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,
And at five I poft back to my College to pray :
I fup before eight, and secure from all Duns,
Undauntedly march to the Mitre, or Tuns;

Where in Punch or good Claret my Sorrows I drown,
And tofs off a Bowl, to the best in the Town:
At one in the Morning, I call what's to pay,
Then Home to my College I ftagger away,
Thus I tope all the Night, as I trifle all Day.

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
Your Mortar to his Peftle;

Are not my Inches every whit
As good to gage your Vessel?

ON

ΑΝ
EPISTLE to Mr. SPENCE,

When Tutor to Lord MIDDLESEX.

In Imitation of HORACE, Book i. Epift. 18.
By the late Mr. CHRISTOPHER PITT.

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;
And ftill impofe on ev'ry Soul they meet
Rudeness for Senfe, and Ribaldry for Wit:

Who, tho' half-ftarv'd, in spite of Time and Place,
Repeat their Rhymes, tho' Dinner ftays for Grace:
And as their Poverty their Dreffes fit,

They think of course a Sloven is a Wit:
But Senfe (a Truth these Coxcombs ne'er fufpect,)
Lies just 'twixt Affectation and Neglect.

One Step, ftill lower, if you condefcend,

To the mean Wretch, the great Man's humble Friend;
That moving Shade, that Pendant at his Ear,
That two-legg'd Dog, ftill pawing on the Peer.
Studying his Looks, and watching at the Board,
He gapes to catch the Droppings of my Lord;
And tickled to the Soul at ev'ry Joke,

Like a prefs'd Watch, repeats what t'other spoke :
Echo to Nonfenfe! fuch a Scene to hear!
'Tis just like Punch and his Interpreter.

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?
I'll give my Reasons, tho' I break my Neck---
And what's the Question? --- if it shines or rains,
Whether 'tis twelve or fifteen Miles to Staines.

The Wretch reduc'd to Rags by ev'ry Vice,
Pride, Projects, Races, Miftreffes and Dice,
The rich Rogue fhuns, tho' full as bad as he,
And knows a Quarrel is good Husbandry.

'Tis ftrange, cries Peter, you are out of Pelf,
I'm fure I thought you wifer than myself;
Yet gives him nothing --- but Advice too late,
Retrench, or rather mortgage your Estate,

I can advance the Sum, --- 'tis best for both, -
But henceforth cut your Coat to match your Cloth.

A Minifter, in mere Revenge and Sport,
Shall give his Foe a paultry Place at Court.
The Dupe for ev'ry royal Birth-day buys
New Horfes, Coaches, Cloaths, and Liveries;
Plies at the Levee, and diftinguifh'd there
Lives on the Royal Whisper for a Year;
His Wenches fhine in Bruffels and Brocade ;
And now the Wretch, ridiculously mad,
Draws on his Banker, mortgages and fails,
Then to the Country runs away from Jails:

There