Imatges de pÓgina
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Your money, zounds, deliver me your money,
Quick, d-n ye, quick; must I stay waiting on ye?
Quick, or I'll send" (and nearer still he rode)
"A brace of balls amongst ye all, by -,"

But now 'tis high time, I presume, to bid vale,
Lest we tire you too long with our Tunbridgiale;
Which, if the four critics pretend to unravel,
Or at these our verses should stupidly cavil;
If this be the case, tell the critics I pray,
That I care not one farthing for all they can say:
And so I conclude, with my service, good Peter,
To yourself, and all friends farewell Muse

farewell metre.

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Tbid the club farewel-" I go to morrow-"
To morrow came, and so accordingly
Unto the place of rendezvous went I.

Bull was the house, and Bishopsgate the street,
The coach as full as it could cram; to wit,
Two fellow-commoners de Aula Trin.
And eke an honest bricklayer of Lynn,
And eke two Norfolk dames, his wife and cousin,
And eke my worship's self made half a dozen.

Now then, as Fortune had contriv'd, our way
Thro' the wild brakes of Epping Forest lay:
With travellers and trunks, a hugeous load,
We hagg'd along the solitary road;
Where nought but thickets within thickets grew,
No house nor barn to cheer the wand'ring view;
Nor lab'ring hind, nor shepherd did appear,
Nor sportsman with his dog or gun was there;
A dreary landscape, bushy and forlorn,
Where rogues start up like mushrooms in a morn.

However, since we, none of us, had yet Such rogues, but in a Sessions-paper, met, We jok'd on fear; tho', as we pass'd along, Robbing was still the burden of the song. With untry'd courage bravely we repell'd The rude attacks of dogs-not yet beheld. With val'rous talk still battling, 'till at last We thought all danger was as good as past. Says one-too soon alas!" Now let him come, Full at his head I'll fling this bottle of rum." Scaree had he spoken, when the brickman's wife Cry'd out, "Good Lord! he's here, upon my life." Forth from behind the wheels the villain came, And swore such words as 1 dare hardly name; But you il suppose them, brother, not to drop From me, but him" G-d d-n ye, coachman, stop:

1 leave you, sir, to judge yourself what plight We all were put in, by this cursed wight. Big with the sudden fear, they pout, they swell; The trembling females into labour fell; And soon, deliver'd by his horrid curses, [purses: Brought forth two strange and preternatural That look'd indeed like purses made of leather; But let the sweet-tongued Manningham' say wheA common purse could possibly conceal [ther Shillings, half-crowns, and half-pence by piecemeal.

The youth, who flung the bottle at the knave
Before he came, now thought it best to wave
Such resolution, and preserve the liquor;
Since a round guinea might be thrown much

So with impetuous haste he flung him that,
Which the sharp rascal parried with his hat.
His right-hand man, a brother of our quill,
Prudently chose to show his own good will
By the same token, and without much scruple
Made the red-rugg'd collector's income duple.

My heart-for truth I always must confess-
Did sink an inch exactly-more or less''
With both my eyes I view'd the thief's approach;
And read the case of-Pistol versus Coach.
A woeful case, which I had oft heard quoted;
But ne'er before in all my practice noted.
So when the lawyers brought in their report,,
Guinea per Christian to be paid in court,
Well off, thinks I, with this same son of a whore,
If he prefers his action for no more,

No more! why hang him, is not that too much, To pay a guinea for his vile High Dutch? 'Tis true, he has us here upon the hank, With action strong; and swears to it point blank: Yet why resign the yellow one pound one? No, tax his bill, and give him silver, John. So said, so done, and putting fist to fob I flung th' apparent value of the job, An ounce of silver, into his receiver, And mark'd the issue of the rogue's behaviour.

He, like a thankless wretch, that's overpaid, Resents, forsooth, th' affront upon his trade; And treats my kindness with a-" this won't do, Look ye here, sir, I must ha' gold from you." To this demand of the ungrateful cur, Defendant John thought proper to demur. The bricklayer joining in the white opinion, Tender'd five shillings to Diana's minion; Who still kept threat'ning to pervade his buff, Because the payment was not prompt enough.

Before the women, with their purses each, Had strength to place contents within his reach,

1 Dr. Manningham; who wrote a pamphlet in defence of the well-known story of the RabbitWoman

2 An expression used by of the Royal Society, and afterwards proverbially adopted in ridicule by the author and his friends,

One of his pieces, falling downwards, drew
The rogue's attention hungrily thereto.
Straight he began to dainn the charioteer:-
"Come down, ye dog, reach me that guinea there."
Down jumps th' affrighted coachman on the sand,
Picks up the gold, and puts it in his hand :
Missing a rare occasion, tim'rous dastard,
To seize his pistol, and dismount the bastard.

Now, while in deep and serious ponderment
I watch'd the motions of his next intent,
He wheel'd about, as one full bent to try
The matter in dispute 'twixt him and I;
And how my silver sentiments would hold
Against that hard dilemma, balls or gold.
"No help!" said I, "no tachygraphic pow'r,
To interpose in this unequal hour!

I doubt I must resign-there's no defending
The cause against that murderous fire-engine."

When lo! descending to her champion's aid The goddess Short-hand, bright celestial maid, Clad in a letter'd vest of silver hue 3, Wrought by her fav'rite Phoebe's hand, she flew. Th' unfolded surface fell exactly neat, In just proportions o'er her shape complete; Distinct with lines of purer flaming white, Transparent work, intelligibly bright; Form'd to give pleasure to th' ingenious mind, But puzzle and confound the stupid hind.

Soon as the wretch the sacred writing spy'd, "What conjuration-sight is this," he cry'd! My eyes meanwhile the heav'nly vision clear'd, It show'd how all his hellish look appear'd. (Heav'n shield all travellers from foul disgrace, As I saw Tyburn in the ruffian's face; And if aright I judge of human mien, His face ere long in Tyburn will be seen.) The hostile blaze soon seiz'd his miscreant blood;

He star'd-turn'd short-and fled into the wood.

Danger dismiss'd, the gentle goddess smil'd, Like a fond parent o'er her fearful child; And thus began to drive the diré surprise Forth from my anxious breast, in jocund wise. "My son," said she, "this fellow is no Weston, No adversary, child, to make a jest on. With ink sulphureous, upon human skin He writes indenting, horrid marks therein; But-thou hast read his fate-the halter'd slave Shall quickly sing his penitential stave.

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"Pursue thy rout; but when thou tak'st another, Bestride some generous quadruped or other. Let this enchanted vehicle confine, From this time forth, no votaries of mine: Let me no more see honest short-hand men Coop'd up in wood, like poultry in a pen. And at Trin. Col. whene'er thou art enlarging On Epping Forest, note this in the margin: 'Let Cambridge scholars, that are not quite bare, Shun the dishonest track, and ride thro' Ware.'

Alluding to some short-hand characters neatly eut in paper by the author's sister, and presented to M. F. esq.

Weston, the inventor of a method of shorthand, then in some vogue; the great irregularity and defects of which our author had often humorously exposed.

"Adieu! my son-resume thy wonted jokes; And write account hereof to Martin Folkes." This said, she mounts-the characters divine Thro' the bright path immensely brilliant shine. Now safe arriv'd-first for my boots I wroteI tell the story-and subjoin the noteAnd lastly, to fulfil the dread commands, These hasty lines presume to kiss your hands. Excuse the tedious tale of a disaster,

I am your humble servant and Grand Master'



DEAR Peter', whose absence, whate'er I may do In a week or two hence, at this present I rue; These lines, in great haste, I convey to the Mitre, To tell the sad plight of th' unfortunate writer: You have left your old friend so affect d with grief, That nothing but rhyming can give him relief; Tho' the Muses were never worse put to their trumps,

To comfort poor bard in his sorrowful dumps.

The moment you left us, with grief be it spoken, This poor heart of mine was as thoff it were broken;

And I almost faint still, if a carriage approach
That looks like a Highgate or Barnet stage-coach;
And really, when first that old vehicle gap'd
To take in friend Pee-so the fare had but'scap'd-
If I did not half wish the man might overturn it,
And swash it to pieces-I am a sous'd gurnet.

The Rhenish and sugar, which at your de parture [what heartier; Yet the wine but more strongly to weeping i> We drank, would have made me, I hop'd, some


And my grief, I perceiv'd, was but double refia'd: It is not to tell how my breast fell a throbbing, When at the last parting our noses were bobbing: Those sad farewell accents! (I think on 'em still) "You'll remember to write John?"-"Yes, Peter, I will."

You no sooner was gone, but this famous me tropolis,

That seem'd just before so exceedingly populous, When I turn'd me towards it, seem'd all of a sudden

As if it was gone from the place it had stood in:
But for squire Hazel's brother, sagacious Jack,
I should hardly have known how to find my way

How he brought me from Smithfield to Dick's I

can't say,

But remember the Charter-house stood in our way

At Dick's I repos'd me, and call'd for some coffee, [of ye; And sweeten'd, and supt, and still kept thinking But not with such pleasure as when I came there To wait 'till sir Peter should chance to appear:

5 A title usually given to the author by his short-hand scholars.

'R. L. esq. generally called by his college acquaintance, sir Peter.

There, while I was turning you o'er in my mind,
"Doctor, how do you do?' says a voice from be-

Thought I to myself I should know that same
And who should it be but my friend doctor Mor-

The doctor and I took a small walk, and then
He went somewhere else, I to Richard's again:
All ways have I try'd the sad loss to forget,
I have saunter'd, writ short-hand, eat custard,

et cet.

With honest Duke Humphrey I pass the long day,
To others, as yet, having little to say;

For indeed, I must own, since the loss of my

I am grown, as it were, a mere gerund in dumb.

But Muse! we forget that our grief will prevent



From treating of matters more high and moPoor Jonathan Wild!-Clowes, Peer Williams, and I

Have just been in waiting to see him pass by: Good law! how the houses were crowded with mobs,

That look'd like leviathan's picture in Hobb's; From the very ground-floor to the top of the leads,

While Jonathan past thro' a Holborn of heads.

From Newgate to Tyburn he made his pro-

Supported by two of the nimble profession:
Between the unheeded poor wretches he sat,
In his night-gown and wig, but without e'er a hat;
With a book in his hand he went weeping and

The mob all along, as he pass'd 'em, huzzaing;
While a parcel of verses the hawkers were hollow-

Of which I can only remember these following.

"The cunning old pug, ev'ry body remembers, That when he saw chesnuts a roasting i' th' em


To save his own bacon, took puss's two foots,
And so out o' th' embers he tickled his nuts.
Thus many a poor rogue has been burnt in the hand,
And 't was all nuts to Jonathan, you understand;
But he was not so cunning as Æsop's old ape,
For the monkey has brought himself into the

And now, Peter, I'm come to the end of my

So I wish you good company, journey, and wea
When friends in the country inquire after John,
Pray tender my service t'em all every one,
To the ladies at Toft, Mr. Legh of High-Legh,
To the Altringham Meeting, if any there be,
Darcy Lever, Will Drake, Mr. Cattell, and Cot-
An excellent rhyme that, to wind up one's bot-


Richard's, Monday night,
May 24, 1725.

P.S. What news? Why the lords, if the mi-
nutes say true,
Have pass'd my Lord Bolingbroke's bill three to
Three to one I would say; and resolved also
That the Commons have made good their arti-

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And to morrow, earl Thomas's fate to determine,
Their lordships come arm'd both with judgment
and ermine:
If so-I'll go see 't-or it shall be a hard case.
The surgeons, they say, have got Jonathan's car-



OUR President, in days of yore,
Upon his head a caxen wore;
Upon his head he wore a caxen,
Of hair as white as any flaxen;
But now he cares not of a fig;
A shabby wig upon his po!!,
He wears upon his poll a w g,
Of hair as black as any coal.

A sad and dismal change alas!
Choose how the 'duce it came to pass:
Poor President! what evil fate
Revers'd the colour of his pate?
For if that lamentable dress
Were his own choosing, one would guess,
His wits were certainly gone dead.
By the deep mourning of his head,

Sure it could ne'er be his own choosing
To put his head in such a housing:
It must be ominous, I fear;
Some mischief, to be sure, is near:
Nay, should that black foreboding phiz
Speak from that sturdy trunk of his,
One could not help but think it spoke
Just like a raven from an oak.

A caxen of so black a hue,
On our affairs looks plaguy blue:
We do not meet with such an omen
In any story, Greek or Roman:
A comet, or a blazing star,
Were not so terrible by far;
No; in that wig the Fates have sent us
Of all portents the most portentous,

Who does not tremble for the Club
That looks upon his wig-so scrub!
Without a knot! without a tye!-
What can we hang together by?
So scrub a wig to look upon,
How can the dire phenomenon
Be long before it has undone us?
Oh! 't is a cruel bob upon us.

The President, when's wig was white,
He was another mortal quite;
Nay, when he sprinkled it with powder,
No man in Manchester talk'd louder.
How blest were we! but now alack!
The wearing of a wig so black
Such a disgrace has brought about
Burn it! 't will never be worn out.

Thou art a lawyer, honest Joe,
I prithee wilt thou let us know
Whether the black act wont extend,
So as to reach our worthy friend.

What! can he wear a wig so shabby,
When folks are hang'd from Waltham Abbey,
For loving ven'son, and appearing
So like that head there, so like.Fearing.

You're a divine sir; I'll ask you,
Is that a Christian, or a Jew,

Or Turk? Aye, Turk, as sure as hops,
You see the Saracen-in his chops:

And yet these chops, tho' now so homely,
Were Christian-like before, and comely:
That wicked wig! to make a face
So absolutely void of grace!

You, master doctor! will you try
Your skill in physiognomy?

Of what disease is it a symptom?

Do n't look at me, but look at him, Tom.

Is it not scurvy, think you?—Yes,

If any thing be scurvy, 't is:
A phrenzy? or a periwigmanie
That over-runs his pericranie?

It seems to me a complication
Of all distempers, o' some fashion:
It is a coma, that is plain,

A great obstruction of the brain:

A man to take his brains, and bury 'em
In such a wig!-a plain deliriam:
I never saw a human face
That suffer'd more by such a case.

If you examine it, you'll see 't is
Piss-burnt-that shows a diabetes.
Bad weather has relax'd, you see,
The fibres to a great degree:

Certes the head, in these black tumours,
Is full of vitiated humours;

Of vitiated humours full,

Which shows a numbness of the scull.

So of the rest-But now, friend Thomas,
The cure will be expected from us;
For while it hangs on him, of course,

It will, if possible, grow worse:
Habit so foul! there is, in short,
Nothing but salivation for 't:
But what can salivation do?
It has been fluxt, and refluxt too.

But why to doctors do I urge on
The bus'ness of a barber-surgeon?
Your barber-surgeon is the man
It must be cur'd by, if it can:
Ring for my landlord Lawr nson;
Come let's e'en try what can be done;
A remedy there may be found,
Provided that the brain be sound.


FELLOW citizens all, for whose safety I peep
All night at the stars, and all day go to sleep;
Attend, while I show you the meaning of fate
In all the strange sights we have seen here of late;
And thou, O Astrology, goddess divine,
Celestial decypheress, gently incline,
Thine ears, and thine aid, to a lover of science,
That bids to all learning, but thine, a defiance.

For what learning else is there half so engaging, As an art where the terms of themselves are presaging?

Which by muttering o'er, any gentle mechanic May put his whole neighbourhood into a panie; Where a noddle well turn'd for prediction, and shoes,

If it can but remember hard words, cannot choose, From the prince on his throne, to the dairy-maid milking,

But read all their fortunes in yonder blue welkin.

For the sky is a book, where, in letters of gold, Is writ all that almanacs ever foretold;

Which he that can read, and interpret also-
What is there, which such a one cannot foreshow?
When a true son of art ponders over the stars,
They reflect back upon him the face of affairs;
Of all things of moment they give him an inkling,
While empires and kingdoms depend on their

Your transits, your comets, eclipses, conjunctions,

Have all, it is certain, their several functions; And on this globe of Earth here, both jointly, and



Do influence matters most astonishingly.
But to keep to some method, on this same occa-
We'll give you a full and true interpretation

Of all the phenomena, we have rehearst;
Of which, in their order; and first, of the first.

As for Mercury's travelling over the Sun, There's nothing in that, sirs, when all 's said and done;

For what will be, will be; and Mercury's transit,
I'm positive, will neither retard, nor advance it:
But when a conjunction, or comet takes place,
Or a total eclipse, that 's a different case:
They, that laugh at our art, may here see with
their eyes,
That some things, at least, may appear from the

A conjunction of Jupiter, Saturn, and Mars, You may turn, if you please, gentlemen, to mere farce:

But what if it plainly appear, that three men
Are foretold by three planets-what will ye say

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Now, to prove this, I'll only make one small reThat is, that you'll all turn your faces to th' east; And then you shall see, 'e're I've done my epistle, If I don't make it out, aye, as clear as a whistle.

In the first place, old Saturn, we very well know, Lost his kingdom and provinces some while ago; Nor was it long after old Saturn's disgrace, That Jupiter mov'd to step into his place; And Mars we all know was a quarrelsome bully, That beat all his neighbours most unmercifully; And now, who can doubt who these gentlemen are, Saturn, Jupiter, Mars,-Sophy, Sultan, and Czar.

But to prove, nearer home, that the stars have

not trifl'd, [field" Pray have we not lost, cruel star! doctor By

1 Dr. Byfield, a chymist of an extravagant genius, and inventor of the sal volatile oleosum: the author had frequent skirmishes of wit and humour with him at Richard's Coffee-house, and upon his death wrote the following short epitaph impromptu.

Hie jacet Dr. Byfield, diu volatilis, tandem fixus.

Alas! friends at Richard's, alas! what a chasm
Will be made in the annals of enthusiasm!
As soon as the comet appear'd in the sky,
Pray did not the doctor straight fall sick and die?
I wonder how folk could discover a comet,
And yet never draw this plain consequence from it.
The death of the recent might show, if it needed,
Why they saw it in France so much plainer than
we did;
And how well it forebodes to our nobles and
That its tail was here shorter by several inches:
But so near to the eagle this comet appear'd,
That something may happen, it is to be fear'd:
Great men have been known by the arms which
they bore,

But God bless the emperor-I say no more.

And now for th' eclipse, which is such an ap-

As perhaps will not happen this many a year
The king of France dy'd, the last total eclipse,
Of a mortification near one of his hips;

From whence by our art may be plainly made out, That some great man or other must die at this bout:

But as the eclipse is not yet, nor that neither, You know 't is not proper to say more of either.

Yet two, that are safe, I shall venture to name, Men of figure, and parts, and of unspotted fame; Who, all parties will own, are, and always have been

Great ornaments to the high station they 're in; Admir'd of all sides; who will therefore rejoice, When, consulting the stars, I pronounce it their voice,

That, for all this eclipse, there shall no harm befal, Those two honest-giants, that are in Guildhall.

So much for great men-I come now to predict What evils, in gen'ral, will Europe afflict: Now the evils, that conjurers tell from the stars, Are plague, famine and pestilence, bloodshed and


Contagious diseases, great losses of goods, Great burnings by fire, and great drownings by foods; [thunder;

Hail, rain, frost and snow, storms of lightning and And if none of these happen-'t will be a great




I AM a poor workman as rich as a Jew,
A strange sort of tale, but however 't is true,
Come listen awhile, and I'll prove it to you,
So as no-body can deny, &c.

I am a poor workman, you'll easily grant, And I'm rich as a Jew, for there's nothing I want, [and cant, I have meat, drink, and clothes, and am hearty Which no-body can deny, &c.

I live in a cottage, and yonder it stands, And while I can work with these two honest hands, I'm as happy as they that have houses and lands, Which no-body can deny, &c.

I keep to my workmanship all the day long,
I sing and I whistle, and this is my song,
Thank God, that has made me so lusty and strong,
Which no-body can deny, &c.

I never am greedy of delicate fare,
If he give me enough, tho' 't is never so bare,
The more is his love, and the less is my care,

Which no-body can deny, &c.

My clothes on a working day looken but lean, But when I can dress me-on Sundays, I mean, Tho' cheap, they are warm; and tho' coarse, they are clean, Which no-body can deny, &c.

Folk cry'n out hard times, but I never regard, For I ne'er did, nor will set my heart up o' th' ward,

So 't is all one to me, bin they easy or hard, Which no-body can deny, &c.

I envy not them that have thousands of pounds, That sport o'er the country with horses and hounds; [bounds, There's nought but contentment can keep within Which no-body can deny, &c.

I ne'er lose my time o'er a pipe, or a pot, Nor cower in a nook like a sluggardly sot, But I buy what is wanting with what I have got, Which no-body can deny, &c.

And if I have more than I want for to spend, I help a poor neighbour or diligent friend; [lend, He that gives to the poor, to the Lord he doth Which no-body can deny, &c.

I grudge not that gentlefolk dressen so fine; At their gold and their silver I never repine, But I wish all their guts were as hearty as mine, Which no-body can deny, &c.

With quarrels o' th' country, and matters of

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