Go! live, for heav'n's eternal
is thine; Go! and exalt thy moral to divine.
And thou, bleft maid, attendant on his doom,
Penfive haft follow'd to the filent tomb;
Took the fame courfe to the fame quiet fhore,
Not parted long, and now to part no more.
Go then, where only blifs fincere is known!
Go, where to love, and to enjoy, are one!
Yet take these tears, mortality's relief;
And till we fhare joys, forgive our grief;
These little rites, a stone and verfe, receive,
"Tis alb a father, all a friend can give,
Grubftreet Journal, No 27,7 In Imitation of the XIX IDYLLIUM of THEOCRITUS.
UPID once having robb'd an hive,
He lik'd the trade, and hop'd to thrive :
At length the filching knave was ftung;
Mad with the pain, he ftamp'd, he flung;
His clammy fingers oft he blew,
And to his mother ftreight he flew.
Mamma, he cries, this curfed bee,
How it has wounded me, you fee.
How big the fwelling, yet the fting
Was but a little tiny thing.
Quoth VENUS, precious fon of mine,
Just fuch a tiny thing is thine;
yet how much 'twill make 'em fwell, After ftol'n fweets, the girls can tell.
Grubftreet Journal, N° 28.
An EPIGRAM on the celebrated PRINT infcribed to Sir R --- W -
HREE frenchmen, grateful in their way,
Sir R's glory would difplay;
Studious, by fifter--arts, t'advance
The honour of a friend of FRANCE;
They confecrate to W..
's fame,
Picture and verfe, and anagram.
With mottos quaint the print the drofs,
With fnakes, with recks, with godeffes,
The lines beneath the fubject fit,
As well for quantities, as wit.
Thy glory, W--
----) thus enroll'd,
É'en foes delighted may behold.
For ever facred be to thee,
Such fculpture, and fuch poetry,
For nothing but thy name can raise
Such panegyrick into praise.
Then what great difference can there be,
Since all fink into eternity?
No gaping there when places fall,
Where room is a reward for all.
Grubftreet Journal, No 30.
On JOHN SHORT, Porter at the General
ONEST JOHN SHORT at length is gone,
Worn out with age at ninety-one;
Whereas three went off just before,
Whofe years together made no more,
They quickly dropp'd, who feem'd fo strong,
In fhort he's dead, who liv'd fo long:
Old fhoes ftring'd, who buried thrice
The poft-house clerks, that went more nice.
They liv'd too faft for JOHN their friend;
But pofted fooner to their end.
JOHN liv'd and flow to laft,
Who go far muft not go fast.
His duty was to watch and wait;
And take charge rightly of the gate;
And threefcore years held this hard poft,
Tho' lately he fome ground had loft.
Death watch'd and found him from the door;
As he, fo death, could wait no more.
NOW SHORT at last to reft is gone,
Old Nick may keep the gate for JoNH.
Thus the most anxious care and toil
I'th' fhort and long lasts but a while.
O banish far an ENGLISH bifhop hence,
Himself defcends to evidence;
Who against CHARTERS fwear, he highly blames,
And knighthood's fhield protects the fquire of dames,
Say where is most his matchless virtue seen!
As then th' informer, or as now the screen!
Full happily the man mistook,
Unknowing of thy fame,,
Who, 'ere thou d'ft botch'd or patch'd a Book,
Mifcall'd thee by this name.
But if this name still gives offence,
And quack thoud'ft rather hear,
A/nothing fhews a man of fenfe,
Like knowing his own fphere;
Confine thy felf to licence giv'n,
Nor dare beyond thy trade,
Tho' thou art free to kill the living
Yet, prithee fpare the DEAD.
Grubftreet Journal, No 34.
An EPIGRAM.
THREE poets (grave divines) in ENGLAND born,
The princa' entry did with verfe adorn,
The firft in lowlinefs of thought furpass'd,
The next in bombaft; and in both the laft.
Dulness no more cou'd for her laureat do,
To perfect him, the join'd the former two.
Grubftreet Journal, No 37.
A SESSION of the CAMBRIDGE CRITIC K S.
The pedantic,dull spawn of aBILLINGSGATE whore, Was lately by MOMUS deputed to fettle,
Who fhould wear the long-fcolded-for chaplet of nettle.
Down he flew to TRIN. COLL. and the library fought,
To be near his own B--- was ever his thought;
With a fnarl of difdain left the chappel behind him,
For that was a place where he ne'er hop'd to find him.
III.
With his chaps full of worm-wood he mounted his throne
Of worm-eaten parchments, illegible grown ;
A tough crab-tree cudgel for a scepter he waves,
And halloos, heus, horfum, adeste ye slaves.
firft was expected, but did not appear, For h'ad order'd his delagate FROG to declare,
That, to work up dean H---, was his prefent employ,
And he vow'd he'd ne'er mix with the scrub.
From his garret, where long he had rufted, came down
TOBY T--BY cock-fure that the prize was his own;
Crying, zoons where's this B ? i'll give him no quarter,
And held up the preface of his fam'd JUSTIN MARTYR..
VI.
His deciples came next. CALEB fcar'd at the fight,
As he thought of TOM I--R-- -м ran away in a fright;
An embryo CLAUDIAN was T- -'s pretence,
Which alas! prov'd abortive for want of the pence..
The cenfor view'd TOBY with a smile of applause,
And was almost inclin'd to have granted his cause;
But bad him retire to his fnarling vocation,
He'd infure him the nettle for the next dedication.
But as for friend I--R-- M, he only was fit
To coax his præceptor, and cry up his wit;
And fince CALEB to publifh was not very forward,
Let him drink his subscription with R--T and H- - D.
With his guts and his rufticks, roll'd in JERRY N-- D-M, And wav'd for the prize, but the judge would not heed him; With dry thinking old FUMBLER ne'er puzzle thy brains, Go fpunge with the ninnies of BENNET and QUEEN'S...
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