'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 sat tittering by.
Thus I, long envying your success,
And bent to write and study less,
Sat 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.
THE POET AND THE DUN, 1741.
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 moreI'm sorry, believe me, to trouble you thus, SirBut 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 daysBut, Sir-prithee take it, and tell your attorney If I ha'n'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 And counterfeit joy in the pangs of the pox! [locks, What beggar's wife's nephew, now starv'd, and now
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 shoeboy, 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 receiv'd 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
The audience, believe me, cried out every line [me.
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;
I could say much more, but you're modest, I spare
ye.'
Quite fir'd with the flattery, I call for my paper,
And waste that and health, and my time, and my
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.'
WRITTEN AT AN INN AT HENLEY.
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.
"Tis here with boundless pow'r I reign,
And every health which 1 begin
Converts dull port to bright champagne;
Such freedom crowns it at an Inn.
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.
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.
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..
WHAT village but has sometimes seen
The clumsy shape, the frightful mien,
Tremendous claws, and shagged hair,
Of that grim brute yclep'd a bear?
He from his dam, the learn'd agree,
Receiv'd the curious form you see,
Who with her plastic tongue alone
Produc'd a visage-like her own-
And thus they hint, in mystic fashion,
The powerful force of education ',-
Perhaps yon crowd of swains is viewing
Ev'n now, the strange exploits of Bruin,
Who plays his antics, roars aloud,
The wonder of a gaping crowd!
So have I known an aukward lad, Whose birth has made a parish glad, 1 of a fond matron's education.
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.
THE CHARMS OF PRECEDENCE.
'SIR, will you please to walk before?'
-No, pray, Sir-you are next the door.'
-Upon mine honour I'll not stir-
'Sir, I'm at home; consider, Sir-'
Excuse me, Sir; I'll not go first,'
'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 granam preaches,
Or some old dancing-master teaches.
O for some rude tumultuous fellow,
Half crazy, or at least, half mellow,
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