Where-e'er thou art, or in whatever form,
Magnificent in silver, or in brass,
Or wire mi re humble, nightly may'i thou lie
Safe on thy cushion'd bed, or kiss the locks
Of Chloe, sleeping on the pillow's down.

A PRESENT TO A YOUNG LADY.

WITH A PAIR OF STOCKINGS.

T°

O please the Fair, what different ways

Each lover acts his part; One tender snuff, another praise,

A toothpick, or a heart !

Alike they all, to gain their end,

Peculiar arts disclose ;
While I, fubmiffive, only send

An humble pair of hose.

Long may they guard, from cold and harm,

The snowy limbs that wear 'em, And kindly lend their influence warm

To ev'ry thing that's near 'em.

But let it not be faulty deem'd,

Nor move your indignation, If I a little partial feem'd

In gifts or commendation :

Each

Each fair perfection to display
Would far exceed my charter,
My humble Mufe must never ftray

Above the knee or garter.

And who did e'er a subject view
So worthy to be prais'd,

Or from fo fair foundation knew
So fine a ftru&ture rais'd?

Thou learned leach, fage Kember, fay,
(In fpite of drugs and plaifters)
You who can talk the live-long day
Of buildings and pilasters:

You who for hours have rov'd about

Thro' halls and colonades,

And scarce would deign to tread on aught
But arches and arcades:

The fwelling dome, with ftately show,

May many fancies please,

I view content what lies below

The cornice of the frieze;

The lovely twins, so white, so round,

That bear the noble pile,
Must soon proceed from Venus' mound,

Or from Cythera's isle.

Propitious Fates, preserve them fafe,

And keep them close together,
And grant they may the malice brave

Of man as well as weather.

From luckless love, or rancour base,

May never harm attend 'em,
And grant, whatever be the case,

That I may still defend 'em.

By gentle, generous love, 'tis true,

They never can miscarry,
No ill can come, no loss ensue,

From homeft, harmless Harry,

But should a knight of greater heat

Precipitate invade,
Believe me, Bell, they then may need

Some feasonable aid,

O may I ready be at hand

åt
From
every

harm to screen 'em,
Then, Samson-like, I'll take my fand,

And live, or die between 'em.

A DIALOGUE A DIALOGUE BETWEEN A POET

AND HIS SERVANT.

BY THE LATE MR. CHRIST. PITT.

To enter into the beauties of this satire, it must be re

membered, that slaves, among the Romans, during the feasts of Saturn, wore their maiters habits, and were allowed to say what they pleased.

SIR

SERVANT.
IR, - I've long waited in my turn to have

A word with you--but I'm your humble slave.
P. What knave is that? my rascal!

S. Sir, 'tis I, No knave nor rascal, but your trusty Guy.

P. Well, as your wages still are due, I'll bear Your rude impertinence this time of year.

S. Some folks are drunk one day, and fome for ever, And some, like Wharton, but twelve years together. Old Evremond, renown'd for wit and dirt, Would change his living oftener than his shirt; Roar with the rakes of state a month ; and come To ftarve another in his hole at home. So rov'd wild Buckingham the public jeft, Now some innholder's, now a monarch's guest; His life and politics of every shape, This hour a Roman, and the next an ape.

The

The gout in every limb from every vice
Poor Clodio hir'd a boy to throw the dice.
Some wench for ever ; and their fins on those,
By custom, fit as eafy as their cloaths.
Some fly, like pendulums, from good to evil,
And in that point are madder than the devil:
For they

P. To what will these wild maxims tend ?
And where, sweet fir, will your reflections end?

S. In you.

P. In me, you knave! make out your charge.

S. You praise low-living, but you live at large. Perhaps you scarce believe the rules you teach, Or find it hard to practise what you preach. Scarce have you paid one idle journey down, But, without business, you're again in town. If none invite you, sir, abroad to roam, Then-Lord, what pleasure 'tis to read at home; And fip your two half-pints, with great delight, Of beer at noon, and muddled port at night. From * Encombe, John comes thundering at the door, With “ Sir, my master begs you to come o’er, “ To pass these tedious hours, there winter nights, “ Not that he dreads invasions, rogues, or sprites,”? Strait for your two best wigs aloud you call, This stiff in buckle, that not curld at all, “ And where, you rascal, are the spurs,” you cry ; 56 And O! what blockhead laid the busins by ?”

* The seat of Jolin Pitt, Esq;

in Dorsetshire.

On