WIVES BY THE DOZEN.

'O DEATH! how thou spoil'st the best project of life!'

Said Gabriel, who still, as he buried one wife,

For the sake of her family, married her cousin And thus, in an honest collateral line, He still married on till his number was nine, Full sorry to die till he made up his dozen.

FATAL LOVE.

;

POOR Hal caught his death standing under a spout,
Expecting, till midnight, when Nan would come
But fatal his patience, as cruel the dame,
And cursed was the weather that quench'd the
man's flame.

[out;

Whoe'er thou art, that read'st these moral lines, Make love at home, and go to bed betimes.

A SAILOR'S WIFE.

QUOTH Richard in jest, looking wistly at Nelly, 'Methinks, child, you seem something round in the belly!'

Nell answer'd him snappishly, How can that be, When my husband has been more than two years at sea?'

'Thy husband! (quoth Dick) why that matter was carried

Most secretly, Nell; I ne'er thought thou wert married.'

THE MODERN SAINT.

HER time with equal prudence Silvia shares,
First writes a billet-doux, then says her prayers;
Her mass and toilet; vespers and the play;
Thus God and Ashtaroth divide the day:
Constant she keeps her Ember-week and Lent,
At Easter calls all Israel to her tent:

Loose without bawd, and pious without zeal,
She still repeats the sins she would conceal.
Envy herself from Silvia's life must grant,
An artful woman makes a Modern Saint.

THE PARALLEL.

PROMETHEUS, forming Mr. Day,
Carved something like a man in clay.
The mortal's work might well miscarry ;
HE, that does Heaven and earth control,
Alone has power to form a soul,
His hand is evident in Harry.

Since one is but a moving clod,
The' other the lively form of God,
Squire Wallis, you will scarce be able,
To prove all poetry but fable.

THE HONEST SHEPHERD.

A GREEK EPIGRAM IMITATED.

WHEN hungry wolves had trespass'd on the fold,
And the robb'd shepherd his sad story told;
Call in Alcides, (said a crafty priest)

Give him one half, and he'll secure the rest.'

No! (said the shepherd) if the Fates decree, By ravaging my flock, to ruin me, To their commands I willingly resign, Power is their character, and patience mine; Though, troth! to me there seems but little odds, Who prove the greatest robbers, wolves or gods!'

THE INCURABLE.

PHILLIS, you boast of perfect health in vain,
And laugh at those who of their ills complain:
That with a frequent fever Chloe burns,
And Stella's plumpness into dropsy turns!
O Phillis, while the patients are nineteen,
Little, alas! are their distempers seen.
But thou, for all thy seeming health, art ill,
Beyond thy lover's hopes, or Blackmore's skill;
No lenitives can thy disease assuage,

I tell thee, 'tis incurable-'tis Age.

DOCTORS DIFFER.

WHEN Willis' of Ephraim heard Rochester' preach,

Thus Bentley said to him, I pr'ythee, dear. brother,

How likest thou this sermon? 'tis out of my reach.'

His is one way, (said Willis) and ours is

another;

I care not for carping; but this I can tell,

We preach very sadly, if he preaches well.'

1

Bishop of Gloucester.

2

Bishop Atterbury.

ÓN BISHOP ATTERBURY.

MEEK Francis lies here, friend: without stop or stay,

As

you value your peace, make the best of your

way.

Though at present arrested by Death's caitiff paw,
If he stirs, he may still have recourse to the law:
And in the King's-bench should a verdict be found,
That by livery and seisin his grave is his ground,
He will claim to himself what is strictly his due,
And an action of trespass will straightway ensue,
That you without right on his premises tread,
On a simple surmise that the owner is dead.

ON

BISHOP ATTERBURY'S

BURYING THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM,

1720

'I HAVE no hopes,' the Duke he says, and dies; In sure and certain hopes,' the Prelate cries: Of these two learned peers, I pr'ythee, say, man, Who is the lying knave, the Priest or Layman? The Duke he stands an infidel confess'd; 'He's our dear brother,' quoth the lordly priest: The Duke, though knave, still Brother dear,' he

cries;

And who can say, the Reverend Prelate lies?

THE PEDANT.

LYSANDER talks extremely well;
On any subject let him dwell,

His tropes and figures will content ye:
He should possess to all degrees
The art of talk; he practises

Full fourteen hours in four-and-twenty.

THE REMEDY

WORSE THAN THE DISEASE.

I SENT for Ratcliffe, was so ill
That other doctors gave me over;
He felt my pulse, prescribed his pill,
And I was likely to recover.

But when the wit began to wheeze,
And wine had warm'd the politician,
Cured yesterday of my disease,
I died last night of my physician.

CAUTIOUS ALICE.

So good a wife doth Lissy make,
That from all company she flieth;
Such virtuous courses doth she take,
That she all evil tongues defieth;
And, for her dearest spouse's sake,
She with his brethren only lieth.