I THE LOW NGE R. Rife about Nine, get to Breakfast by ten, Blow a Tune on my Flute, or perhaps make a Pen; Read Play 'till eleven, or cock my lac'd Hat; Then step to my Neighbour's, till Dinner, to chat. Dinner over, to Tom's, or to James's I go, The News of the Town fo impatient to know; While Law, Locke, and Newton, and all the rum Race, That talk of their Modes, their Ellipfes, and Space, The Seat of the Soul, and new Systems on high, In Holes, as abftrufe as their Myfteries, lye. From From the Coffee-houfe then I to Tennis away, Where in Punch or good Claret my Sorrows I drown, EPIGRAM, written by an ExCISEMAN. And addreffed to a Young Lady, who was courted at the fame Time by an APOTHECARY. WHAT though the Doctor boasts to fit WHAT Are not my Inches every whit ON ΑΝ When Tutor to Lord MIDDLESEX. In Imitation of HORACE, Book i. Epift. 18. PENCE, with a Friend you pafs the Hours away SPEN In pointed Jokes, yet innocently gay: You ever differ'd from a Flatterer more, Than a chafte Lady from a flaunting Whore. "Tis 'Tis true you rallied every Fault you found, But gently tickled, while you cur'd the Wound: Unlike the paultry Poets of the Town, Rogues who expofe themselves for half a Crown; Who, tho' half-ftarv'd, in spite of Time and Place, They think of course a Sloven is a Wit: One Step, ftill lower, if you condefcend, To the mean Wretch, the great Man's humble Friend; Like a prefs'd Watch, repeats what t'other spoke : On Trifles fome are earnestly abfurd, You'll think the World depends on ev'ry Word.-- What What, is not ev'ry Mortal free to speak? The Wretch reduc'd to Rags by ev'ry Vice, 'Tis ftrange, cries Peter, you are out of Pelf, I can advance the Sum, --- 'tis best for both, - A Minifter, in mere Revenge and Sport, There |