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A MEMBER of the modern great
The tinker forced to trudge it.
His lordship would parade for;
To Wasteall, whose eyes were just closing in death,
APOLLO-TO MR. C——— F—,
ON HIS BEING SATIRIZED BY AN IGNORANT PERSON.
WHETHER he's worth your spleen or not,
I wish my friend a nobler lot
Than that of trampling vermin.
As you've some common sense to spare,
ON MR. CHURCHILL'S DEATH.
SAYS Tom to Richard, Churchill's dead:'
WOULD honest Tom G- -d get rid of a scold,
COULD Kate for Dick compose the gordian string,
ON SEEING J. C. C-FT, ESQ.
WHEN a wretch to public notice,
Busy, pert, unmeaning parrot!
Should for hunger hang or drown:
SHED roses in the sprightly juice,
Ourselves, with rosy chaplets bound, Shall sing, and set the goblet round.
Thee, ever gentle Rose, we greet,
The Cupids and the Graces fair
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.
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;
A virgin of celestial grace!
'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.
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,
'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.'
WHY did I with Love engage!
True it is, the wandering child
Now I'm in my armour clasp'd,