IIO

While thus we resolv'd, and the pasty delay'd,
With looks that quite petrified, enter'd the maid ;
A visage fo fad, and so pale with affright,
Wak'd Priam in drawing his curtains by night.
But we quickly found out, for who could mistake her?
That she came with some ter ible news from the baker :
And so it fell out, for that negligent sloven,
Had shut out the party on shutting his oven.
Sad Philomel thus- -but let fimiles drop- 115
And now that I think on't, the story may stop.
To be plain, my good lord, it's but labour misplac'd,
To send such good verses to one of your taste ;
You've got an odd something--a kind of discerning
A relish--a taste-ficken'd over by learning ; 120
At least, its your temper, as very well known,
That

very slightly of all that's your own:
So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss,
You may make a mistake, and think flightly of this.

you think

S ON G.
The wretch condemn’d with life to part,

Still, still on hope relies ;
And ev'ry pang that rends the heart,

Bids expectation rise.
Hope, like the glimm'ring taper's light,

Adorns and chears the way ;
And still, as darker grows the night,

Emits a brighter ray.

SON G.
O

Memory! thou fond deceiver,
Still importunate and vain,
To former joys, recurring ever,

And turning all the past to pain ;
Thou, like the world, th' opprest oppressing,

Thy smiles increase the wretch's wo?
And he who wants each other blessing,

In thee niuft ever find a foe.

[67]

T H E

CLOW N's

R E P L Y.

JOHN TROT was desired by two witty peers
To tell them the reason why asses had ears?
* An't please you,' quoth John, “I'm not given to letters,
Nor dare 1 pretend to know more than my betters ;
Howe'er from this time I shall ne'er see your graces,
As I hope to be saved l without thinking on alles.'

HERE

ERE lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed, Who long was a bookseller's hack; He led such a damnable life in this world,

D people all, with one accord,
Lament for inadam Blaize,
Who never wanted a good word.

From those who spoke her praise.
The needy feldom pass'd her door,

And always found her kind ;
She freely lent to all the poor,

Who left a pledge behind.
She itrove the neighbourhood to please,

With manners wondrous winning,
And never follow'd wicked ways,

Unless when she was finning.
At church, in silks and satins new,

With hoop of monstrous size,
She never slumber'd in her pew,

But when she shut her eyes,
Her love was fought, I do aver,

By twenty beaux and more ;
The king himself has followed her,

When she has walk'd before.
But now her wealth and finery fled,

Her hangers-on cut short all;
The doctors found, when she was dead,

Her last disorder mortal.
Let us lament, in sorrow fore,

For Kent-street well may say,
That had she liv'd a twelvemonth more,

She had not dy'd to-day.

# Dr. GOLDSMITH and some of his friends

occasionally dined at the St. James's coffee-house. One day it was proposed to write epitapha on him. His country, dialect, and person, furnished subjects of witticism. He was called on for RETALIATION, and at their next meeting, produced the following Poem.

R Ε Τ Α ΙΙ Α Τ Ι ο Ν:

FIRST PRINTED IN M, DCC, L XXIV.

AFTER THE AUTHOR'S DEATH.

Of old, when Scarron his companions invited,
Each guest brought his dith, and the feast was united;
If our * landlord supplies us with beef and with filh,
Let each guest bring him felf, and he brings the best dish;
Our † dean shall be venison, just fresh from the plains ; 5
Our ( Burke shall be tongue, with a garnish of brains ;