AVE ne'er feen, my gentle fquire,
The humours of your kitchen fire?
of
Says NED to SAL, “I lead a spade,
Why don't ye play the girl's afraid-
Play fomething-any thing-but play-
'Tis but to pass the time away-
Phoo-how fhe ftands-biting her nails-
As tho' fhe 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 mifs'd her aim, And NED, ne'er ftudying, 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
He writes for his amusement merely,
Is known to study, fret, and toil;
And play for nothing, all the while :
Or praise at moft; for wreaths of
Ne'er fignify'd a farthing more:
'Till having vainly toil'd to gain it,
He fees your flying pen obtain it.
Thro' fragrant fcenes the trifler roves,
And hallow'd haunts that PHOEBUS loves;
Where with strange heats his bofom glows,
And myftic flames the God beftows.
You now none other flame require,
Than a good blazing parlour fire;
Write verfes-to defy the fcorners,
In fhit-houses and chimney-corners.
SAL found her deep-laid fchemes 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, ftill the fame
For 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,
But think or not think-fome must lofe
I may have won a game or fo
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 fuffer for it when he's marry'd.
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 ftudy lefs,
Sate down, and scribbled in a trice,
Juft what
you fee-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 fprig of bay;
Accept this verfe, howe'er it flows,
From one that is your friend in profe.
What is this wreath, fo green! so 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 verse, for luck at loo?
Ah no! 'tis genius gives you fame,
And NED, thro' fkill, fecures the game.
HAT is this life, this active guest,
Which robs our peaceful clay of rest?
This trifle, which while we retain,
Caufes inquietude and pain?
This breath, which we no fooner find,
Than in a moment 'tis refign'd?
Whose momentary noise, 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 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.
door66 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 thefe 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.
Com
Omes a dun in the morning and raps at my
Well, now thou art gone, let me govern my paffion,
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's wife's nephew,now ftarv'd,& nowbeaten,
Who, wanting to eat, fears himself shall be eaten!
What porter, what turnfpit, can deem his cafe hard!
Or what dun boaft 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 refpect, and good living, and pelf,
And dun fome poor dog of a poet myself.
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