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EPIGRAMS.

A MEMBER of the modern great
Pass'd Sawney with his budget,
The peer was in a car of state,

The tinker forced to trudge it.
But Sawney shall receive the praise

His lordship would parade for;
One's debtor for his dapple grays,
And the' other's shoes are paid for.

To Wasteall, whose eyes were just closing in death,
Doll counted the chalks on the door; [breath,
'In peace (cried the wretch) let me give up my
And Fate will soon rub out my score.'
'Come, bailiffs (cries Doll), (how I'll hamper this
Let the law be no longer delay'd, [cheat!)
I never once heard of that fellow call'd Fate,
And, by God, he shan't die till I'm paid.'

APOLLO-TO MR. C——— F—,

ON HIS BEING SATIRIZED BY AN IGNORANT PERSON.

WHETHER he's worth your spleen or not,
You've ask'd me to determine:

I wish my friend a nobler lot

Than that of trampling vermin.
A blockhead can't be worth our care,
Unless that we'd befriend him:

As you've some common sense to spare,
I'll pay what you may
lend him.

P

ON MR. CHURCHILL'S DEATH.

·

SAYS Tom to Richard, Churchill's dead:'
Says Richard, Tom, you lie ;
Old Rancour the report hath spread,
But Genius cannot die.'

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Postscript.

WOULD honest Tom G- -d get rid of a scold,
The torture, the plague of his life!
Pray tell him to take down his lion of gold,
And hang up his brazenfaced wife.

COULD Kate for Dick compose the gordian string,
The Tyburn knot how near the nuptial ring!
A loving wife, obedient to her vows,
Is bound in duty to exalt her spouse.

ON SEEING J. C. C-FT, ESQ.
ABUSED IN A NEWSPAPER.

WHEN a wretch to public notice,
Would a man of worth defame;
Wit, as threadbare as his coat is,
Only shows his want of shame.

Busy, pert, unmeaning parrot!
Vilest of the venal crews!
Go-and in Grub-street garret
your
Hang yourself and paltry Muse.
Pity too the meddling sinner

Should for hunger hang or drown:
F-x (he must not want a dinner),
Send the scribbler half a crown.

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IMITATIONS.

ANACREON.

ODE V.

SHED roses in the sprightly juice,
Prepared for every social use!
So shall the earthly nectar prove
A draught for all-imperial Jove.

Ourselves, with rosy chaplets bound, Shall sing, and set the goblet round.

Thee, ever gentle Rose, we greet,
We worship thee, delicious sweet!
For, though by mighty gods caress'd,
You deign to make us mortals bless'd.

The Cupids and the Graces fair
With myrtle sprigs adorn their hair;
And nimbly strike celestial ground,
Eternal roses blooming round.

Bring us more sweets ere these expire, And reach me that harmonious lyre: Gay Bacchus, Jove's convivial son, Shall lead us to his favourite ton: Among the sporting youths and maids, Beneath the vine's auspicious shades, For ever young-for ever gay, We'll dance the jovial hours away.

ANACREON.

ODE IX.

TELL me (said I), my beauteous dove (If an ambassadress from love), Tell me, on what soft errand sent, Thy gentle flight is this way bent?

Ambrosial sweets thy pinions shed As in the quivering breeze they spread!' A message (says the bird) I bear From fond Anacreon to the fair;

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A virgin of celestial grace!
The Venus of the human race!

'Me, for a hymn or amorous ode, The Paphian Venus once bestow'd To the sweet bard; for whom I'd fly Unwearied to the farthest sky.

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Through the soft air he bade me glide (See, to my wing his billet's tied), And told me 'twas his kind decree, When I return'd, to set me free.

"Twould prove me but a simple bird, To take Anacreon at his word: Why should I hide me in the wood, Or search for my precarious food, When I've my master's leave to stand Cooing upon his friendly hand; When I can be profusely fed With crumbs of his ambrosial bread, And, welcomed to his nectar bowl, Sip the rich drops that fire the soul; Till in fantastic rounds I spread My fluttering pinions o'er his head:

Or if he strike the trembling wire,
I perch upon my favourite lyre;
Till lull'd into luxuriant rest,
Sleep steals upon my raptured breast.

'Go, stranger-to your business-go, I've told you all you wish'd to know: Go, stranger, and I think you'll say, This prattling Dove's an arrant Jay.'

ANACREON.

ODE XIV.

WHY did I with Love engage!
Why provoke his mighty rage!

True it is, the wandering child
Met me with an aspect mild,
And besought me, like a friend,
At his gentle shrine to bend.
True, from my mistaken pride
Due devotion was denied,
Till (because I would not yield)
Cupid dared me to the field.

Now I'm in my armour clasp'd,
Now the mighty lance is grasp'd,
But an Achillean spear
Would be ineffectual here,
While the poison'd arrows fly
Hot as lightning from the sky.
Wounded through the woods I run,
Follow'd still by Beauty's son,
Arrows in malignant showers
Still the angry urchin pours;
Till exhausting all his store
(When the quiver yields no more),

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