On a Bowl of Punch. WHENE'ER a bowl of punch we make, The strong, the small, the sharp, the sweet, A Description of London. Rogues that nightly rob and shoot men, On a young Lady. BEHOLD a nymph with ev'ry virtue graced, Minerva's head on Venus' shoulders placed! Kind nature here displays her nicest art, With sweet relievos hides the soundest heart; But while it hides, it elegantly tells With what benevolence her bosom swells; Here's beauty mental, moral, and divine, To charm the lover, and his thoughts refine. Paradox. FOUR people sat down in one evening to play, They play'd all that eve, and parted next day; Could you think, when you're told, as thus they all sat, No other play'd with them, nor was there one bet; Yet, when they rose up, each gained a guinea, Though none of 'em lost to the amount of a penny? Answer. Four merry fidlers play'd all night, To many a dancing ninny; And the next morning went away, And each receiv'd a guinea. On the Fifth of November. TO-NIGHT's the day, I speak it with great sorrow, That we were all t' have been blown up to morrow; Therefore, take care of fire, and candle-light; "Tis a cold frosty morn, and so good night. Reflections over a Pipe of Tobacco and a Pinch of Snuff. WHILST Smoke arises from my pipe, Thus to myself I say: Why should I anxious be for life, As if they silently would say, A Country Quarter Session. THREE or four parsons full of October, Three or four squires between drunk and sober; Three or four lawyers, three or four liars ; Three or four constables, three or four criers ; Three or four parishes bringing appeals; Three or four writings, and three or four seals; Three or four bastards, three or four whores; Tag, rag, and bobtail, three or four scores; Three or four statutes misunderstood, Three or four paupers all praying for food; Three or four roads that never were mended, Three or four scolds-and the session is ended. Epitaph on a Blacksmith. My sledge and hammer lie declin'd, To-morrow. An Epigram. Spoken extempore by the Earl of Rochester to STERNHOLD and Hopkins had great qualmis, Rhyme to Lisbon. By the same. That made her bone of his bone. On Punch. HENCE, restless care, and low design! A whimsical Epitaph, taken from a Stone in a Each other duly temp'ring, meet. Who draws instruction from a game of cards. Should sordid friends control your right good Beware the wretched state of forced Spadille. A cross fish well denotes a purse-proud squire. Now asks your leave; O! let him soon say more. A while with joy the scene is crown'd, A CERTAIN priest had hoarded up At last it came into his head To lock it in a chest Within the chancel; and he wrote Thereon, Hic Deus est. A merry grig, whose greedy mind Long wish'd for such a prey, Respecting not the sacred words That on the casket lay, Took out the gold; and blotting out The priest's inscript thereon; Wrote, Resurrexit, non est hic, "Your god is ris'n and gone." On the Death of Dr. Secker, late Archbishop of Canterbury. WHILE Secker liv'd, he show'd how seers should live; While Secker taught, heaven open'd to our eye; When Secker gave, we knew how angels give; When Secker died, we knew e'en Saints must die. Epigram. Occasioned by the Words "ONE PRIOR.” in Burnet's History. ONE PRIOR!-and is this, this all the fame The Poet from th' Historian can claim? No; Prior's verse posterity shall quote, When 'tis forgot one Burnet ever wrote. On Content. An Epigram. It is not youth can give content, Nor is it wealth's decree; It is a gift from heaven sent, Though not to thee or me. It is not in the monarch's crown, Though he'd give millions for 't: It dwells not in his lordship's frown, Nor waits on him to court. It is not in a coach and six, It is not in a garter; 'Tis not in love or politics, But 'tis in Hodge the carter. The First Pair. ADAM alone could not be easy, So he must have a wife, an' please ye; And how did he procure this wife, To cheer his solitary life? Out of a rib, Sir, from his side, Was form'd this necessary bride. But how did he the pain beguile? How!-he slept sweetly all the while. And when this rib was re-applied, In woman's form, to Adam's side, How then, I pray you, did it answer?— He never slept so sweet again, Sir. Similes to Molly. My passion is as mustard strong; Or like a March hare mad. Pert as a pear-monger I'd be, Like a stuck pig I gaping stare, Plump as a partridge was I known, Am kept awake to weep; Hard is her heart as flint or stone, The god of love at her approach Hearts sound as any bell or roach Ah me! as thick as hops or hail Shall I be, if without her. As fine as fivepence is her mien, As soft as pap her kisses are, As smooth as glass, as white as curds, Sharp as a needle are her words, Good Lord! how all men envied me! If I and Molly could agree, Let who would take Peru; Till you grow tender as a chick, You'll find me truer than a die; And wish me better sped, Flat as a flounder when I lie, And as a herring dead. Sure as a gun she'll drop a tear, And sigh perhaps, and wish, When I am rotten as a pear, And mute as any fish. On the Word REPRESENTATIVE. To represent is but to personate, Which should be truly done at any rate. Thus they who're fairly chose without a fee, Should give their votes, no doubt, with liberty. But when a seat is sold by th' venal tribe, He represents them best-who takes a bribe. On the Shortness of Human Life. LIKE as a damask rose you see, Or like the blossom on a tree; Or like the dainty flower in May, Or like the morning to the day; Or like the sun, or like the shade, Or like the gourd which Jonas had; E'en such is man, whose thread is spun, Drawn out and cut, and so is done: Withers the rose, the blossom blasts, The flower fades, the morning hastes; The sun doth set, the shadows fly, The gourd consumes, and mortals die. Like to the grass that's newly sprung, Or like a tale that's new begun; Or like a bird that's here to-day, Or like the pearled dew of May; Or like an hour, or like a span, Or like the singing of a swan; E'en such is man, who lives by breath, Is here, now there, in life and death: The grass decays, the tale doth end, The bird is flown, the dews ascend; The hour is short, the span not long, The swan's near death, man's life is done. Like to the bubble in the brook, Or in a glass much like a look: Or like the shuttle in the hand, Or like the writing in the sand; Or like a thought, or like a dream, Or like the gliding of the stream; E'en such is man, who lives by breath, Is here, now there, in life and death: The bubble's burst, the look's forgot, The shuttle's flung, the writing's blot; The thought is past, the dream is gone, The water glides, man's life is done. Epitaph on Captain Jones, Who published some marvellous Accounts of his Travels, the Truth of all which he thought proper to testify by affidavit. TREAD Softly, mortals, o'er the bones Of the world's wonder, Captain Jones! COME Sit by my side while this picture I draw: A housewife in bed, at table a slattern, SAY, is there aught that can convey An image of its transient stay? 'Tis a courser's straining steed * Dr. Sheridan. 'Tis a landscape vainly gay, An Anatomical Epitaph on an Invalid. HERE lies a head that often ach'd; A Poem, By Sir WALTER RALEIGH. SHALL I like an hermit dwell On a rock or in a cell, Calling home the smallest part That is missing of my heart, To bestow it where I may Meet a rival ev'ry day? If she undervalue me, What care I how fair she be? Were her tresses angel-gold; To convert them to a brayde, Were her hands as rich a prize |