'Tis all by luck that things are carried— He'll suffer for it, when he's married."

Thus Sal, with tears in either eye, While victor Ned sate tittering by. Thus I, long envying your success, And bent to write and study less,

Sate down, and scribbled in a trice,

Just what you see—and

you despise.
You, who can frame a tuneful song,
And hum it as you ride along,
And, trotting on the king's highway,
Snatch from the hedge a sprig of bay,
Accept this verse, howe'er it flows,
From one that is your friend in prose.

What is this wreath, so green, so fair,
Which many wish, and few must wear;
Which some men's indolence can gain,
And some men's vigils ne'er obtain ?
For what must Sal or poet sue,
Ere they engage with Ned or you?
For luck in verse, for luck at loo?

Ah, no! 'tis genius gives you fame,
And Ned, through skill, secures the game.

WRITTEN AT AN INN AT HENLEY.

1 To thee, fair Freedom! I retire

From flattery, cards, and dice, and din; Nor art thou found in mansions higher Than the low cot or humble Inn.

2 "Tis here with boundless power I reign;
And every health which I begin,
Converts dull port to bright champagne;
Such freedom crowns it, at an Inn.

3 I fly from pomp, I fly from plate!
I fly from Falsehood's specious grin!
Freedom I love, and form I hate,

And choose my lodgings at an Inn.

4 Here, Waiter! take my sordid ore,

Which lackeys else might hope to win;
It buys, what courts have not in store,
It buys me freedom at an Inn.

5 Whoe'er has travell'd life's dull round,
Where'er his stages may have been,
May sigh to think he still has found
The warmest welcome at an Inn.

THE POET AND THE DUN. 1741.

"These are messengers

That feelingly persuade me what I am."

SHAKSPEARE.

Comes a dun in the morning and raps at my door-
"I made bold to call-'tis a twelvemonth and more-
I'm sorry, believe me, to trouble you thus, sir—
But Job would be paid, sir, had Job been a mercer."
My friend, have but patience—" Ay, these are your ways."
I have got but one shilling to serve me two days-

But, sir-prithee take it, and tell your attorney,
If I han't paid your bill, I have paid for your journey.
Well, now thou art gone, let me govern my passion,
And calmly consider-consider? vexation!

What whore that must paint, and must put on false locks,
And counterfeit joy in the pangs of the pox?

What beggar's wife's nephew, now starved, and now beaten,
Who, wanting to eat, fears himself shall be eaten?
What porter, what turnspit, can deem his case hard?
Or what Dun boast of patience that thinks of a Bard?
Well, I'll leave this poor trade, for no trade can be poorer,
Turn shoe-boy, or courtier, or pimp, or procurer;
Get love; and respect, and good living, and pelf,
And dun some poor dog of a poet myself.
One's credit, however, of course will grow better.
Here enters the footman, and brings me a letter :
"Dear Sir! I received your obliging epistle;
Your fame is secure-bid the critics go whistle.
I read over with wonder the poem you sent me,
And I must speak your praises, no soul shall prevent me.
The audience, believe me, cried out, every line
Was strong, was affecting, was just, was divine;
All pregnant as gold is, with worth, weight, and beauty,
And to hide such a genius was far from your duty.
I foresee that the court will be hugely delighted:
Sir Richard, for much a less genius, was knighted:
Adieu, my good friend! and for high life prepare ye;
're modest, I spare ye."
I could say much more, but you
Quite fired with the flattery, I call for my paper,

And waste that, and health, and my time, and my taper;
I scribble till morn, when, with wrath no small store,

Comes my old friend the mercer, and raps at my door.

Ah, Friend! 'tis but idle to make such a pother;

Fate, Fate has ordain'd us to plague one another."

1

A SIMILE.

What village but has sometimes seen
The clumsy shape, the frightful mien,
Tremendous claws, and shagged hair
Of that grim brute yclept a bear?
He from his dam the learn'd agree,
Received the curious form you see;
Who with her plastic tongue alone,
Produced a visage-like her own—
And thus they hint, in mystic fashion,
The powerful force of education.1
Perhaps yon crowd of swains is viewing,
Even now, the strange exploits of Bruin,
Who plays his antics, roars aloud,
The wonder of a gaping crowd!

So have I known an awkward lad,
Whose birth has made a parish glad,
Forbid, for fear of sense, to roam,
And taught by kind mamma at home,
Who gives him many a well-tried rule,
With ways and means-to play the fool.
In sense the same, in stature higher,
He shines, ere long, a rural squire,
Pours forth unwitty jokes, and swears,
And bawls, and drinks, but chiefly stares:
His tenants of superior sense
Carouse, and laugh, at his expense,
And deem the pastime I'm relating
To be as pleasant as bear-baiting.

1 Of a fond matron's education.

THE CHARMS OF PRECEDENCE.

A TALE.

"Sir, will you please to walk before?"— "No, pray, Sir-you are next the door."

66

Upon mine honour, I'll not stir."

"Sir, I'm at home; consider, Sir".

"Excuse me, Sir; I'll not go first."

66

Well, if I must be rude, I must——

But yet I wish I could evade it—

"Tis strangely clownish, be persuaded."
Go forward, Cits! go forward, Squires!
Nor scruple each, what each admires.
Life squares not, Friends! with your proceeding,
It flies while you display your breeding;
Such breeding as one's grannum preaches,
Or some old dancing-master teaches.
Oh! for some rude tumultuous fellow,
Half crazy, or, at least, half mellow,
To come behind you unawares,
And fairly push you both down stairs!
But Death's at hand-let me advise ye;
Go forward, Friends! or he'll surprise ye.
Besides, how insincere you are!

Do ye not flatter, lie, forswear,
And daily cheat, and weekly pray,

And all for this-to lead the way?
Such is my theme, which means to prove,
That though we drink, or game, or love,
As that, or this, is most in fashion,
Precedence is our ruling passion.

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