Whofe nauseous like Tony's tap does run:
Unpity'd fool, that can't her ulcer fhun!
Tho' like a Hackney jade, just tir'd before,
And all her little fulfome stock run o're ;
Tho' faces are distorted with meer pain,
So that wry mouth ne'er fince came right again :
Yet ten times more fhe'd bear for flavish gain.
Impudent Sarah thinks fhe's prais'd by all,
Miftaken drab, back to thy mother's ftall;
And there fell favin, which thou'dft prove fo well,
'Tis a rare thing, that belly cannot fwell:
Thou art as lewd, and as debauch'd as hell.
Fam'd Butler's wiles are now fo common grown,
That by each feather'd cally fhe is known:
So that at last, to fave her tott'ring fame,
At mufic club fhe ftrives to get a name;
But money is the fyren's chiefest aim.

At treats, her fqueamish ftomach cannot bear,
What amorous fpark provides with coft and care;
But, if she's hungry, faith I must be free,
She'll for a meal fhew her commodity.

What is 't, a pox, makes Petty feem to be
Of fo demure pretended modefty?
When 'tis apparent she'll in private prove,
As impudent as any punk of love?

Strangers the fears; fo cares not much to roam,
While she can have a fharer's pr- - - at home.
Currer, 'tis time thou wert to Ireland gone,
Thy utmost rate is here but half a crown:
Afk T if thou art not fulfome grown?
Sue P fo long has known the stage,
She grows in lewdness fafter than in age;
From eight or nine fhe there has jilting been,
So call that nature, which is truly fin.
Her Coffee father too's fo bafely poor,
And fuch a hireling, that he'll hold the door,
Be pimp himself, that she may play the whore.
Önce Twyford had fome modefty; but fhe,
Her husband being close in cuftody,
Wou'd be unkind to let him famish there:
So fins for guineas, to provide him fare.

G 2

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But

But Ofborn moves in a religious strain,
She'll jilt and pray, and pray and jilt again;
Sure now her jilting praying days are o're,
Who'd have an ugly, old, yet zealous whore.
Then Norris, and her daughter, pleasant are,
One's very young, the other defperate fair :
A very equal, well-proportion'd pair.
The girl's of ufe, faith, as the matter goes,
She plays the whore to get her father cloaths.
I've pleas'd my felf: now, criticks, do your worst,
And he that fears your malice may be curfs'd.

W

A Satire on the POETS.

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RETCH! whofoe'er thou art that long'ft for praise, That courts a Mufe, and itches after bays: Be well advis'd before it be too late,

Or from my mouth prepare to hear thy fate.

Hard by the fair Augufta's walls there stood
Of yore an aged cittadel of wood,

Which long th' attacks of pelting boys had bore,
And prentice, ftorming for fuburbian whore,
Scene of lewd nymphs, and of polluted ftrains,
Where now a lordly* pile, fo fate ordains,
Stands, and furveys around the humble plains.
Goodly and great; provided as a fence
'Gainft all the batt'ries of thought or fenfe.
There witty raving wretches howl and cry,
And with their woes divert the standers by :
Sylvia in ftraw on her Alexis calls,

And paints love's charcoal emblems on the walls;
The dark inhabitants ne'er fee the day.
But the wild motion of the moon obey.

There, in a den, remov'd from human eyes,
Poffefs'd with muse, a brain-fick poet lies,
Too miferably wretched to be nam'd,
For plays, for heroes, and for paffion fam'd:
Thoughtless he raves his fleepless hours away,
In chains all night, and darkness all the day.
And if he gets fome intervals from pain,
The fit returns, he foams, and bites the chain,
His eye-balls roll, and he grows mad again.
*Bedlam.

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The

The application's fair: be wife in time,
Avoid the youthful appetite of rhyme;
Beware, and be before-hand with your fate :
Once in the gin, repentance comes too late.
Your jilting mufe is like your praclis'd whore,
Cheats, wheedles on, and keeps her cully poor:
In vain you struggle from the charm to part,
In vain you ftrive to difengage your heart.
So fpark abus'd by mistress, rag'd and swore,
And vow'd he never wou'd fee Olinda more:
But, the fit over, to her arms he flies,

Doats, rages, fwears, loves, languishes, and dies,
And courts new ruin from her lightning eyes.
Soldiers and wits the fame hard fate has damn'd;
Both toil for conqneft in a fairy land:
Yet, tho' alike, all labour in the chace.
One has the laureat's, one the general's place.
What volunteer that ever trail'd a pen
Of all the adventurers, fince mighty Ben,
Has ever found in these our starving days,
For all his golden hours, but paultry bays;
An hungry moiety of ftinted praife?
Elfe why fhould Manly that reform'd the age,
And firft fhow'd wit and nature on the stage,
Immur'd in prifon, under durance fit,
After fuch deathlefs monuments of wit ?
Tate I cou'd pity, and his wretched life,
Chain'd to a mufe, and wedded to a wife:
Wrack'd by his wants, to farce and drolls obfcene;
And from a poet, turn'd an Harlequin.

But Settle, that incorrigible owl,

That compofition of a knave and fool,

Whipt by his needs, 'gainft wit and fenfe to write,
Forc'd to turn honeft in his own despite.

Let him to atone his bold prefumptuous crime,
Like Bridewell criminals, each day beat rhyme:
And may his portion and allowance be
Juft what he earns from wit and poetry;
'Till maceration lets the booby find,
Such fat fed clowns were ne'er for wit defign'd.
Mac Fleckno, for the mirth of mankind fram'd,
For magick bromfticks, and for witches fam'd,

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In vain to ftrive by poetry effay'd;

His mufe and wife e'en fpoil'd the poets trade:
Yet he jogs on in measure hard and rude;
A wretched rhimer, pennylefs and lewd.
Durfey that rhimes as fquirrel jingles bells,
For fonnets fam'd as far as Epsom wells;
That prates and talks for almonds like a parrot
Sings roundelays and ftanza's in a garret ;
If he does fometimes keep his carnaval,
To make their Graces merry at Newhall
All after that is Lent, and penury:

Even Jofeph Hindmarfb now has laid him by,
And vows he ne'er will trade in's poetry.
Thus hopeless pence from epick bays to drain,
Jockey and Moggy makes him eat again.

Rymer the great, of wit and parts profound,
With everlasting laurels be he crown'd;
To: hom foft Ovid's facred fhade's indebted,
And thanks him for an elegy tranflated:
Matchlefs his ftile, and worthy of a crown,
Where headlong booby torrents blunder down;
But where, Pen weaves 'till her poor fingers ake,
Bless me, ye nine! my wonder who can speak?
I read and kifs, and turn it o'er again,
And blefs the beauteous offspring of thy brain.
Go on, bright bard, and teach thy happy lyre
A ftrain which after-ages may admire:
Fleckno, and thou his colleague in the war,
The ftates against the realm of sense declare :
Like kings of Brentford hand in hand shall fit,
The target thou, and he the flail of wit.
Marcellus thus the fword of Rome did wield,
Whilft his wife fellow-conful held the field.
Aftrea, with her foft gay fighing fwains,
And rural virgins on the flow'ry plains,
The lavish peers profufenefs may reprove,
Who gave her guineas for the ifle of love,
Glump Ravenscroft, and tedious Johnny Crown,
Who by court masks, and novels reap renown;
And Bank's for bays that left the lawyers gown:
I leave to Crambo, dulness and tranflation,
To view more modern follies of the nation.

Pert

Pert dull French drolls, th' Italian Petroline,
Andrews of English growth, we oft have feen;
But who wou'd e'er expect to fee or hear,
From a grave bard above his fifti'th year;
Morocco Zambra's on our theatre ?

If he goes on, as Heaven avert our fears,
Down goes the amphitheatre of bears;
Our English mettle will be out of doors,
And fport fucceed, and paftime of the Moors:
Bull feafts, instead of bears, and broken fkulls;
And fierce Almanzor's launcing of the bulls.

Thus have I fung, in measure rough, and broken,
What in plain profe, much better might be spoken;
And show'd the vanity of most that write,
From the dull fifth rate, to your first rate, wit:
Even my own dearest self I do not spare,
But my own folly by my rhimes declare;
To bid the brethren of the quill beware.

So Newgate criminal, with heavy heart,
Lugg'd to long home in penfive Holborn cart ;
Sings pfalms of grace, e'er halter close his eyes,
And warns his comrades to repent, then dies.

The prefent State of Matrimony.

F all the fots with which the nation's curfs'd,
The matrimonial ideot is the worst,
Our ruin oft may from ambition flow,
That's fome pretence; but all he has to fhow,
He is a flave, because he will be fo.

From whence we gather this undoubted rule,
A husband's next relation to a fool;
Which being a truth that none can difallow,
What can we think of our unthinking How,
Who rafhly wafted all the sweets of life,
Tobe th' unpity'd object of a wife?

A wife, under whofe yoke he's doom'd to bear,
That arbitrary fway he us'd to fear.
Juftly fhe does the injur'd ladies right,
Unjustly perfecuted by his fpight,

When his chief bus'nefs was to rail and write:

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