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All the plum'd beau monde round her gathers;
Lord! what a brustling up of feathers!
Morning from noon there was no knowing,
There was such flutt'ering, chuckling, crowing:
Each forward bird must thrust his head in,
And not a cock but would be treading.
Yet tender was this hen so fair,
And hatch'd more chicks than she could rear.
Our prudent dame bethought her then
Of some dry nurse to save her hen:
She made a capon drunk; in fine
He eats the sops, she sipp'd the wine;
His rump well pluck'd with nettles stings,
And claps the brood beneath his wings.
The feather'd dupe awakes content,
O'erjoy'd to see what God had sent;
Think's he's the hen, clocks, keeps a pother,
A foolish foster father-mother.
Such, lady Mary, are your tricks;
But since you hatch, pray own your chicks.
THE ELEPHANT; OR, THE PARLIAMENT
WRITTEN MANY YEARS SINCE.
TAKEN FROM COKE'S INSTITUTES.
The precepts of lord Coke peruse:
Observe an Elephant, says he,
And let like him your member be:
First, take a man that's free from gall;
For elephants have none at all:
In flocks or parties he must keep;
For elephants live just like sheep:
Stubborn in honour he must be;
For elephants ne'er bend the knee:
Last, let his memory be sound,
In which your elephant's profound;
That old examples from the wise
May prompt him in his Noes and Ies.
Thus the lord Coke hath gravely writ,
In all the form of lawyers wit;
And then with Latin, and all that,
Shows the comparison is pat.
Yet in some points my lord is wrong: One's teeth are sold, and t'other's tongue: Now men of parliament, God knows, Are more like elephants of shows, Whose docile memory and sense Are turn'd to trick, to gather pence. To get their master half a crown, They spread their flag, or lay it down: Those who bore bulwarks on their backs, And guarded nations from attacks, Now practise every pliant gesture, Opening their trunk for every tester. Siam, for elephants so fam'd, Is not with England to be nam'd: Their elephants by men are sold; Ours sell themselves, and take the gold.
TO BE PREFIXED BEFORE BERNARD LINTOT'S
NEW MISCELLANY *.
SOME Colinæus + praise, some Bleau †
Others account them but so so;
Some Plantin to the rest prefer,
And some esteem old Elzevir † ;
Others with Aldus † would besot us;
I, for my part, admire Lintottus.-
His character's beyond compare,
Like his own person, large and fair.
They print their names in letters small,
But LINTOT stands in capital:
Author and he with equal grace
Appear, and stare you in the face.
Stephens prints heathen Greek, 'tis said,
Which some can't construe, some can't read;
But all that comes from Lintot's hand
Ev'n Rawlinson might understand.
Oft in an Aldus or a Plantin,
A page is blotted, or leaf wanting:
Of Lintot's books this can't be said,
All fair, and not so much as read.
Their copy cost 'em not a penny
To Homer, Virgil, or to any;
They ne'er gave sixpence for two lines
To them, their heirs, or their assigns:
*The Oxford and Cambridge Miscellany. H.
+ Printers, famous for having published fine editions of the Bible, and of the Greek and Roman classicks. H.
But Lintot is at vast expense,
And pays prodigious dear for-sense.
Their books are useful but to few,
A scholar, or a wit or two:
Lintot's for gen'ral use are fit;
For some folks read, but all folks sh-.
TO MR. JOHN MORE,
AUTHOR OF THE CELEBRATED WORM-POWDER.
How much, egregious MORE, are we
Deceiv'd by shows and forms!
Whate'er we think, whate'er we see,
All human kind are worms.
Man is a very worm by birth,
Vile, reptile, weak, and vain!
A while he crawls upon the earth,
Then shrinks to earth again.
That Woman is a worm, we find,
E'er since our Grandame's evil;
She first convers'd with her own kind,
That ancient worm, the Devil.
The learn'd themselves we bookworms name,
The blockhead is a slow-worm;
The nymph, whose tail is all on flame,
Is aptly term'd a glow-worm.
The fops are painted butterflies,
That flutter for a day;
First from a worm they take their rise,
And in a worm decay.
The flatterer an earwig grows;
Thus worms suit all conditions;
Misers are muck worms, silk-worms beaus,
And death-watches physicians.
That statesmen have the worm, is seen
By all their winding play;
Their conscience is a worm within,
That gnaws them night and day.
Ah MORE! thy skill were well employ'd,
And greater gain would rise,
If thou couldst make the courtier void
The worm that never dies!
O learned friend of Abchurch lane*,
Who sett'st our entrails free!
Vain is thy art, thy powder vain,
Since worms shall eat ev'n thee!
Our fate thou only caust adjourn
Some few short years, no more!
Ev'n Button's † wits to worms shall turn,
Who maggots were before.
Mr. John More was an advertising apothecary in Abchurchlane. N.
+ Button's coffeehouse, in Covent-garden, frequented by the wits of that time. H.