Thus SAL, with tears in either eye; While victor NED fate titt'ring by.

Thus I, long envying your fuccefs,
And bent to write, and study lefs;

Sate down, and scribbled in a trice,
Just what
you fee-and you defpife.
You, who can frame a tuneful fong,
And hum it as you ride along

And, trotting on the king's high-way,
Snatch from the hedge a fprig of bay;
Accept this verfe, howe'er it flows,
From one that is your friend in prose.

What is this wreath, fo green! fo fair!
Which many wish, and few muft wear?
Which fome men's indolence can gain,
And fome mens vigils ne'er obtain ?
For what must SAL or poet fue,
Ere they engage with NED or you ?
For luck in verfe, for luck at loo?

Ah no! 'tis genius gives you fame,
And NED, thro' fkill, fecures the game.

}

A So

A SOLEMN MEDITATION.

WHAT is this life, this active gueft,

Which robs our peaceful clay of rest?

This trifle, which while we retain,
Causes inquietude and pain?

This breath, which we no fooner find,
Than in a moment 'tis refign'd?
Whose momentary noife, when o'er,
Is never, never heard of more!
And even monarchs, when it ends,
Become offenfive 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, faid I-life is a f—t !

The POET and the DUN. 1741.

Thefe are Meflengers

That feelingly perfuade me what I am.

SHAKESPEAR.

Com
Omes a dun in the morning and raps at my door-

66 I made bold to call--'tis a twelvemonth and more-
I'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 thefe are your ways."
I have got but one fhilling to ferve 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 confider-consider? vexation!
What whore that muft paint, and muft put on falfe locks,
And counterfeit joy in the pangs of the pox!
What beggar'swife's nephew,now starv'd,& nowbeaten,
Who, wanting to eat, fears himself shall be eaten !
What porter, what turnfpit, can deem his cafe 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

One's credit, however, of courfe will grow better;
Here enters the footman, and brings me a letter.
"Dear Sir! I receiv'd your obliging epistle,
Your fame is fecure-bid the critics go whistle.
I read over with wonder the poem you fent me;
And I must speak your praises, no foul shall prevent me.
The audience, believe me, cry'd out ev'ry line
Was strong, was affecting, was just, was divine;
All pregnant, as gold is, with worth, weight, and beauty,
And to hide fuch a genius was-far from your duty.
I foresee that the court will be hugely delighted:
Sir RICHARD, for much a lefs genius, was knighted.
Adieu, my good friend, and for high life prepare ye;
I cou'd fay much more, but you're modest, I spare ye."”.
Quite fir'd with the flatt'ry, I call for my paper,
And waste that, and health, and my time, and my taper:
I fcribble 'till morn, when with wrath no small store,
Comes my old friend the mercer, and raps at my door.
"Ah! friend, 'tis but idle to make fuch a pother,
Fate, fate has ordain'd us, to plague one another."

Written at an Inn at HENLEY.

O thee, fair freedom! I retire

From flattery, cards, and dice, and din;

Nor art thou found in mansions higher

Than the low cott, or humble inn.

'Tis here with boundless pow'r I reign;
And ev'ry health which I begin,
Converts dull port to bright champaigne ;
Such freedom crowns it, at an inn.

I fly from pomp, I fly from plate!
I fly from falfehood's specious grin!
Freedom I love, and form I hate,
And chufe my lodgings at an inn.

Here, waiter! take

my

fordid ore,

Which lacqueys elfe might hope to win;

It buys, what courts have not in store;
It buys me freedom, at an inn.

Whoe'er has travell'd life's dull round,
Where'er his stages may have been,
May figh to think he ftill has found
The warmest welcome, at an inn.

A SIMILE!