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Triumphant star! some pity show
On cobblers militant below,
Whom roguish boys, in stormy nights,
Torment by pissing out their lights,
Or through a chink convey their smoke,
Enclos'd artificers to choke.

Thou, high exalted in thy sphere,
Mayst follow still thy calling there.
To thee the Bull will lend his hide,
By Phæbus newly tann'd and dry'd:
For thee they Argo's hulk will tax,
And scrape her pitchy sides for wax:
Then Ariadne kindly lends
Her braided hair to make thee ends;
The points of Sagittarius' dart
Turns to an awl by heavenly art;
And Vulcan, wheedled by his wife,
Will forge for thee, a paring-knife.
For want of room by Virgo's side,
She'll strain a point, and sit * astride,
To take thee kindly in between ;
And then the Signs will be Thirteen.


HERE, five feet deep, lies on his back
A cobbler, starinonger, and quack;
Who to the stars, in pure good will,
Does to his best look upward still.
Weep, all you customers that use
His pills, his almanacks, or shoes:

* 66 Tibi brachia contrahit ingens

Scorpius," &c.

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And you that did your fortunes seek,
Step to his grave but once a-week;
This earth, which bears his body's print,
You'll find has so much virtue in't,
That I durst pawn my ears, 'twill tell,
Whate'er concerns you full as well,
In physic, stolen goods, or love,
As he himself could, when above.


Seven and ten, addyd to nine,
Of Fraunce her woe this is the sygne,
Tamys rivere twys y-frozen,
Walke sans wetyng shoes ne hozen.
Then comyth foorthe, ich understonde,
From towne of stoffe to fattyn londe,
An hardie chyftan,* woe the morne,
To Fraunce that evere he was born.
Then shall the fyshe † beweyle his bosse :
Nor shall grin berrys I make up

the losse.
Yonge Symnele || shall again miscarye:
And Norway's pryd & again shall marrye.
And from the tree where blosums feele,
Ripe fruit shall come, and all is wele.

* Duke of Marlborough.-H. + The Dauphin.-H.
I Duke of Berry.-H. || The young Pretender.--H.
@ Queen Anne.-H.

Reaums shall daunce honde in honde, *
And it shall be merrye in olde Inglonde,
Then old Inglonde shall be no more,
And no man shall be sorie therefore.
Geryont shall have three hedes agayne,
Till Hapsburge I makyth them but twayne.




Now hardly here and there a hackney-coach
Appearing, show'd the ruddy morn's approach.
Now Betty from her master's bed had flown,
And softly stole to discompose her own;
The slip-shod 'prentice from his master's door
Had par'd the dirt, and sprinkled round the floor.
Now Moll had whirl'd her mop with dextrous airs,
Prepar'd to scrub the entry and the stairs.
The youth with broomy stumps began to trace
The kennel's edge, where wheels had worn the

place. S

* By the Union.-H.
+ A king of Spain, slain by Hercules.-H.

The Archduke Charles was of the Hapsburg family.-H.
To find old nails.-FAULKNER.

The small-coal man was heard with cadence deep,
Till drown'd in shriller notes of chimney-sweep ::
Duns at his lordship’s gate began to meet ;
And brickdust Moll had scream'd through half the

The turnkey now his flock returning sees,
Duly let out a-nights to steal for fees :
The watchful bailiffs take their silent stands,
And schoolboys lag with satchels in their hands.





CAREFUL observers may foretel the hour,
(By sure prognostics) when to dread a shower.
While rain depends, the pensive cat gives o'er
Her frolics, and pursues her tail no more.
Returning home at night, you'll find the sink

offended sense with double stink.
If you be wise then go not far to dine:
You'll spend in coach-hire more than save in wine.
A coming shower your shooting corns presage,
Old aches will throb, your hollow tooth will rage;
Sauntering in coffeehouse is Dulman seen;
He damns the climate, and complains of spleen.
Meanwhile the South, rising with dabbled wings,
A sable cloud athwart the welkin flings,
That swill’d more liquor than it could contain,
And, like a drunkard, gives it up again.

Brisk Susan whips her linen from the rope,
While the first drizzling shower is borne aslope :
Such is that sprinkling which some careless quean
Flirts on you from her mop, but not so clean :
You fly, invoke the gods; then, turning, stop
To rail; she, singing, still whirls on her mop.
Not yet the dust had shunn'd th' unequal strife,
But, aided by the wind, fought still for life,
And wafted with its foe by violent gust,
'Twas doubtful which was rain, and which was dust.
Ah! where must needy poet seek for aid,
When dust and rain at once his coat invade?
+ Sole coat! where dust, cemented by the rain,
Erects f the nap, and leaves a cloudy stain !
Now in contiguous drops the flood comes down,
Threatening with deluge this devoted town.
To shops in crowds the daggled females fly,
Pretend to cheapen goods, but nothing buy.
The Templar spruce, while every spout's abroach,
Stays till 'tis fair, yet seems to call a coach.
The tuck’d-up sempstress walks with hasty strides,
While streams run down her oil'd umbrella's sides.
Here various kinds, by various fortunes led,
Commence acquaintance underneath a shed.
Triumphant Tories, and desponding Whigs, I
Forget their feuds, and join to save their wigs.

* 66 'Twas doubtful which was sea and which was sky."

GARTH's Dispensary. + Originally thus, but altered when Pope published the 66 Miscellanies :"

“ His only coat, where dust confus'd with rain,

Roughens the nap, and leaves a mingled stain." # Written in the first year of the Earl of Oxford's ministry.

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