards come next my fingers—
Fortune cou'd never let Ned loo her,
When she had left it wholly to her.

Well, now who wins ?—why, still the sameFor Sal has lost another game.

"I've done ; (stie mutter'd) I was saying,
It did not argufy my playing.
Some folks will win, they cannot chuse,
But think or not think—some must lose.
I may have won a game or so—
But then it was an age ago—
It ne'er will be my lot again—
I won it of a baby then—
Give me an ace of trumps and see,
Our Ned will beat me with a three.
'Tis all by luck that things are carry'd—■
He'll suffer for it when he's marry'd.

Thus Sal, with tears in either eye; While victor Ned sate titt'ring by.

Thus I, long envying your success,
And bent to write, and study less,
Sate down, and scribbled in a trice,
Just what you see—and you despise.

You, who can frame a tuneful song,
And hum it as you ride along;
And, trotting on the king's high-way,
Snatch from the hedge a sprig of bay;
Accept this verse, howe'er it flows,
From one that is your friend in prose.

What is this wreath, so green! so fair!
Which many wish, and few must wear?
Which some men's indolence can gain,
And some mens vigils ne'er obtain?
For what must Sal or poet sue,
Ere they engage with Ned or you?
For luck. in verse, for luck at loo?

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!

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'These are Messengers
'That feelingly persuade me what I am.


^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.


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