THE SQUABBLE. TUNE. "Push the Bottle about," &c. N Ida one day, at Olympical feast, The Lass-loving Jove was the Host, Sir, Who gayly proposing a Health to the Best, On Venus he fix'd for his Toast, Sir; Each Deity smil'd as the Glass went about, But, pettishly, Pallas her Bumper threw out, She spoke not, but seem'd by her manner to doubt The justice of toasting Miss Venus. Then Juno broke silence, and swore by her power, Her face looking pale like a Spectre, "The Liquor was turning excessively sour, 66 The Toast gave a Fust to the Nectar." Minerva maliciously seconds the Queen, "I wonder, Papa, what it is you can mean, "Sure other Celestials are sweet and as clean," Tho' not quite so common as Venus. Dear M'em, replies Demirep Dio, and bow'd, To be sure you're a Prude, and Enjoyment to spite, Of the old-maiden face of Minerva. Her Sov'reign and Spouse haughty Juno may teize, But I, who am Empress of Love and its Laws, flaws; When Mars knit his brow and look'd frowning. Jove rose in a rage, as he rose tho', he reel'd, And Hiccups gave out by the hundred; Like Artists on Ice, to the right and left wheel'd, By Styx then he swore and he thunder'd : "Two to one, Madam Ox-Eye, is very foul play; "Miss Brain-born I beg you'll dispatch and away, "Or what Paris told me of both, I shall say." The Goddesses went away grumbling. Come, come! (says young Bacchus) pray, father, have done, They are off; in the Milky-Way, walking, We'll drink and be merry, the Gossips are goneOf a Song brother Phabus was talking. Apollo began, with the help of the Nine, The Ladies returning, good-natur'dly join, Such power has Music when mingled with Wine, All friendly were fuddled together. 1 5 THE PORTRAIT; OR, LA, LA, LA. TUNE. "Colin and Phabe." 7E Bibbers who sip limpid Helicon's Rill, Ye Lords of large Manors on Parnassus Hill, Allow me, a Scribbler, to try at Solfa, And languish, in liquids, a Love-Song, la, la. The Grubber in Kennels for old Iron seeks, With stumpy Quills raking each Classical Spa, I wou'd, if I cou'd, with the Muses make free, Ye Ladies of Lapland who beesoms bestride, Or, pair'd in Witch Whiskeys, aslant the Moon slide; If Fiends, or if Friends, you have harness'd to draw, Let me be Postilion, and trot on la, la. Ground Ivy has crown'd me instead of the Bays, Right Hollands inspires my rare Roundelays; Miss Soap Suds I sing, by Poetical Law, To Shift's more than to Shirts we are put, la, la, la. Ye Dabblers in Distichs wherever ye snore, Her Eye-brows are Cross-bows, the Bots are her Looks, With which my poor Senses are knock'd down like Rooks; Her Cheeks-but who can a comparison draw? Not Carmine,-no, no; she has none! 'tis la, la! Her Lips! and such Lips, and such Kisses they gave, That Prudence was gagg'd, and sent off as a slave; Her Neck has great Grace, after Meat and before; A TOAST. TUNE. "Ye Lads who approve." WH YHEN running Life's Race, The Taste of our days Is poaching for praise, The same ardour express, Both Sexes agree, Over Wine to be free, For Freedom's an Englishman's boast; So as freely we drink, What is Life? prithee say, While Health is our ruddy-fac'd Host; - We're certain to lose him, By taking too much of a Toast. These Common-place Rhimes Suit Common-place Times, Who now can of Genius boast ?— Why, really, I think 'Tis a Science to drink, And there's Genius in giving a Toast. Even Politics fail, Altercation grows stale, Of what now can either side boast ? All their Farce and their Fuss, |