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To chufe your baker, think, and think again,
(You'll scarce one honest baker find in ten :)
Aduft and bruis'd, I've often feen a pye
In rich disguise and coftly ruin lie,

While penfive cruft beheld its form o'erthrown,
Exhaufted apples griev'd, their moisture flown,
And fyrup from the fides ran trickling down.

O be not, be not tempted, lovely Nell,
While the hot-piping odours strongly smell,
While the delicious fume creates a guft,
To lick th' o'erflowing juice, or bite the cruft.
You'll rather stay (if my advice may rule)
Until the hot's corrected by the cool;
"Till you've infus'd the luscious store of cream,
And chang'd the purple for a filver stream;
"Till that smooth viand its mild force produce,
And give a softness to the tarter juice.

Then fhall thou pleas'd, the noble fabrick view,
And have a flice into the bargain too;
Honour and fame alike we will partake,
So well I'll eat what you fo richly make.

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Upon the Duke of MARLBOROUGH'S House at Woodstock.

Atria longe patent; fed nec cœnantibus ufquam,
Nec fomno locus eft; quàm bene non habites?

EE, Sir, fee here's the grand approach, This way is for his grace's coach; There lies the bridge, and here's the clock, Obferve the lion and the cock,

Mart. Epig.

The

The fpacious court, the colonade,
And mark how wide the hall is made?
The chimneys are so well defign'd,
They never smoke in any wind.
This gallery's contriv'd for walking,
The windows to retire and talk in;
The council-chamber for debate,
And all the reft are rooms of state.

Thanks, fir, cry'd I, 'tis very fine,
But where d'ye fleep, or where d' ye dine?
I find by all you have been telling,
That 'tis a house, but not a dwelling.

A Letter fent by Sir JOHN SUCKLING from France, deploring his fad Estate and Flight. With a Discovery of the Plot and Confpiracy, intended by him and his Adherents againft England.

Go, doleful fheet, to every street

Of London round about-a,

And tell 'em all thy master's fall That lived bravely mought-a.

Sir John in fight as brave a wight

As the knight of the fun-a;

Is forc'd to go away with woe, And from his country run-a.

Unhappy ftars to breed fuch jars, That England's chief Sucklin-a

Should prove

of late the fcorn of fate

And fortune's unlucklin-a;

But

But ye may fee inconftancy

In all things under heaven-a:

When god withdraws his gracious laws
We run at fix and seven-a :.

Alas, alas, how things do país;
What boots a handsome face-a,
A pretty wit, and legs to it,
Not feafon'd well with grace-a.

I that in court have made fuch sport
As never yet was found-a,

And tickled all, both great and small, The maids of honour round-a.

. I that did play both night and day And revell'd here and there-a,

Had change of fuits, made lays to lutes, And blufter'd every where-a.

I that could write, and well indite, As 'tis to ladies known-a,

And bore the praife, for fongs and plays,

Far more than were mine own-a.

I that did lend and yearly spend Thousands out of my purse-a,

And gave the king, a wond'rous thing, At once a hundred horse-a.

Bleft providence that kept my fenfe So well, that I fond elf-a,

Should chance to hit to have the wit,

To keep one for myself-a.

I that march'd forth into the north, And went up hills amain-a

With fword and lance, like king of France, And so came down again-a,

I

I that have done fuch things, the fun And moon did never fee-a,

Yet now poor John, a pox upon The fates, is fain to flee-a..

And for the brave, I us'd to have, In all I wore or eat-a

Accurfed chance, to spoil the dance, I fcarce have clothes or meat-a.

Could not the plot by which I got, Such credit in the play-a,

Aglaura bright, that Perfian wight, My roving fancy ftay-a;

But I muft fly, at things fo high, Above me not allow'd-a;

And I Sir John, like Ixion,

For Juno kifs a cloud-a.

Would I had burn'd it when I turn'd it

Out of a comedy-a,

There was an omen, in the nomen

I fear of tragedy-a;

Which is at last upon me caft,

And I proclaim'd a fot-a,

For thinking to with English do,

As with a Perfian plot-a.

But now I find, with grief of mind,

What will not me avail-a,

That plots in jeft are ever beft,

When plots in earnest fail-a.

Why could not I, in time efpy,
My error; but what's worfe-a,
Unhappy vermin, muft bring in Jermin,
The mafter of the horse-a.

The

The valiant Percy, god have mercy
Upon his noble foul-a,
Though he be wife by my advice,
Was in the plot most foul-a.

The witty poet, (let all know it)
Davenant by name-a,

In this defign, that I call mine, I utterly disclaim-a.

Though he can write, he cannot fight,

And bravely take a fort-a;

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Nor can he smell a project well,

His nofe, it is too short-a.

"Tis true, we met in council fet,

And plotted here in profe-a;

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And what he wanted, it is granted,

A bridge made of his nose-a.

But to impart it to his art, We had made pretty stuff-a:

No, for the plot that we had got, One poet was enough-a.

Which had not fate, and prying ftate, Crush'd in the very womb-a,

We had e'er long, by power ftrong,
Made England but one tomb-a.

Oh what a fright had bred that fight,
When Ireland, Scotland, France-a,
Within the wall of London all
In feveral troops fhould prance-a.

When men quarter'd, women flaughter'd,
In heaps every where-a

So thick should die, the enemy

The very fight should scare-a,

That

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