TO A FRIE N D. AVE you ne'er feen, my gentle fquire, HA The humours of your kitchen fire ? Says NED to SAL, “I lead a spade, SAL thought, and thought, and mifs'd her aim, And NED, ne'er fludying, won the game. Methinks, old friend, 'tis wond'rous true, That verfe is but a game at loo. While many a bard, that fhews fo clearly Thro' Thro' fragrant fcenes the trifler roves, Than a good blazing parlour fire; SAL found her deep-laid fchemes were vain, Well, now who wins ?-why, ftill the fameFor SAL has loft another game. "I've done; (fhe mutter'd) I was faying, It did not argufy my playing. Some folks will win, they cannot chufe, I may have won a game or fo- Give me an ace of trumps and fee, Our NED will beat me with a three. 3 Thus eye; Thus SAL, with tears in either Sate down, and scribbled in a trice, And, trotting on the king's high-way, What is this wreath, fo green! fo fair! Ere they engage with NED or you? Ah no! 'tis genius gives you fame, } A So A SOLEMN MEDITATION. WHAT is this life, this active guest, Which robs our peaceful clay of reft? This trifle, which while we retain, This breath, which we no fooner find, To thofe that lov'd 'em, e'er fo well! Pond'ring these things, within my heart, Surely, faid I-life is a f―t! The POET and the DUN. 1741. Thefe are Meffengers That feelingly perfuade me what I am. SHAKESPEAR. Comes a dun in the morning and raps at my door "I made bold to call--'tis a twelvemonth and moreI'm forry, believe me, to trouble you thus, Sir,But JOB wou'd be paid, Sir, had Joв been a mercer.' My friend have but patience--"Ay these are your ways.” I have got but one fhilling to ferve me two daysBut 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 paffion, And calmly confider-confider? vexation! What whore that muft paint, and muft put on falfe locks, And counterfeit joy in the pangs of the pox! What beggar's wife's nephew,now ftarv'd,& nowbeaten, Who, wanting to eat, fears himself shall be eaten ! What porter, what turnfpit, 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 fhoe-boy, or courtier, or pimp, or procurer; Get love, and respect, and good living, and pelf, And dun fome poor dog of a poet myself. One's |