The POET and the DUN. 1741.

Thefe are Meffengers

That feelingly persuade me what I am.

SHAKESPEAR.

Omes a dun in the morning and raps at my door

Comes a in and raps at my door

Imade 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 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-confider? vexation!

What whore that muft paint, and must put on false locks,
And counterfeit joy in the pangs of the pox!
What beggar's wife's nephew, now starv'd, & now beaten,
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 refpect, and good living, and pelf,
And dun fome poor dog of a poet myself.
One's credit, however, of courfe will grow better;
Here enters the footman, and brings me a letter.

"Dear

"Dear Sir! I receiv'd your obliging epiftle,
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 fhall prevent me,
The audience, believe me, cry'd out ev'ry line

Was strong, was affecting, was juft, was divine;
All pregnant, as gold is, with worth, weight, and beauty,
And to hide such 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 modeft, I spare ye.”
Quite fir'd with the flatt'ry, I call for my paper,
And wafte that, and health, and my time, and my taper :
I fcribble 'till morn, when with wrath no fmall store,
Comes my old friend the mercer, and raps at my
. Ah! friend, 'tis but idle to make fuch a pother,
Fate, fate has ordain'd us, to plague one another."

door,

From flattery, cards, and dice, and din
Nor art thou found in manfions higher

Than the low cott, or humble inn.

"Tis here with boundless pow'r, I reign s
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 fpecious 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 ftore;
It buys me freedom, at an inn.

Whoe'er has travell'd life's dull round,
Where'er his ftages may have been,

May figh to think he ftill has found

The warmest welcome, at an inn.

更更更装

A SIMILE.

WHAT village but has fometime seen

The clumfy fhape, the frightful mien,

Tremendous claws, and fhagged hair,
Of that grim brute yclip'd a bear?
He from his dam, the learn'd agree,
Receiv'd the curious form you fee;
Who with her plaftic tongue alone,
Produc'd a vifage-like her own.→→→
And thus they hint, in mystic fashion,
The pow'rful force of education
Perhaps yon crowd of fwains is viewing
E'en now, the strange exploits of Brain;

Of a fond matron's education.

Who

Who plays his antics, roars aloud;
The wonder of a gaping crowd!

So have I known an aukward lad,
Whose birth has made a parish glad,
Forbid, for fear of sense, to roam,
And taught by kind mamma at home;
Who gives him many a well-try'd rule,
With ways and means to play the fool.
In fenfe the fame, in ftature higher,
He fhines, ere long, a rural squire,
Pours forth unwitty jokes, and fwears,
And bawls, and drinks, but chiefly stares :
His tenants of superior sense

Carouze, and laugh, at his expence ;
And deem the paftime I'm relating,

To be as pleasant, as bear-baiting.

The CHAR MS of PRECEDENCE.

A TAL E.

"SIR, will you pleafe to walk before ?”

-No, pray Sir-you are next the door.-"Upon mine honour, I'll not stir—”

Sir, I'm at home, confider, Sir-
"Excufe me, Sir, I'll not go first”
Well, if I must be rude, I must-

But
yet I wish I cou'd evade it-
'Tis ftrangely clownish, be perfuaded-
Go forward, cits! go forward, fquires!
Nor fcruple each, what each admires.

Life fquares not, friends, with your proceeding;
It flies, while you display your breeding;
Such breeding as one's granam preaches,
Or fome old dancing-mafter teaches.
O for fome rude tumultuous fellow,
Half crazy, or, at least, half-mellow,
To come behind you unawares,

ye,

And fairly push you both down stairs!
But death's at hand-let me advise
Go forward, friends! or he'll surprise ye.
Befides, how infincere you are!
Do ye not flatter, lye, forfwear,
And daily cheat, and weekly pray,
And all for this-to lead the
way ?

Such is my theme, which means to prove,
That, tho' we drink, or game, or love,

As that or this is moft in fashion,

Precedence is our ruling paffion.
When college-ftudents take degrees,
And
pay the beadle's endless fees,
What moves that scientific body,
But the first cutting at a gawdy?

And whence fuch fhoals, in bare conditions,
That ftarve and languifh as phyficians,
Content to trudge the streets, and stare at
The fat apothecary's chariot?

But that, in CHARLOT's chamber (see
MOLIERE'S Medecin malgre lui)
The leach, howe'er his fortunes vary,
Still walks before the apothecary.