EPIGRAMS. A MEMBER of the modern great The tinker forced to trudge it. And the' other's shoes are paid for. To Wasteall, whose eyes were just closing in death, Doll counted the chalks on the door; [breath, In peace (cried the wretch) let me give up my And Fate will soon rub out my score.' Come, bailiffs (cries Doll), (how I'll hamper this Let the law be no longer delay'd, [cheat!) I never once heard of that fellow call'd Fate, And, by God, he shan't die till I'm paid.' APOLLO-TO MR. C F————, ON HIS BEING SATIRIZED BY AN IGNORANT PERSON. WHETHER he's worth your spleen or not, I wish my friend a nobler lot Than that of trampling vermin. As you've some common sense to spare, P ON MR. CHURCHILL'S DEATH. SAYS Tom to Richard, Churchill's dead:' Says Richard, Tom, you lie ; 6 Old Rancour the report hath spread, Postscript. WOULD honest Tom G- -d get rid of a scold, The torture, the plague of his life! Pray tell him to take down his lion of gold, COULD Kate for Dick compose the gordian string, Is bound in duty to exalt her spouse. ON SEEING J. C. C-FT, ESQ. ABUSED IN A NEWSPAPER. WHEN a wretch to public notice, Busy, pert, unmeaning parrot! Should for hunger hang or drown: IMITATIONS. ANACREON. ODE V. SHED roses in the sprightly juice, Bring us more sweets ere these expire, ANACREON. ODE IX. TELL me (said I), my beauteous dove (If an ambassadress from love), Tell me, on what soft errand sent, Ambrosial sweets thy pinions shed As in the quivering breeze they spread!' A message (says the bird) I bear From fond Anacreon to the fair; A virgin of celestial grace! The Venus of the human race! 6 Me, for a hymn or amorous ode, The Paphian Venus once bestow'd Through the soft air he bade me glide (See, to my wing his billet's tied), And told me 'twas his kind decree, When I return'd, to set me free. 6 "Twould prove me but a simple bird, To take Anacreon at his word: Why should I hide me in the wood, Or search for my precarious food, When I've my master's leave to stand Cooing upon his friendly hand; When I can be profusely fed With crumbs of his ambrosial bread, And, welcomed to his nectar bowl, Sip the rich drops that fire the soul; Till in fantastic rounds I spread My fluttering pinions o'er his head: Or if he strike the trembling wire, ANACREON. ODE XIV. WHY did I with Love engage! Now I'm in my armour clasp'd, |