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Dr. Wynter to Dr. Cheyney, on his Books in
favor of a Vegetable Diet.

TELL me from whom, fat-headed Scot,
Thou didst thy system learn:
From Hippocrate thou hadst it not,
Nor Celsus, nor Pitcairn.

Suppose we own that milk is good,
And say the same of grass;
The one for babes is only food,

The other for an ass.

Doctor! one new prescription try;
(A friend's advice forgive)
grass, reduce thyself, and die:
Thy patients then may live.

Eat

My system, doctor, is my own,
No tutor I pretend :
My blunders hurt myself alone,
But yours your dearest friend.

Dr. Cheyney to Dr. Wynter.

To the Lord Chancellor King; alluding to his Were you to milk and straw confin'd,

Motto, "Labor ipse voluptas!"

"Tis not the splendor of the place,
The gilded coach, the purse, the mace,
And all the pompous train of state,
With crowds which at the levee wait,
That make you happy, make you great:
But when mankind you strive to bless,
With all the talents you possess ;
When all the joys you can receive
Flow from the benefits you give;
This takes the heart, this conquers spite,
And makes the heavy burden light.
True pleasure, rightly understood,
Is only labor to do good.

Written in a Lady's Milton. PRIOR. WITH Virtue strong as yours had Eve been arm'd, [charm'd In vain the fruit had blush'd, or serpent Nor had our bliss by penitence been boughtNor had frail Adam fell, nor Milton wrote.

From Greek.

DEMOCRITUS, dear droll! revisit earth,
And with our follies glut thy heighten'd mirth.
Sad Heraclitus, serious wretch! return,
In louder grief our greater crimes to mourn.
Between you both, I unconcern'd stand by:
Hurt, can I laugh? and honest, need I cry?

A Character of an old Rake.

Thrice happy might you be;
Perhaps you might regain your mind,
And from your wit get free.

I can't your kind prescription try,
But heartily forgive,

'Tis natural you should bid me die,
That you yourself may live.

A Smart Repartee. SWIFT.
CRIES Sylvia to a reverend Dean,
What reason can be giv'n,
Since marriage is a holy thing,

That there is none in heav'n?
There are no women, he replied.

She quick returns the jest:
Women there are, but I'm afraid
They cannot find a priest.

On Glover's Leonidas being compared to Virgil.
EQUAL to Virgil! It may, perhaps :
But then, by Jove, 'tis Dr. Trapp's.

On a bad Translation.

For sure I am that murder will come out.
His work now done, he'll publish it no doubt:

To a bad Fiddler.

OLD Orpheus play'd so well, he mov'd Old

Nick;
Whilst thou mov'st nothing but thy fiddle-stick.

a Cock, at Blenheim.

HAD Marlb'rough's troops in Gaul no better

SCORN'D by the wise, detested by the good, On Sir John Vanbrugh's Device of a Lion and Nor understanding aught, nor understood; Profane, obscene, loud, frivolous, and pert; Proud without spirit, vain without desert; Affecting passions vice has long subdued; Desp'rately gay, and impotently lewd; And, as thy weak companions round thee sit, For eminence in folly deem'd a wit.

fought,

Than Van, to grace his fame, in niarble wrought,
No more in arms than he in emblems skill'd,
The cock had drove the lion from the field.

On the Bridge at Blenheim.

THE lofty arch his high ambition shows, The stream an emblem of his bounty flows.

To a Lady. A. HILL.

IF fix'd on yours my eyes in prayers you see, You must not call my zeal idolatry; For since our Maker's throne is placed so high, That only in his works the God we spy, And what's most bright most gives him to our view,

I look most near him when I look on you.

The Antidote.

WHEN Lesbia first I saw, so heavenly fair, With eyes so bright, and with that awful air; I thought my heart, which durst so high aspire, As bold as his who snatch'd celestial fire. But, soon as e'er the beauteous idiot spoke, Forth from her coral lips such folly broke, Like balm the trickling nonsense heal'd my wound,

And what her eyes enthrall'd, her tongue unbound.

The Female Prattler.

FROM morn to night, from day to day,
At all times, and in ev'ry place,
You scold, repeat, and sing, and say,
Nor are there hopes you'll ever cease.
Forbear, my Fannia; O, forbear,

If your own health or ours you prize;
For all mankind that hear you, swear
Your tongue's more killing than your eyes.
Your tongue's a traitor to your face,
Your faine's by your own noise obscur'd :
All are distracted while they gaze,

But, if they listen, they are cur'd. Your silence would acquire more praise Than all you say, or all you write: One look ten thousand charms displays; Then hush! and be an angel quite.

The Avaro.

THUS to the master of a house, Which, like a church, would starve a mouse; Which never guest had entertain'd, Nor meat nor wine its floors had stain'd, I said: "Well, Sir, 'tis vastly neat ; But where d' you drink, and where d' you eat? If one may judge by rooms so fine, It costs you more in mops than wine.

Effectual Malice.

Of all the pens which my poor rhymes molest, Cotin's the sharpest, and succeeds the best; Others outrageous scold, and rail downright With serious rancor, and true Christian spite; But he, more sly, pursues his fell design; Writes scoundrel verses, and then says they're mine.

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Against Life. From the Greek of Posidippus.

WHAT tranquil road, unvex'd by strife,
Can mortals choose through human life?
Attend the courts, attend the bar,
There discord reigns, and endless jar :
At home the weary wretches find
Severe disquietude of mind:
To till the fields gives toil and pain;
Eternal terrors sweep the main :
If rich, we fear to lose our store;
Need and distress await the poor:
Sad cares the bands of Hymen give;
Friendless, forlorn, th' unmarried live:
Are children born, we anxious groan;
Childless, our lack of heirs we moan:
Wild giddy schemes our youth engage;
Weakness and wants depress old age.
Would fate then with my wish comply,
I'd never live, or quickly die.

For Life. From the Greek of Metrodorus. MANKIND may rove, unvex'd by strife, Through ev'ry road of human life. Fair wisdom regulates the bar, And peace concludes the wordy war: At home auspicious mortals find Serene tranquillity of mind: All-beauteous nature decks the plain; And merchants plough for gold the main : Respect arises from our store; Security from being poor: More joys the bands of Hymen give; Th' unmarried with more freedom live: If parents, our blest lot we own; Childless, we have no cause to moan: Firm vigor crowns our youthful stage; And venerable hairs old age. Since all is good, then who would cry, I'd never live, or quickly die?

The Revenge of America. WARTON. WHEN Cortez' furious legions flew O'er ravaged fields of rich Peru, Struck with his bleeding people's woes, Old India's awful Genius rose: He sat on Andes' topmost stone, And heard a thousand nations groan; For grief his feathery crown he tore, To see huge Plato foam with gore; He broke his arrows, stamp'd the ground, To view his cities smoking round.

What woes, he cried, hath lust of gold O'er my poor country widely roll'd! Plund'rers, proceed! my bowels tear : But ye shall meet destruction there. From the deep-vaulted mine shall rise Th' insatiate fiend, pale Avarice; Whose steps shall trembling Justice fly, Peace, Order, Law, and Amity! I see all Europe's children curst With lucre's universal thirst; The rage that sweeps my sons away, My baneful gold shall well repay.

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Approach, but awful!-Lo! the Egerian grot, Where, nobly pensive, St.John sat and thought; Where British sighs from dying Wyndham stole,

And the bright flame was shot thro' Marchmont's soul.

Let such, such only, tread this sacred floor, Who dare to love their country, and be poor.

A prudent Choice.

WHEN Loveless married Lady Jenny, Whose beauty was the ready penny: I chose her, says he, like old plate, Not for the fashion, but the weight.

On a great House adorned with Statues. THE walls are thick, the servants thin; The gods without, the dev'l within.

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* Author of a paper called Pasquin, reflecting on Mr. Pope, &c.

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THY reliques, Rowe! to this sad shrine we trust, [bust. And near thy Shakspeare place thy honour'd

On a Gentleman who expended his Fortune in O! next him, skill'd to draw the tender tear,

Horse-Racing.

JOHN ran so long, and ran so fast,

No wonder he ran out at last;

He ran in debt; and then to pay,

He distanc'd all-and ran away.

On the Collar of a Dog presented by Mr.Pope to the Prince of Wales,

I AM his Highness' dog at Kew; Pray tell me, Sir, whose dog are you?

From the Greek.

A BLOOMING youth lies buried here; Euphemius, to his country dear: Nature adorn'd his mind and face With ev'ry muse and ev'ry grace: Prepar'd the marriage state to prove, But Death had quicker wings than Love.

On Sophocles.

WIND, gentle evergreen, to form a shade Around the tomb where Sophocles is laid: Sweet ivy, wind thy boughs, and intertwine With blushing roses and the clust'ring vine: Thus will thy lasting leaves, with beauties hung,

Prove grateful emblems of the lays he sung: Whose soul, exalted, like a god of wit Among the muses and the graces writ.

On the Countess Dowager of Pembroke.
BEN JONSON.

UNDERNEATH this sable hearse
Lies the subject of all verse,
Sydney's sister, Pembroke's mother:
Death, ere thou hast slain another,
Fair, and wise, and good as she,
Time shall throw his dart at thee.

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Of manners gentle, of affections mild;
In wit a man, simplicity a child;
With native humor temp'ring virtuous rage,
Form'd to delight at once and lash the age:
Above temptation in a low estate,

And uncorrupted e'en among the great:
A safe companion, and an easy friend,
Unblam'd thro' life, lamented in his end.
These are thy honors! not that here thy bust
Is mix'd with heroes, or with kings thy dust;
But that the worthy and the good shall say,
Striking their pensive bosoms-Here lies Gay.

On Tom D'Urfey.

HERE lies the lyric, who with tale and song Did life to threescore years and ten prolong: His tale was pleasant, and his song was sweet; His heart was cheerful-but his thirst was great. Grieve, reader! grieve, that he, too soon grown His song has ended, and his tale has told. [old,

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Inscription on an Urn at Lord Cork's, to the Memory of the Dog Hector.

STRANGER, behold the mighty Hector's tomb!

See! to what end both dogs and heroes come.
These are the honors by his master paid
To Hector's manes and lamented shade:
Nor words nor honors can enough commend
The social dog-nay more, the faithful friend!
From nature all his principles he drew;
By nature faithful, vigilant, and true;
His looks and voice his inward thoughts ex-
press'd;

He growl'd in anger, and in love caress'd.
No human falsehood lurk'd beneath his heart;
Brave without boasting, gen'rous without art.
When Hector's virtues man, proud man, dis-
plays,

Truth shall adorn his tomb with Hector's praise.

On an Old Woman who sold Pots at Chester.

BENEATH this stone lies Cath'rine Gray, Chang'd to a lifeless lump of clay; By earth and clay she got her pelf, Yet now she's turn'd to earth herself. Ye weeping friends, let me advise, Abate your grief, and dry your eyes; For what avails a flood of tears? Who knows but in a run of years, In some tall pitcher, or broad pan, She in her shop may be again?

To the Pie-house Memory of Nell Batchelor, the Oxford Pie-Woman.

HERE, into the dust
The mouldering crust

Of Eleanor Batchelor's shoven;

Well vers'd in the arts

Of pies, custards, and tarts,
And the lucrative skill of the oven.

When she'd liv'd long enough,
She made her last puff-

A puff by her husband much prais'd:
Now here she doth lie,
And makes a dirt-pie,
In hopes that her crust shall be rais'd.

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HERE, Withers, rest! thou bravest, gentlest mind,

Thy country's friend, but more of human kind!
O born to arms! O worth in youth approv'd!
O soft humanity, in age belov'd!

For thee the hardy vet'ran drops a tear,
And the gay courtier feels the sigh sincere.
Withers, adieu! yet not with thee remove
Thy martial spirit, or thy social love!
Amidst corruption, luxury, and rage,
Still leave some ancient virtues to our age:
Nor let us say, those English glories gone,
The last true Briton lies beneath this stone.

On Mr. Craggs. POPE. STATESMAN, yet friend to truth! of soul sincere,

In action faithful, and in honor clear!
Who broke no promise, serv'd no private end;
Who gain'd no title, and who lost no friend!
Ennobled by himself, by all approv'd;
Prais'd, wept, and honour'd, by the muse he
lov'd.

On Sir Isaac Newton. APPROACH, ye wise of soul, with awe divine: [shrine! "Tis Newton's name that consecrates this That sun of knowledge, whose meridian ray Kindled the gloom of nature into day!

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