THE FLIES.

SAY, sire of insects, mighty Sol,
(A Fly upon the chariot pole
Cries out) what Blue-bottle alive
Did ever with such fury drive?
Tell Belzebub, great father, tell,
(Says t'other, perch'd upon the wheel)
Did ever any mortal Fly

Raise such a cloud of dust as I?

My judgment turn'd the whole debate:
My valour sav'd the sinking state.
So talk two idle buzzing things;

Toss up their heads, and stretch their wings.
But let the truth to light be brought:
This neither spoke, nor t'other fought:
No merit in their own behaviour:
Both rais'd, but by their party's favour.

A PARAPHRASE FROM THE FRENCH.

IN grey-hair'd Celia's wither'd arms

As mighty Lewis lay,

She cried, "If I have any charms,
My dearest, let's away!

For you, my love, is all my fear,
Hark how the drums do rattle;
Alas, sir! what should you do here
In dreadful day of battle?
Let little Orange stay and fight,
For danger's his diversion;

The wise will think you in the right,

Not to expose your person: Nor vex your thoughts how to repair The ruins of your glory;

You ought to leave so mean a care
To those who pen your story.
Are not Boileau and Corneille paid
For panegyric writing?

They know how heroes may be made
Without the help of fighting.
When foes too saucily approach,

'Tis best to leave them fairly; Put six good horses in your coach, And carry me to Marly.

Let Boufleurs, to secure your fame, Go take some town, or buy it; Whilst you, great sir, at Nostredame, Te Deum sing in quiet!"

FROM THE GREEK.

GREAT Bacchus, born in thunder and in fire,
By native heat asserts his dreadful sire.
Nourish'd near shady rills and cooling streams,
He to the nymphs avows his amorous flames.
To all the brethren at the Bell and Vine,
The moral says; mix water with your wine.

EPIGRAM.

FRANK carves very ill, yet will palm all the meats: He eats more than six; and drinks more than he

eats.

Four pipes after dinner he constantly smokes; And seasons his whiffs with impertinent jokes. Yet sighing, he says, we must certainly break; And my cruel unkindness compels him to speak; For of late I invite him-but four times a week.

ANOTHER.

To John I ow'd great obligation ;
But John unhappily thought fit

To publish it to all the nation :

Sure John and I are more than quit.

ANOTHER.

YES, every poet is a fool:

By demonstration Ned can show it :
Happy, could Ned's inverted rule
Prove every fool to be a poet.

ANOTHER.

THY nags, (the leanest things alive)
So very hard thou lov'st to drive;
I heard thy anxious coachman say,
It cost thee more in whips than hay.

TO A PERSON WHO WROTE ILL,
AND SPOKE WORSE AGAINST ME.

LIE, Philo, untouch'd on my peaceable shelf; Nor take it amiss, that so little I heed thee: I've no envy to thee, and some love to myself: Then why should I answer; since first I must read thee?

Drunk with Helicon's waters and double-brew'd

bub,

Be a linguist, a poet, a critic, a wag;

To the solid delight of thy well-judging club, To the damage alone of thy bookseller Brag.

Pursue me with satire: what harm is there in't? But from all viva voce reflection forbear: There can be no danger from what thou shalt print:

There may be a little from what thou may'st swear.

ON THE SAME PERSON.

WHILE, faster than his costive brain indites,
Philo's quick hand in flowing letters writes;
His case appears to me like honest Teague's,
When he was run away with, by his legs.
Phoebus, give Philo o'er himself command;
Quicken his senses, or restrain his hand;
Let him be kept from paper, pen, and ink:
So may he cease to write, and learn to think.

'QUID SIT FUTURUM CRAS FUGE
QUÆRERE."

FOR what to-morrow shall disclose,
May spoil what you to-night propose :
England may change; or Cloe stray:
Love and life are for to-day.