Chapter XI: Part 11

1221. Dryden’s wife complained to him that he was always reading, and took little notice of her: I wish, said she, that I was a book, and then I should enjoy more of your company. Yes, my dear, replied Dryden, I wish you were a book―but an almanack, I mean, for then I should change you every year.

1222. Two gentlemen having wagered upon the number of characteristic specimens of native brilliancy they should encounter in a rural excursion, one of them thus addressed a stone-breaker on the road:―My good fellow, were the devil to come now, which of us two would he carry away? After a little hesitation, that savoured of unexpected dulness, the man modestly lifting up his eyes from his work, answered, Me, sir. Annoyed by the stolidity of this reply, the querist pressed him for a reason: Because, your honour, he would be glad of the opportunity to catch myself―he could have you at any time.

1223. A gentleman meeting another upon the high road, riding upon an exceedingly lean horse, and with a great stick by his side, asked the reason why he was so armed: he replied, That it was to defend his person and keep off false knaves. But, sir, said he, in my mind you had better have ridden with a gun. Why so? said the horseman. To keep away the crows, who are waiting to prey upon the carrion you are riding upon.

1224. When Brummell retired to France, he was altogether ignorant of French, and obtained a grammar for the purpose of study. Scrope Davies being asked what progress he had made, replied, That Brummell had been stopped like Bonaparte in Russia, by the elements.

1225. A thatcher being at work upon a cold Christmas Eve, and beating his arms about his ribs to warm himself, a fellow passing by, observed it, and said, You have but cold working there on the edge of the house. ’Tis very true, answered the old man, for I have wrought on a hundred Christmas Eves, and if I said a hundred more, I think I should not be wrong, and yet I vow I never felt such a cold one before.

1226. One going into Smithfield on a market-day, called to a horse-courser aloud, and said, Prithee, friend, how go horses to-day? Marry, as you see―some amble, some trot, some gallop.

1227. A pleasant fellow willing to put off a lame horse, rode him from the Sun Tavern, Cripplegate, to the Sun in Holborn, and the next day offered to sell him in Smithfield; a bidder asking why the horse looked so lean? was answered, It was no marvel, as he rode him yesterday from Sun to Sun, and never drew bit.

1228. One entering of a cold morning into a tavern with his friend, called to the waiter to have a fire quickly made, who brought wet faggots, which were long in kindling, making only a smothering smoke, while the sap fired apace out of the faggots; which observing, he said, I now perceive, and never knew before, from whence the river of Styx was derived.

1229. One meeting a drunkard reeling in the street, bade him stand up like a man; who answered him, That for his own part, he could stand well enough, but he could not make his shoes stand.

1230. A country farmer’s wife in the north, having a nice lad for her son, about seven years old, bid him fetch home the kine from the field, to be milked in the yard; there were six in number. The boy went as bid, and drove home but five. Marry, said his mother, what’s become of the sixth? She is turned down that deep dirty lane where I could not come at her, and I think she is going to the devil. To the devil! said the mother; nay, then stay, Bob, thy father shall go, as he has boots on.

1231. There was a man whose nose leaned more towards one side than the other; a friend disposed to have a laugh with him, said, I know what your nose is not made of, and I know of what it is. First, I can assure you, it is not made of wheat, and secondly, I will be fudged by all the company, if it be not made a-rye.

1232. A traveller reported to be drowned, a friend of his being in company, when the letters came that brought the first news of his death, fetched a deep sigh, with these words, God rest his soul, for he has gone the way of all flesh. Nay, said another then standing by, if he is drowned, he has gone the way of all fish.

1233. One of the great stone letters fell from the top of Northampton House and dashed out a scholar’s brains. It happened not long after, that a good honest fellow, who could neither read nor write, being in company with three or four very ingenious gentlemen, upon a sudden broke out into a deep melancholy, and said, Well, I thank God I can neither read nor write. One of the others smiling, replied, You speak strangely, for I and the rest here thank God we can do both. All’s one for that, said he, yet let myself and others be thankful we can do neither. They asked his reason; he gave them this explanation, Because, said he, we can walk the street with a security that you bookmen cannot. They desired him to explain himself. Why, said he, if one letter falling from the top of a house, had the power to knock out the brains of a scholar, what safety should we live in, to be troubled with four and twenty letters? Now, thank heaven, I have nothing to do with letters, and I cannot see that letters have anything to do with me.

1234. Two country fellows meeting at an assizes in the country, one asked the other, What news, and how many were condemned to suffer? The other answered, This hath been the strangest session that ever was in my time; I have not known the like, for there is no execution at all; and is it not worth observation, that so many justices should sit on the bench, and not one thought proper to be hanged?

1235. Miss Pope was one evening in the green-room, commenting on the excellencies of Garrick, when, amongst other things, she said, he had the most wonderful eye imaginable―an eye, to use a vulgar phrase, that would penetrate through a deal board. Ay, cried Wewitzer, I now understand what they call a gimlet eye.

1236. A worthy gentleman and good scholar had been a long time in disgrace with Queen Elizabeth, the reason I know not, nor am willing to examine; but a friend of his, who was in great favour at court, persuaded the queen to give him an audience. The time came, and after the customary introduction, the queen said, I understand you are a great scholar; may I ask you one question? Anything, madam, said he, that I am capable of resolving. Then pray you, how many vowels are there? Madam, that is a question a schoolboy can resolve, but since you would be answered by me, there are five. Five, said her majesty―well, of these five, which can we best spare? Not any of them, madam, replied he, without corrupting our natural dialect. Yes, replied the queen, I can tell you, for of all these, we can (for our own part) best spare _u_ [you].

1237. One gentleman objecting to another, that he was the first of his house, the other answered, That I am the first of my house, is so much more to my honour―you are likely to be the last of yours.

1238. One thinking with barbarous Latin to confound a scholar, came and saluted him in these words, _Ars tu fons_, art thou well? To whom the scholar quickly, _Asinus fons asinus tu_, that is, as well as you.

1239. Two fellows purposing a journey, hired a horse betwixt them, to ride by turns; the one laid down half the hire, and called upon his partner for the other half, which he willingly paid; which being done, said he, Mark the conditions between us, which are these―when I ride, then you shall go on foot; and when you go on foot, then I shall ride; that is the condition―will you stand to it? Yes, with all my heart, said the other. So the first mounted and rode the whole journey, and left the other to come on foot after him.

1240. A sleepy waiter, sitting asleep under the pulpit, the preacher beating his desk so hard, that he being suddenly awakened, cried out in a loud voice, Coming, sir, coming.

1241. Two gentlemen having quarrelled in a passage, one of them, wishing to make his escape from the house, asked, How shall I get by you? Get by me! replied the other, what did I ever get by you?

1242. I am going to write a work upon Popular Ignorance, said a young man to a much older person: I know no one more competent, was the reply.

1243. Walpole once persuaded Mrs. Kerwood not to go home by water, because it would be damp after the rain.

1244. Lord Hartington asked the Governor of Rome, what they had determined about the vessel that the Spaniards had taken under the cannon of Civita Vecchia, whether they had restored it to the English? The governor said, They had done justice. His lordship replied, If you had not, we should have done it ourselves.

1245. The late Duchess of Bolton resolved upon going to China, when Whiston told her the world would be burnt in three years.

1246. A gentleman coming into a church, where was none of the best music in the world, hearing them sing, “Have mercy upon us miserable sinners.” Ay, said he, they might very well have said, Have mercy upon us miserable singers.

1247. A humorous schoolmaster, one morning as he was washing his hands, called one of his higher boys to him, and said, Here boy, what is the Latin for a ladder? The youth answered, _Scala_. Fye, fye, quoth the schoolmaster, what an _asinego_ you are! prithee tell me, what is the Latin for a lad? _Adolescens_, replied the boy. Very well, and cannot you form the comparative degree of that? _Adolescentior_, said the boy. Ay, ay, now thou hast done it like a scholar indeed.

1248. A country baker having occasion to call at the house of a certain justice of the peace, as he was riding out through a great court, saw a parcel of fat geese, and, catching up one, whipped it into his basket. The justice by chance espying him from one of the windows, called after him, saying, Bak-er, bak-er. To which the baker replied, I will, sir, I will, sir, and rode away as fast as he could. Some days after, the justice sent a warrant for him, and demanded of him how he dare carry away his goose in that manner? To which he replied, I have done nothing but what your worship commanded me, for your worship bid me bake-her, and that I have done in a good pie, and drank your worship’s health at the eating of it. The justice, for the jest’s sake, excused the baker.

1249. A Welchman having been to London, his friends, according to custom, on his return, demanded of him what news? He answered, That he knew little news; he had only observed one strange thing there, that every little boy of five or six years old could speak English perfectly, which he thought very strange; because, in his country, they learn to speak it, as in England they learn to speak French.

1250. A ship being in a storm at sea, was in great danger; whereupon, the captain commanded every man to throw into the sea his heaviest things. A passenger, who had his wife, then offered to throw her overboard; but the crew saved her, and asked him whether he was mad to try and throw her overboard; who answered, She is the heaviest thing I have, and I can best spare her. I assure you, she has long been a heavy burthen to me; I pray, therefore, let me throw her over.

1251. A talking barber once asked a gentleman in what fashion he would be trimmed, In silence, was the reply.

1252. It is related of a well-known magistrate of times past, that being often deceived by false rumours of Queen Elizabeth’s death, he protested that he would never believe she was dead, until he saw it under her own hand.

1253. A good fellow having tippled rather too liberally, and his head being fuller of liquor than discretion, as he went along the streets, happened in the dark to run against a post; and he, conceiving it to have been some man that had affronted him, fell upon the post with his fists, and of course soon beat off all the skin from his knuckles. One coming by, demanded of him, what was the matter? Why, said he, I have met here with a rascal who jostled me, and will not suffer me to pass quietly by him. Alas, see, said the other, you are mistaken, it is a post. A post! said he, why then he should have blown his horn.

1254. A cook of one of the colleges at Cambridge, serving up dinner, gave to one of the assistants a neat’s tongue to put upon the table; the fellow not having firm hold of the dish, let it fall to the ground, so that it was not fit for serving, whereat the cook was very angry; the poor fellow begged the cook not to be so very angry, it was but a _lapsus linguae_.

1255. Two or three gentlemen visiting a citizen, he, at their departure, asked them if they would please to take a glass of beer, apologizing for its being small beer, but such as contented him and his family; they accepted it, saying, it was no matter for the smallness, so it were fresh. One of them tasting it, the other asked him if the beer was fresh. Yes, quoth he, I assure you it is fresh, as if it had been all night in water.

1256. At a general assizes in Queen Elizabeth’s days, two plain country fellows having some business there, were gazing upon the bench, until the time they should be called, discoursing betwixt themselves, said the one to the other, I much wonder at one thing, and would gladly be resolved thereof: the other demanding of him what it was he wished to know, was answered, I have often mused with myself, why all the judges go shaven, and there is no appearance of a beard to be seen amongst them all. To which the other replied, Neighbour, that is a doubt which is easily decided; for in this place they ought to wear no beards, for you ought to know they represent her majesty.

1257. In many towns of this kingdom, mechanics are often made mayors. Amongst others, one who was elected to that office, thought it would be but becoming that his wife should be dressed according to the dignity of the situation, and accordingly ordered her new apparel from top to toe; she not accustomed to such gaiety, was not a little proud, and coming somewhat late to church, at the moment when the auditory rose up for the reverence of the gospel, which she mistaking, and thinking it had been done to her, said aloud, I thank you all, my good friends and neighbours, I shall not be unmindful of this courtesy.

1258. A person being asked the reason why his head was so intermixed with white hairs, that it was indeed quite grey, and that not one could be seen in his beard, answered, It is no wonder, the hair of my head is older than that of my beard by twenty years.

1259. The parson of a country village, visiting one of his sick parishioners, among other comforting words, said to him, Be of good cheer, my good friend, for I hope thou wilt be carried into Paradise. To which the sick man replied, Your speech is comforting to me, for if the way is long, I should never be able to walk there.

1260. Two country fellows falling out, were at very hot words, insomuch that one gave the other the lie, who taking it in great disgrace, bent his fist and threatened revenge; the other, knowing himself unable to grapple with him, denied his words; in conclusion, the defendant was so pressed, that in plain terms he gave him the lie, saying, Thou liest to say I gave thee the lie. To which the other answered, It is well now at last that thou hast given me satisfaction.

1261. A country fellow had an idle housewife, who would do nothing but sit before the fire, and suffer everything to go to sixes and sevens; coming one day from his labour, and finding her sitting as customary, lolling by the fire, he took up a stick, and began to cudgel her soundly; at which she cried out, Alas, husband, what do you mean? you see I am doing nothing, I am doing nothing. That is the very reason why I am beating you, said he.

1262. A person who had a great shrew for his wife, in one of the quarrels, got so enraged, that he could not contain himself, but snatched up a flagon that happened to be near, and gave her a very deep wound on her head, the cost of curing which was very considerable. This woman sitting at another time among her gossips, said openly, My husband does not dare to break my head any more, he paid so dearly for the last cure. This being told to the husband, he sent for the apothecary and surgeon, and, calling for his wife, when they arrived, he paid each of them their bill, and also gave them money in advance, in earnest of the next cure she might require. We need not say, the husband was not further annoyed.

1263. An Irishman said to his companions on Christmas Eve, he did not mean to have a plum-pudding for dinner next day. Why so? asked they. Och, I have raisons for it. Then you did intend it, since you have got the _raisins_.

1264. A gentleman passing in dirty weather through a street in which the pavement had been broken up, got bespattered with mud―on looking about him in his distress, he saw written up on a board, “No thorough-fare”―Egad, said he, they may well say that; for I have proved it _thorough foul_.

1265. A distinguished gentleman, whose nose and chin are both very long, and who has lost his teeth, whereby the nose and chin are brought very close together, was told, I am afraid your nose and chin will fight before long, they approach each other so very menacingly. I was afraid of it myself, replied the gentleman, for a good many words have passed between them already.

1266. A servant, near Limerick, at the time that everybody was required to deliver in their arms, wrote to his master at Dublin, that he had secured the fire arms, having sent all the pokers and tongs to the barracks.

1267. A young lady at the Exhibition at the Suffolk Street Gallery, looking at a subject of still life,―plates, dishes, &c., asked the gentleman who accompanied her, to look in the catalogue and see what it was; he replied, A study. Why, goodness, said she, I took it for a kitchen!

1268. A fine ship was lately launched, at which Sir Henry Tempest attended. A wag observed, What a pity it is, that a tempest should accompany such a launch.

1269. On the expulsion of Mr. Jones from the Irish House of Commons, a punning wag remarked, that this was not In-I-go Jones―but Out-I-go Jones.

1270. Of a person as remarkable for his irregularity as for his musical talents, it was aptly remarked, that the whole tenor of his conduct was thorough base.

1271. A fashionable Irish gentleman having made a purchase of Hume’s History of England, went into a bookseller’s shop to have it most elegantly bound. What binding would you like best? asked the bookseller, would you like it bound in Russia? In Russia! exclaimed the man of fashion; Oh, no, no, that is too far off, I’d rather have it bound in Bond Street.

1272. A very corpulent gentleman travelling in the north, was walking backwards and forwards in front of an inn, while the horses were changing. One of the gapers, an inhabitant of the place, had a mind to be witty: viewing the gentleman’s person, he accosted him with―I see, sir, you carry your portmanteau before ye. Certainly, said he, I always think it requisite to have it under my eye, when passing through a suspicious looking place.

1273. Grattan being asked his opinion of the valour of a certain captain, who from excess of feeling put up with a severe castigation, replied, That he thought it odd, for to his knowledge the captain had fought. Who, who? cried his informant. Shy, said the witty barrister.

1274. A trader in Dublin, said one day to his friend, I will be ruined. I am sorry for it, said the other, but if you will be ruined, you know no one can prevent it.

1275. A gentleman being much pressed in company to sing a song, observed pettishly, That they only wanted to make a butt of him. By no means, my dear fellow, rejoined one of his tormentors, we only want to get a stave out of you.

1276. A Welchman coming to London to pursue a suit at law, chanced to steal a sow, for which he was taken and burnt in the hand. His friends asked him, when he arrived home, How the law went with him? Priddie well, said he, for hur has got hur in hur hand.

1277. What did Mr. King die of? asked a simple neighbour. Of a complication of disorders, replied his friend. How do you describe a complication, my good sir? He died, rejoined the other, of two physicians, an apothecary, and a surgeon.

1278. Parson Hawkins passing the River Wye, to Biford, where he lived, had with him one Bartholomew Herring, who, being heavy laden, fell over the side of the boat into the river; Hawkins cried out, Save the man, save the man. Herring answered, Hold your tongue, am I not in my element!

1279. Serjeant Hoskins having married an old widow, and being asked by a companion of his, Why he did not marry a young woman? answered, He had a maxim for it in his accidence, In _legendis veteribus proficiscis_, [In reading old authors thou dost profit.]

1280. A young man walking along Cheapside, espied a house shut up, with a bill over the door, showing that the house and shop were to be let. He asked a person at the next door, If the shop might be let alone? Yes, replied the other, you may let it alone, for anything I know.

1281. A gownsman at Cambridge was once bargaining with Fordham for a horse; the latter was taken suddenly very ill and died; there were very few pounds between them in respect to the price. The gownsman, not knowing what had occurred, called next morning at the yard, and asked to see Mr. Fordham. Master, sir, said the ostler, is dead, but he left word you should have the horse.

1282. A caravan of wild beasts arriving lately in an American village, the elephant was accommodated in a large carriage-house―where, it appeared, a tall two-fisted negro from the country, who had never seen or heard of an elephant, had lain down to sleep. On waking, blacky was not a little astonished at his strange bed-fellow. What could it be? The devil! The huge mass moved, when lo, a tail at both ends put an end to all doubt, and, with one despairing leap, he was out of the loft window, without once calculating upon the chance of breaking his neck. In the fulness of his astonishment and joy at his escape, he could tell no more of the occasion of his alarm, than of a devil with two tails, and describe in his best way, an extending, contracting, flexible tail, that no distance could secure you from.

1283. The following anecdote is related of Lessing, the German author, who, in his old age, was subject to extraordinary fits of abstraction. On his return home one evening, after he had knocked at his door, the servant looked out of the window to see who was there; not recognizing his master in the dark, and mistaking him for a stranger, he called out, The Professor is not at home. Oh, very well, replied Lessing, no matter, I will call another time; and very composedly walked away.

1284. A young clergyman finding it impossible to provide for his family with his very slender income, wrote to his friend―Dear Frank, I must part with my living to save my life.

1285. A bookseller in Paris being lately asked for a copy of the ‘Constitution of 1814,’ replied―Sir, I keep no periodicals.

1286. A lecturer on the history of chemistry, thus described the celebrated Mr. Boyle: He was a great man, a very great man; he was father of modern chemistry, and brother of the Earl of Cork.

_A Receipt to make an Epigram._

BY LORD HERVEY.

A pleasing subject first with care provide;
Your matter must with nature be supplied;
Nervous your diction, be your measure long,
Nor fear your verse too stiff if sense be strong:
In proper places proper numbers use,
And now the quicker, now the slower chuse:
Too soon the dactyl the performance ends,
But the slow spondee coming thoughts suspends;
Your last attention on the sting bestow,
To that your good or ill success you’ll owe;
For there, not wit alone must shine, but humour flow.
Observing these, your epigram’s completed;
Nor fear ’twill tire, though seven times repeated.

_On Ben Jonson’s Bust set up in Westminster Abbey, with the buttons on the wrong side of his coat._

BY THE REV. SAMUEL WESLEY.

O rare Ben Jonson! What, a turn-coat grown!
Thou ne’er wert such till thou wert clad in stone.
When time thy coat, thy only coat, impairs,
Thou’lt find a patron in a hundred years:
Then let not this mistake disturb thy sprite,
Another age shall set thy buttons right.

_On Quin’s comparing Garrick to Whitfield, and complaining, that the people were madding it after him._

BY G―CK.

Pope Quin, who damns all churches but his own,
Complains that heresy misleads the town,
That Whitfield-Garrick does corrupt the age,
And taints the sound religion of the stage.
―Thou great infallible! forbear to roar;
Thy bulls and errors are revered no more:
Where doctrines meet with general approbation,
It is not heresy, but reformation.

_On Miss Biddy Floyd._ BY DEAN SWIFT.

When Cupid did his grandsire Jove intreat,
To form some beauty by a new receipt,
Jove sent and found, far in a country scene,
Truth, innocence, good-nature, looks serene;
From which ingredients first the dextrous boy
Picked the demure, the awkward, and the coy:
The Graces from the court did next provide
Breeding, and wit, and air, and decent pride;
These Venus cleansed from every spurious grain
Of nice, coquet, affected, pert, and vain:
Jove mixed up all, and his best clay employed,
Then called the happy composition, Floyd.

_On the Gravestone of a Blacksmith, buried in Chester Church-yard._

My sledge and hammer lie reclined,
My bellows too have lost their wind;
My fire’s extinct, my forge decayed,
And in the dust my vice is laid;
My coal is spent, my iron’s gone,
My nails are drove, my work is done;
My fire-dried corpse lies here at rest,
My soul, smoke like, is soaring to be blest.

_On a Monument intended to be erected for Mr. Rowe, by his Widow._

_Written before Mr. Dryden’s was set up._

BY MR. POPE.

Thy reliques, Rowe, to this fair shrine we trust,
And, sacred, place by Dryden’s awful dust.
Beneath a rude and nameless stone he lies,
To which thy tomb shall gain inquiring eyes:
Peace to thy gentle shade, and endless rest,
Blest in thy genius, in thy love too blest;
One grateful woman to thy fame supplied
What a whole thankless land to his denied.

_On Maids._

Most maids resemble Eve now in their lives,
Who are no sooner women, but they’re wives.

_On Giles Jacob, the Poet._ BY DR. SEWELL.

Parent of dulness! genuine son of night!
Total eclipse! without one ray of light:
Born when dull midnight bells for funerals chime,
Just at the closing of the bellman’s rhyme.

BY DEAN SWIFT.

As Thomas was cudgelled one day by his wife,
He took to his heels and ran for his life:
Tom’s three dearest friends came by in the squabble,
And skreened him at once from the shrew and the rabble;
Then ventured to give him some wholesome advice:
But Tom is a fellow of humour so nice,
Too proud to take counsel, too wise to take warning,
He sent to all three a challenge next morning:
He fought with all three, thrice ventured his life,
Then went home again, and was thrashed by his wife.

_Translated from_ BUCHANAN.

_Beginning_, Pauper eram juvenis, _&c._

Poor, when in youth, now worn with feeble age
I’m rich; but wretched still in either stage:
When wealth I could enjoy I then had none;
Now plenty’s come, all power of use is gone.

_On a Company of bad Dancers to good Music._ BY MR. BUDGELL.

How ill the motion with the music suits!
So Orpheus fiddled, and so danced the brutes.

_The Lover’s Legacy._

Unhappy Strephon, dead and cold,
His heart was from his bosom rent,
Embalmed, and in a box of gold,
To his beloved Kitty sent.

Some ladies might, perhaps, have fainted,
But Kitty smiled upon the bauble;
A pin-cushion, said she, I wanted,
Go put it on the dressing-table.

_The Scotch Weather-Wife._

Scotland, thy weather’s like a modish wife;
Thy winds and rains maintain perpetual strife;
So termagant, a while, her thunder hies;
And when she can no longer scold―she cries.

_On Milton._ BY MR. DRYDEN.

Three poets, in three distant ages born,
Greece, Italy, and England did adorn;
The first in loftiness of thought surpast;
The next in majesty; in both the last.
The force of nature could no farther go―
To make a third she joined the former two.

_Written, in the leaves of a Fan._

BY DR. ATTERBURY, A LATE BISHOP OF ROCHESTER.

Flavia the least and slightest toy,
Can with resistless art employ:
This fan in meaner hands would prove
An engine of small force in love;
Yet she with graceful air and mien,
Not to be told or fairly seen,
Directs its flowing motion so,
That it wounds more than Cupid’s bow;
Gives coolness to the matchless dame,
To every other breast a flame.

_Written in Miss F―’s Pew at I― Church._

With awe, with pleasure and surprise,
I view the lightning of your eyes;
Lightning! that wounds me as it flies.

What prayer! what vow! to Heaven can go?
For all devotion you subdue;
At least, ’tis all transferred to you.

In vain is human strength―its boasted art―
While you sit here, you share my vows in part;
To Y―[4] I give my ears, to you my eyes and heart.

[4] The Minister.

_The Lucky Man._ BY MR. WELSTED.

I owe, says Metius, much to Colon’s care;
Once only seen, he chose me for his heir:
True, Metius; hence your fortunes take their rise;
His heir you were not, had he seen you twice.

_To Mr. T―d, on his complimenting Mr. F―de on his Poetry._

F―de writes well, you say; suppose it true,
You pawn your word for him;―he’ll vouch for you;
So two poor knaves, when once their credit fail,
To cheat the world, become each other’s bail.

_On a handsome Woman, with a fine voice, but very covetous and proud._

So bright is thy beauty, so charming thy song,
As had drawn both the beasts, and their Orpheus along;
But such is thy avarice and such is thy pride,
That the beasts must have starved, and the poet have died.

_Venus mistaken._ BY MR. PRIOR.

When Chloe’s picture was to Venus shown,
Surprised, the goddess took it for her own;
And what, said she, does this bold painter mean?
When was I bathing thus, and naked seen?
Pleased, Cupid heard, and checked his mother’s pride;
And who’s blind now, mamma? the urchin cried.
’Tis Chloe’s eye, and cheek, and lip, and breast,
Friend Howard’s genius fancied all the rest.

_Epitaph on Mr. Harcourt’s Tomb._ BY MR. POPE.

To this sad shrine, whoe’er thou art, draw near,
Here lies the friend most wept, the son most dear,
Who ne’er knew joy but friendship might divide,
Nor gave his father grief―but when he died.
How vain is reason! eloquence how weak!
When Pope must tell what Harcourt cannot speak.
Yet let thy once-loved friend inscribe the stone,
And with a father’s sorrow mix his own.
Ah, no! ’tis vain to strive―it will not be;
No grief that can be told is felt for thee.

_Prometheus ill-painted._ BY MR. COWLEY.

How wretched does Prometheus’ state appear,
Whilst he his second misery suffers here.
Draw him no more, lest, as he tortured stands,
He blame great Jove’s less than the painter’s hands.
It would the vulture’s cruelty outgo,
If once again his liver thus should grow.
Pity him, Jove, and his bold theft allow;
The flames he once stole from thee grant him now.

_On a Lady who pretended to tell Fortunes._ BY MR. MOTTLEY.

Some oracles of old, to cause more wonder,
Were, when pronounced, accompanied with thunder:
But thy predictions come not in a storm,
They are delivered by the brightest form:
If, when you speak, Jove does not pierce the sky,
Yet still you’ve all his lightning in your eye.

_The Cure of Love._

When, Chloe, I confess my pain,
In gentle words your pity show;
But gentle words are all in vain,
Such gales my flame but higher blow.

Ah, Chloe, would you cure the smart
Your conqu’ring eyes have keenly made,
Yourself upon my bleeding heart―
Yourself, fair Chloe, must be laid.

Thus for the viper’s sting we know,
No surer remedy is found,
Than to apply the tort’ring foe,
And squeeze his venom on the wound

_Epitaph on an unknown Person._

Without a name, for ever senseless, dumb,
Dust, ashes, nought else, lies within this tomb.
Where’er I lived, or died, it matters not;
To whom related, or by whom begot;
I was, but am not, ask no more of me―
It’s all I am, and all that thou shalt be.

_Epitaph._

Here lies a lady, who, if not belied,
Took wise St Paul’s advice, and all things tried;
Nor stopt she here; but followed through the rest,
And always stuck the longest to the best.

_In a window of a room in the Tower of London is written_;

R. WALPOLE, 1712.

_Underneath that, are the following lines_:

Good unexpected, evil unforeseen,
Appear by turns, as fortune shifts the scene:
Some, raised aloft, come tumbling down again,
And fall so hard, they bound to rise again.

_The Artist._ BY MR. CONCANEN.

Very nicely thou lay’st on thy colours, dear Nan,
And no painter in skill can o’ertop ye;
When to Ellys you sat, he dully brushed on,
Till he thought he had an original drawn,
Which you proved to be only a copy.

_Epitaph on a talkative old Maid._

Beneath this silent stone is laid
A noisy antiquated maid,
Who, from her cradle, talked till death,
And ne’er before was out of breath.
Whither she’s gone we cannot tell,
For if she talks not she’s in hell:
If she’s in heaven she’s there unblest,
Because she hates a place of rest.

_A Simile._

Women to cards may be compared: we play
A round or two; when used, we throw away,
Take a fresh pack; nor is it worth our grieving
Who cuts and shuffles with the dirty leaving.

* * * * *

Thais, her teeth are black and naught,
Lucania’s white are grown:
But what’s the reason? These are bought,
The other wears her own.

_The disappointed Husband._

_Mulieri ne crede, ne mortuæ quidem._

A scolding wife so long a sleep possessed,
Her spouse presumed her soul was now at rest.
Sable was called to hang the room in black;
And all their cheer was sugar-rolls and sack.
Two mourning staffs stood sentry at the door;
And silence reigned, who ne’er was there before.
The cloaks, and tears, and handkerchiefs prepared,
They marched in woeful pomp to Abchurch Yard;
When see of narrow streets what mischiefs come!
The very dead can’t pass in quiet home:
By some rude jolt, the coffin lid was broke,
And madam from her dream of death awoke.
Now all was spoiled: the undertaker’s pay,
Sour faces, cakes, and wine, quite thrown away.
But some years after, when the former scene
Was acted, and the coffin nailed again,
The tender husband took especial care,
To keep the passage from disturbance clear;
Charging the bearers that they tread aright,
Nor put his dear in such another fright.

* * * * *

Among the fair that Hyde Park Circus grace,
Canidia seeks admirers of her face;
In vain her airs, her wanton arts she tries,
Among those beauties that engage all eyes:
Bright rays, like diamonds, they around ’em fling,
Whilst she is but the cipher of the ring.

_On a Robbery._

Ridway robb’d Duncote of three hundred pounds;
Ridway was taken and condemned to die:
But for his money was a courtier found,
Begged Ridway’s pardon: Duncote now doth cry,
Robbed both of money and the law’s relief,
The courtier is become the greater thief.

_On Suicide: from_ MARTIAL. BY MR. SEWELL.

When all the blandishments of life are gone,
The coward creeps to death, the brave lives on.

_A Dialogue between two very bad Poets._ BY MR. CONCANEN.

Says Richard[5] to Joe,[6] thou’rt a very sad dog,
And thou canst write verses no more than a log;
Says Joseph to Dick, prithee, ring-rhyme, get hence:
Sure my verse, at least, is as good as thy sense.
Was e’er such a contest recorded in song?
The one’s in the right, and the other’s not wrong.

[5] Savage.

[6] Mitchel.

_To a Painter drawing a Lady’s Picture._ BY MR. DENNIS.

He[7] who great Jove’s artillery aped so well,
By real thunder and true lightning fell;
How then durst thou, with equal danger try
To counterfeit the lightning of her eye?
Painter, desist; or soon the event will prove
That Love’s as jealous of his arms as Jove.

[7] Salmoneus.

_The Choice._

Too conscious of her worth, a noble maid
Baulked many a lover, and her mind out-strayed,
While yet a peer, less doubting than the rest,
Defied her coldness, and attacked her breast.
A spaniel whelp, and spaniel lord, declare
Their vows to serve, and hope to please the fair;
The cautious nymph, still fearing a trepan,
Their fortune, wit, and worth, did nicely scan;
Then, as the reason of the case is clear,
Embraced the puppy, and dismissed the peer.

_On a certain Writer._

Half of your book is to an index grown;
You give your book contents, your readers none.

_On a Flower painted by_ VARELST. BY MR. PRIOR.

When famed Varelst this little wonder drew,
Flora vouchsafed the growing work to view;
Finding the painter’s science at a stand,
The goddess snatched the pencil from his hand,
And, finishing the piece, she smiling said,
Behold one work of mine, which ne’er shall fade.

_An Epitaph on Little Stephen, a noted Fiddler in the County of Suffolk._

Stephen and Time
Are now both even;
Stephen beat Time,
Now Time beats Stephen.

_On Giles and Joan._

Who says that Giles and Joan at discord be?
The observing neighbours no such mood can see;
Indeed, poor Giles repents he married ever,
But that his Joan doth too: and Giles would never,
By his free will, be in Joan’s company;
No more would Joan he should: Giles riseth early,
And having got him out of doors is glad;
The like is Joan: but turning home is sad;
And so is Joan: oft-times when Giles doth find
Harsh sights at home, Giles wishes he were blind;
All this doth Joan; or, that his long-earned life
Were quite out-spun; the like wish hath his wife:
In all affections she concurreth still;
If now with man and wife to will and nill
The self same things, a note of concord be,
I know no couple better can agree.

_To a Sempstress._

Oh, what bosom but must yield,
When, like Pallas, you advance,
With a thimble for your shield,
And a needle for your lance!
Fairest of the stitching train,
Ease my passion by your art;
And in pity to my pain,
Mend the hole that’s in my heart.

_On a Certain Poet._

Thy verses are eternal, O my friend!
For he who reads them, reads them to no end.

_A Distich, written under the sign of the King’s Head and Bell in Dublin, at the host’s request._

BY DEAN SWIFT.

May the king live long;
Dong, ding, ding, dong.

_On seeing a Miser at Vauxhall Gardens._

Music has charms to sooth a savage breast,
To calm the tyrant, and relieve the opprest:
But Vauxhall’s concert’s more attracting power
Unlocked Sir Richard’s pocket at threescore:
Oh! strange effect of music’s matchless force,
To attract a shilling from a miser’s purse!

_To a Lady who had very bad teeth._

Ovid, who bids the ladies laugh,
Spoke only to the young and fair;
For thee his counsel were not safe,
Who of sound teeth have scarce a pair.

If thou the glass or me believe,
Shun mirth, as foplings do the wind;
At Cibber’s face affect to grieve,
And let thy eyes alone be kind.

If thou art wise see dismal plays,
And to sad stories lend thy ear;
With the afflicted spend thy days,
And laugh not above once a year.

_On an old Maid’s Marriage._

Celia, a coquet in her prime,
The vainest, ficklest thing alive;
Behold the strange effects of time!
Marries and doats at forty-five.

Thus weathercocks, that for awhile
Have turned about with every blast,
Grown old, and destitute of oil,
Rust to a point, and fix at last.

_A Cure for Love._

Of two reliefs to cure a love-sick mind,
Flavia prescribes despair; I urge, be kind;
Flavia, be kind: the remedy’s as sure;
’Tis the most pleasant, and the quickest cure.

_Under the Picture of a Beau._

This vain thing set up for a man,
But see what fate attends him;
The powdering barber first began,
The barber-surgeon ends him.

_On a Gentleman drinking the Health of an unkind Mistress._

Why dost thou wish that she may live,
Whose living beauties make thee grieve!
Thou wouldst more wisely wish her kind,
That she may change her cruel mind;
Thy present wish but this can gain,
That she may live, and thou complain.

_On a Prize-Fighter._

His thrusts like lightning flew, yet subtle death
Parried them all, and beat him out of breath.

_The Penance._

When Phillis confessed, the father was rash,
And so, without further reflection,
Her delicate skin he condemned to the lash,
While himself would bestow the correction.
Her husband, who heard this, opposed it by urging,
That he, in regard to her weakness,
And to save her soft back, would himself bear the scourging
With humble submission and meekness.
She piously cried, when the priest gave accord,
To show what devotion was in her,
He’s able and lusty, pray cheat not the Lord,
For, alas! I’m a very great sinner.

_On a Gentleman who died the day after his Lady._

She first departed; he for one day tried
To live without her: liked it not, and died.

_On a Welchman._

A Welchman coming late into an inn,
Asked the maid what meat there was within?
Cow-heels, she answered, and a breast of mutton;
But, quoth the Welchman, since I am no glutton,
Either of these shall serve: to-night the breast,
The heels i’ th’ morning, then light meat is best;
At night he took the breast and did not pay,
I’ th’ morning took his heels, and ran away.

_The Fate of Poets._

Seven wealthy towns contend for Homer dead,
Through which the living Homer begged his bread.

_On an old Woman with false Hair._

The golden hair that Galla wears
Is hers: who would have thought it!
She swears ’tis hers,―and true she swears;
For I know where she bought it.

_On another old Woman._ BY MR. PRIOR.

From her own native France, as old Alison past,
She reproached English Nell with neglect or with malice;
That the slattern had left, in the hurry and haste,
Her lady’s complexion and eye-brows at Calais.

_An Epitaph._

Here lies honest Strephon with Mary his bride,
Who merrily lived and cheerfully died;
They laughed and they loved, and drank while they were able,
But now they are forced to knock under the table.
This marble, which formerly served them to drink on,
Now covers their bodies,―and sad thing to think on!―
That do what one can to moisten our clay,
’Twill one day be ashes, and moulder away.

_On an ugly old Woman in the Dark._ FROM MARTIAL.

Whilst in the dark on thy soft hand I hung,
And heard the tempting syren in thy tongue;
What flames, what darts, what anguish I endured!
But, when the candle entered, I was cured.

_On a beautiful and ingenious young Lady._

Minerva, one day, pray let nobody doubt it,
Rid an airing from Oxford six miles, or about it,
Where she ’spied a young damsel so blooming and fair,
That, ah, Venus! she cried, is your ladyship there?
Pray is not yon Oxford?―and lately you sware,
Neither you, nor aught like you, should ever come there:
Do you thus keep your promise? and am I defied?
The virgin drew near her, and, smiling replied,
―My goddess! what have you your pupil forgot?
―Your pardon, my dear,―Is it you, Molly Scot?

_To a Lady who married her Footman._ COLONEL P―.

Dear cousin, think it no reproach,
(Thy virtue shines the more,)
To take black John into the coach
He rode behind before.

_On stealing a Pound of Candles._

Light-fingered Catch, to keep his hand in ure,
Stole anything; of this you may be sure,
That he thinks all his own which once he handles,
For practice-sake did steal a pound of candles;
Was taken in the fact: Oh, foolish wight!
To steal such things as needs must come to light.

_On a very plain Lady, that patched much._

Your homely face, Flippanta, you disguise,
With patches, numerous as Argus’ eyes;
I own that patching’s requisite to you,
For more we are pleased, if less your face we view;
Yet I advise, if my advice you’d ask,
Wear but one patch; but be that patch a mask.

_The Dart._

Whene’er I look, I may descry
A little face peep through that eye;
Sure that’s the boy, who wisely chose
His throne among such beams as those,
Which, if his quiver chance to fall,
May serve for darts to kill withal.

_To L―, the Miser._

When thou art asked to sup abroad,
Thou swear’st thou hast but newly dined;
That eating late does over-load
The stomach and the mind.

Then thou wilt drink ’till every star
Be swallowed by the rising sun;
Such charms hath wine we pay not for,
And mirth at others’ charge begun.

Who shuns his club, yet flies to every treat,
Does not a supper, but a reck’ning hate.

_On Jealousy._ BY A LADY.

Oh! shield me from his rage, celestial powers,
This tyrant that embitters all my hours.
Ah, love, you’ve poorly played the monarch’s part,
You conquered, but you can’t defend my heart.
So blessed was I, throughout the happy reign,
I thought this monster banished from thy train;
But you would raise him to support your throne,
And now he claims your empire as his own:
Or tell me, tyrants, have you both agreed,
There where one reigns, the other shall succeed?

_On Julia’s throwing a Snow-Ball._

Julia, young wanton, flung the gathered snow,
Nor feared I burning from the watery blow:
’Tis cold, I cried; but, ah! too soon I found,
Sent by that hand, it dealt a scorching wound.
Resistless fair! we fly thy power in vain,
Who turn’st to fiery darts the frozen rain.
Burn, Julia, burn like me, and that desire
With water which thou kindlest quench with fire.

_To Zelinda._

The poet and the painter safely dare
To form an image of the proudest fair:
Your brighter charms, by lavish nature wrought,
Transcend the painter’s skill, the poet’s thought.

_Occasioned by seeing some verses on Cælia, written on a pane of Glass._

Well hast thou drawn, fond youth, in properest place,
The short-lived beauties of false Cælia’s face.
When words’ obscurities thy sense o’er-shade,
The place gives light to what thou wouldst have said.
Bright as this lucid glass her eyes now seem,
Like this, breathed on by fell disease, grown dim.
Like glass is every strongest vow she makes,
Brittle as that, as easily she breaks;
Such is her honour. Short her fame, we find,
Which cracked, must perish by the first high wind.

_On a Riding-House turned into a Chapel._ BY MR. FARQUHAR.

A chapel of a riding-house is made,
Thus we once more see Christ in manger laid,
Where still we find the jockey trade supplied,
The laymen bridled, and the clergy ride.

_On Chloe._

Here Chloe lies,
Whose once bright eyes
Set all the world on fire:
And not to be
Ungrateful, she
Did all the world admire.

_Written extempore, on the Duke of Devonshire’s House at Chatsworth._

Qualiter in mediis quam non speraverat urbem,
Attonitus, Venetam navita cernit aquis;
Sic improviso emergens et montibus imis,
Attollis sese Devoniana Domus.

_And thus translated by_ COLLEY CIBBER, ESQ.

Not sailors view with more astonished eyes,
In open seas Venetian towers arise,
Than from the mountains strangers, with delight,
See unexpected Chatsworth charm the sight.

* * * * *

George came to the crown without striking a blow:
Ah! quoth the Pretender, would I could do so.

_On the Clare-market and other Orators._

To wonder now at Balaam’s ass, is weak:
Is there a day that asses do not speak?

_The Numskull._

You beat your pate, and fancy wit will come;
Knock as you please, there’s nobody at home.

_Sylvia._

Sylvia makes a sad complaint she has lost her lover;
Why nothing strange I in that news discover.
Nay, then thou’rt dull; for here the wonder lies,
She had a lover once!―Don’t that surprise?

_On a Painter, who stabbed a man fastened to a Cross, that he might draw the picture of the Crucifixion more naturally._

While his Redeemer on his canvas dies,
Stabbed at his feet his brother weltering lies.
The daring artist, cruelly serene.
Views the pale cheek, and the distorted mien;
He drains off life by drops, and deaf to cries,
Examines every spirit as it flies;
He studies torment, dives in mortal woe,
To rouse up every pang repeats his blow;
Each rising agony, each dreadful grace,
Yet warm transplanting to his Saviour’s face.
Oh, glorious theft! O nobly wicked draught!
With its full charge of death each feature fraught!
Such wondrous force the magic colours boast,
From his own skill he starts, in horror lost.

_On a handsome Idiot._ BY MR. CONGREVE.

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 snatched celestial fire;
But soon as e’er the beauteous idiot spoke,
Forth from her coral lips such folly broke,
Like balm the trickling nonsense healed my wound,
And what her eyes enthralled, her tongue unbound.

_On a dumb Boy, very beautiful, and of great quickness of parts._

WRITTEN BY A LADY.

I sing the boy, who, gagged and bound,
Has been by nature robbed of sound;
Yet has she found a generous way,
One loss by many gifts to pay.
His voice, indeed, she close confined,
But blest him with a speaking mind;
And every muscle of his face
Discourses with peculiar grace:
The ladies tattling o’er their tea,
Might learn to charm by copying thee.
If silence thus can man become,
All women beauties would be dumb.
Then, happy boy, no more complain,
Nor think thy loss of speech a pain:
Nature has used thee like good liquor,
And corked thee but to make thee quicker.

_Written on the Chamber Door of King Charles II._

BY THE EARL OF ROCHESTER.

Here lies the mutton-eating king,
Whose word no man relies on;
Who never said a foolish thing,
Nor ever did a wise one.

_Mankind Punished._