"And fo inclement has it been
"I'm like a cake of ice within."
Come, quoth the Satyr, comfort, man!
I'll chear thy infide, if I can ;
You're welcome in my homely cottage
To a warm fire, and mefs of pottage.
This faid, the Satyr, nothing loth,
A bowl prepar'd of fav'ry broth,
Which with delight the Pedlar view'd,
As fmoaking on the board it ftood.
But, though the very steam arose
With grateful odour to his nose,
One single sip he ventur’d not,
The gruel was fo wond'rous hot.
He blows it, 'till its cool enough.
Why how now, Pedlar, what's the matter?
Still at thy blowing! quoth the Satyr.
I blow to cool it, cries the Clown,
That I may get the liquor down:
For though I grant, you've made it well,
You've boil'd it, fir, as hot as hell.
Then raising high his cloven stump,
The Satyr smote him on the rump.
"Begone, thou double knave, or fool,
"With the fame breath to warm and cool:
« Friendship with such I never hold
"Who're fo damn'd hot, and fo damn'd cold.
The CIT'S COUNTRY BOX, 1757.
Vos fapere & folos aio bene vivere, quorum,
Confpicitur nitidis fundata pecunia villis.
HE wealthy Cit, grown old in trade,
Now wishes for the rural shade,
And buckles to his one-horfe chair,
Old Dobbin, or the founder'd mare;
While wedg'd in closely by his fide,
Sits Madam, his unwieldy bride,
With Jacky on a stool before 'em,
And out they jog in due decorum.
Scarce past the turnpike half a mile,
How all the country seems to smile!
And as they flowly jog together,
The Cit commends the road and weather;
While Madam doats upon the trees,
And longs for ev'ry house she sees,
Admires its views, its fituation,
And thus fhe opens her oration.
What fignify the loads of wealth,
Without that richest jewel, health ?
Excufe the fondnefs of a wife,
Who doats upon your precious life!
Such eafelefs toil, fuch conftant care,
Is more than human strength can bear.
One may observe it in
observe it in your face
Indeed, my dear, you break apace :
And nothing can your health repair,
But exercise, and country air.
Sir Traffic has a house, you know,
About a mile from Cheney-Row:
He's a good man, indeed 'tis true,
But not fo warm, my dear, as you:
And folks are always apt to fneer
One would not be out-done, my dear!
Sir Traffic's name fo well apply'd Awak'd his brother merchant's pride; And Thrifty, who had all his life Paid utmost deference to his wife,
Confefs'd her arguments had reason,
And by th' approaching fummer season,
Draws a few hundreds from the stocks,
And purchases his Country Box.
Some three or four mile out of town,
(An hour's ride will bring you down,)
He fixes on his choice abode,
Not half a furlong from the road:
And fo convenient does it lay,
The stages pass it ev'ry day:
And then so snug, fo mighty pretty,
To have an house fo near the city!
Take but your places at the Boar
You're fet down at the very door.
Well then, suppose them fix'd at last,
White-washing, painting, scrubbing past,
Hugging themselves in ease and clover,
With all the fuss of moving over;
Lo, a new heap of whims are bred!
And wanton in my lady's head.
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