eyes are so lewd!
Then he shambles and straddles so oddly—I fear—
No—at our time of life ’twould be silly, my dear.”
“I don’t know,” says Law, “but methinks for his look,
’Tis just like the picture in Rochester’s book;
Then his character, Phyzzy—his morals—his life—
When she died, I can’t tell—but he once had a wife.
They say he’s no Christian, loves drinking and whoring,
And all the town rings of his swearing and roaring!
And filching and lying, and Newgate-bird tricks;—
Not I—for a coronet, chariot and six.”
Divinity heard, between waking and dozing,
Her sisters denying, and Jemmy proposing;
From table she rose, and with bumper in hand,
She stroked up her belly, and stroked down her band—
“What a pother is here about wenching and roaring!
Why, David loved catches, and Solomon whoring;
Did not Israel filch from the Egyptians of old
Their jewels of silver and jewels of gold?
The prophet of Bethel, we read, told a lie;
He drinks—so did Noah;—he swears—so do I;
To reject him for such peccadillos, were odd;
Besides, he repents—for he talks about God—
To Jemmy:—
Never hang down your head, your poor penitent elf,
Come buss me—I’ll be Mrs. Twitcher myself.
Damn ye both for a couple of Puritan bitches!
He’s Christian enough that repents and that stitches.”
Impromptu
Suggested by a View, in 1766, of the Seat and Ruins of a Deceased Nobleman, at Kingsgate, Kent
Old, and abandoned by each venal friend,
Here Holland formed the pious resolution
To smuggle a few years, and strive to mend
A broken character and constitution.
On this congenial spot he fixed his choice;
Earl Goodwin trembled for his neighbouring sand;
Here sea-gulls scream, and cormorants rejoice,
And mariners, though shipwrecked, dread to land.
Here reign the blustering North and blighting East,
No tree is heard to whisper, bird to sing;
Yet Nature could not furnish out the feast,
Art he invokes new horrors still to bring.
Here mouldering fanes and battlements arise,
Turrets and arches nodding to their fall,
Unpeopled monast’ries delude our eyes,
And mimic desolation covers all.
“Ah!” said the sighing peer, “had Bute been true,
Nor Mungo’s, Rigby’s, Bradshaw’s friendship vain,
Far better scenes than these had blest our view,
And realised the beauties which we feign;
Purged by the sword, and purified by fire,
Then had we seen proud London’s hated walls;
Owls would have hooted in St. Peter’s choir,
And foxes stunk and littered in St. Paul’s.”
Tophet
Thus Etough looked; so grinned the brawling fiend,
While frighted prelates bowed and called him friend;
I saw them bow, and while they wished him dead,
With servile simper nod the mitred head.
Our mother-church, with half-averted sight,
Blushed as she blessed her grisly proselyte;
Hosannas rung through hell’s tremendous borders,
And Satan’s self had thoughts of taking orders.
Song
Thyrsis, when we parted, swore
Ere the spring he would return—
Ah! what means yon violet flower!
And the buds that deck the thorn!
’Twas the lark that upward sprung!
’Twas the nightingale that sung!
Idle notes! untimely green!
Why this unavailing haste?
Western gales and skies serene
Speak not always winter past.
Cease, my doubts, my fears to move,
Spare the honour of my love.
Epitaph on Mrs. Mason
Tell them, though ’tis an awful thing to die,
’Twas e’en to thee, yet, the dread path once trod,
Heaven lifts its everlasting portals high,
And bids the pure in heart behold their God.
Amatory Lines
With beauty, with pleasure surrounded, to languish—
To weep without knowing the cause of my anguish;
To start from short slumbers, and wish for the morning—
To close my dull eyes when I see it returning;
Sighs sudden and frequent, looks ever dejected—
Words that steal from my tongue, by no meaning connected!
Ah! say, fellow-swains, how these symptoms befell me?
They smile, but reply not—Sure Delia will tell me!
Comic Lines
Weddell attends your call, and Palgrave proud,
Stonehewer the lewd, and Delaval the loud.
For thee does Powell squeeze, and Marriot sputter,
And Glynn cut phizzes, and Tom Neville stutter.
Brown sees thee sitting on his nose’s tip,
The Widow feels thee in her aching hip;
For thee fat Nanny sighs, and handy Nelly,
And Balguy with a bishop in his belly.
Verses from Shakespeare
To Mrs. Anne, Regular Servant to the Rev. Mr. Precentor of York
A moment’s patience, gentle Mistress Anne;
(But stint your clack for sweet St. Charitie)
’Tis Willy begs, once a right proper man,
Though now a book, and interleaved you see.
Much have I borne from cankered critic’s spite,
From fumbling baronets and poets small,
Pert barristers, and parsons nothing bright,
But what awaits me now is worst of all.
’Tis true, our master’s temper natural
Was fashioned fair in meek and dove-like guise;
But may not honey’s self be turned to gall
By residence, by marriage, and sore eyes?
If then he wreak on me his wicked will;
Steal to his closet at the hour of prayer;
And (when thou hear’st the organ piping shrill)
Grease his best pen, and all he scribbles, tear.
Better to bottom tarts and cheesecakes nice,
Better the roast meat from the fire to save,
Better be twisted into caps for spice,
Than thus be patched and cobbled in one’s grave.
So York shall taste what Clouet never knew,
So from our works sublimer fumes shall rise;
While Nancy earns the praise to Shakespeare due,
For glorious puddings and immortal pies.
Epitaph on a Child
Here freed from pain, secure from misery, lies
A Child, the darling of his parents’ eyes;
A gentler lamb ne’er sported on the plain,
A fairer flower will never bloom again!
Few were the days allotted to his breath;
Here let him sleep in peace his night of death.
Satire on the Heads of Houses
Or, Never a Barrel the Better Herring
O Cambridge, attend
To the Satire I’ve penned
On the Heads of thy Houses,
Thou Seat of the Muses!
Know the Master of Jesus
Does hugely displease us;
The Master of Maudlin
In the same dirt is dawdling;
The Master of Sidney
Is of the same kidney;
The Master of Trinity
To him bears affinity;
As the Master of Keys
Is as like as two peas,
So the Master of Queen’s
Is as like as two beans;
The Master of King’s
Copies them in all things;
The Master of Catherine
Takes them all for his pattern;
The Master of Clare
Hits them all to a hair;
The
