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No more my titles shall my children tell,
THE LOGICIANS REFUTED.
In imitation of Dean Swift.
Logicians have but ill defin'd
By ratiocinations specious,
Have strove to prove with great precision,
Homo est ratione preditum;
But for my soul I cannot credit 'em;
Than reason, boasting mortals' pride,
Who ever knew an honest brute
They eat their meals and take their sport,
They never to the levee go
To treat as dearest friend, a foe;
They never importune his Grace,
Nor draw the quill to write for Bob:
At court, the porters, lacqueys, waiters,
ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH, STRUCK BLIND BY LIGHTNING.
Sure't was by Providence design'd,
Rather in pity, than in hate,
That he should be, like Cupid, blind,
To save him from Narcissus' fate.
ON THE TAKING OF QUEBEC, AND DEATH OF GENERAL WOLFE.
Which triumph forces from the patriot heart,
And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes:
Weeping, murmuring, complaining,
Myra, too sincere for feigning,
Fears th' approaching bridal night.
Yet why impair thy bright perfection?
TO IRIS, IN BOW-STREET, COVENT GARDEN.
Say, cruel Iris, pretty rake,
What annual offering shall I make
ON THE GLORY OF HER SEX, MRS. MARY BLAIZE.
Good people all, with one accord,
From those who spoke her praise.
The needy seldom pass'd her door,
She strove the neighbourhood to please,
With manners wond'rous winning;
And never follow'd wicked ways,
At church, in silks and satins new,
She never slumber'd in her pew,
But now her wealth and finery fled,
Let us lament, in sorrow sore,
For Kent-street well may say,
That had she liv'd a twelvemonth more
DESCRIPTION OF AN AUTHOR'S BED-CHAMBER. Where the Red Lion staring o'er the way, Invites each passing stranger that can pay; Where Calvert's butt, and Parson's black champaign, Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury-lane; There, in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug, The Muse found Scroggen stretch'd beneath a rug; A window, patch'd with paper, lent a ray, That dimly show'd the state in which he lay; The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread; The humid wall with paltry pictures spread : The royal Game of Goose was there in view, And the Twelve Rules the royal martyr drew;
The Seasons, fram'd with listing, found a place,
And brave Prince William show'd his lamp-black face. The morn was cold, he views with keen desire
The rusty grate unconscious of a fire:
With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scor'd,
And five crack'd tea-cups dress'd the chimney board;
A night-cap deck'd his brows instead of bay,
A cap by night
a stocking all the day!