The Riots and Routs Of the Ins and the Outs, Is only a newspaper roast; In and Out there's the thing, May our Innings be long, May our bowling be strong, Middle-wicket I chuse for my post; Come, bumper away, 'Twixt the Stumps your Balls play, And win the Game Love-that's the Toast. THE HE World, and its Works, which we grieve to forsake, Are good or bad, just as we hit or mistake; We write and we wrangle, make parties and plan, So let us laugh on, to be serious is sad, A Man in his Senses wou'd now be thought mad. Our Senses are bubbles in Vanity's Fair, The more we're look'd into, the less we're esteem'd. Behold the Booth's Shew-cloth to draw the croud in, The Rustics are wrinkl'd with open-mouth grin. Each Muscle's in motion at Andrew's grimace, Who tickles the throng 'till they push in for place; Pray tell me what more is the World's present plan, Than places to get in, and push who push can. The shirtless untrowzer'd Philosophers Saws, Keep Sapience in schools, Folly now is the mode, My Bottle's my Hunter, I mount with a Song, Town, And up with our Brushers, to brush the Dust down. L ET those who have nothing to do but to hear, This scribbling, this pen-and-ink-itch is a crime, For what are all Similes to a Sirloin, The flowing of Fountains to filling of Wine? Huzza! for good eating and drinking. The Sapphics so soft, the Pindarics so rare, With many more names that are harder. With Classics, I beg you'll have nothing to do, Parnassus and Pegasus, cold Hypocrene, Let him take his Snuff, let his Sisters drink Tea, The Choice Spirit Horace compos'd Lyric Verse, Cap, scan 'em, and conjugate clever; SPRING. TUNE. "Come! pledge me Love, &c." OOK round, my Love! how chang'd the Scene, Now 'ray'd in flow'r enamell'd green, How rich the meadows shew? The Sun creative pow'r resumes, The bursting buds expand their blooms, The Herds, and Flocks on herbage feed, The Ice-bound Streams from fetters freed, On leafless boughs no candy'd frost But as in grief, for Winter lost, Thus sordid senseless Human Kind But mere existence prove; 'Till Beauty's Sunshine ope's the Mind, And melts the Mass to Love. For spite of Wealth, or Power's controul, 'Till WOMAN warms the frozen soul, A WONDER. TUNE. "Since Life's but a Jest." A You'll wonder, indeed, when this Wonder you know, We are wonderful high, and as wonderful low. We always are wond'ring at ev'ry thing new, |