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The Lass-loving Fove 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,
“ 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,
Your breeding just pars your good-nature, But ask the Gods round, and, Nem. Con. 'tis allow'd,
To all I'm superior in Feature. To be sure you're a Prude, and Enjoyment to spite, That ugly Shield bear, as if Lovers you'll fright, Enough, they are scar'd when they've once had a
Of the old-maiden face of Minerva.
Her Sov'reign and Spouse haughty Juno may teize,
And bed-chamber women be rating,
May listen to Sophisters prating;
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;
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 gone
Of a Song brother Phæbus 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.
THE PORTRAIT ;
TE Bibbers who sip limpid Helicon's Rill,
Allow me, a Scribbler, to try at Solfa,
I wou'd, if I cou'd, with the Muses make free,
Ye Ladies of Lapland who beesoms bestride,
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,
Ye Dabblers in Distichs wherever ye snore,
Her Eye-brows are Cross-bows, the Bolts 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; They found in my Mind's Magna Charta a flaw; Non-suited my Judgement, and cast me, LA, LA! Her Neck has great Grace, after Meat and before; Her Legs, but, alas ! I must mention no more, For Decency, lately, has kept me in awe, So to say any more wou'd be, but paw, paw, paw.
We gallop apace,
Mount Hope with Catch-weights,
For Fame's Give-and-take Plates, And pray what is Fame but a Toast?
The Taste of our days
Is poaching for praise,
The Ladies by Dress,
The same ardour express,
Both Sexes agree,
Over Wine to be free, For Freedom's an Englishman's boast;
As freely we think,
So as freely we drink,
What is Life ? prithee say,
But a Glass and away, While Health is our ruddy-fac'd Host;
But when we abuse him,
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,
No matter to us,
All their Farce and their Fuss, Deserves not the name of a Toast.