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O Sir! says he, what! han't ye seen it? "Tis Damon's coach, and Damon in it. 'Tis odd methinks

you

have forgot
Your friend, your neighbour and—what not !
Your old acquaintance DAMON !-" True;
But faith his equipage is new."

" Bless me, said I, where can it end?
What madness has poffefs'd my friend?
Four powder'd saves, and those the tallest,
Their stomachs doubtless not the smallest !
Can Damon's revenue maintain
In lace and food, fo large a train ?
I know his land-each inch o'ground
'Tis not a mile to walk it round-
If Damon's whole estate can bear
To keep his lad, and one-horse chair,
I own 'tis paft my comprehension."
Yes, Sir, but Damon has a pension

Thus does a faise ambition rule us,
Thus pomp delude, and folly fool us ;
To keep a race of fick’ring knaves,
He grows himself the worst of llaves.

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Hint from VOITURE.

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ET Sol his annual journeys run,

And when the radiant task is done, Confess, thro' all the globe, 'twou'd pose him, To match the charms that Celia Ihews him.

And shou'd he boast he once had seen
As just a form, as bright a mien,
Yet must it still for ever pose him,
To match-what Celia never shews him.

INSCRIPTION.

To the memory

Of A. L. Esquire,
Justice of the peace for this county:
Who, in the whole course of his pilgrimage

Thro' a trifling ridiculous world,

Maintaining his proper dignity, Notwithstanding the scoffs of ill-dispos’d persons,

And wits of the age,
That ridicul'd his behaviour,

Or cenfur’d his breeding;
Following the dictates of nature,

Desiring to ease the afflicted,
Eager to set the prisoners at liberty,

Without

Without having for his end The noise, or report such things generally cause

In the world, (As he was seen to perform them of none) But the sole relief and happiness,

Of the party in distress;

Himself resting easy,
When he cou'd render that so;
Not griping, or pinching himself,

To hoard up superfluities;
Not coveting to keep in his possession
What gives more disquietude, than pleasure;

But charitably diffusing it

To all round about him :
Making the most sorrowful countenance

To smile,

In his presence;
Always bestowing more than he was ask'd,
Always imparting before he was desir’d;

Not proceeding in this manner,

Upon every trivial suggestion,
But the most mature, and folemn deliberation ;
With an incredible presence, and undauntedness

Of mind;
With an inimitable gravity and economy

Of face;
Bidding loud defiance
To politeness and the fashion,

Dar'd let a f-t.

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To A FRIEND.

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AVE 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’d her aim, And Ned, ne'er ftudying, won the game.

Methinks, old friend, 'tis wond'rous true,
That verse is but a game at ico.
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 toild to gain it,
He sees your flying pen obtain it.

Thro'

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 fame require,
Than a good blazing parlour fire ;
Write verses—to defy the scorners,
In fhit-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 same For Sal has lost another game.

“ I've done ; (she 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

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