'Tis by such endearments affection is shewn, In silence more nobly express'd,

Than all the cant phrase, the Bon Ton of the town,
Where Love is a Monmouth-street guest.

Go on ye high births, and pretend to despise
Those scenes which to you are unknown;
But laugh not too long, rather aim to be wise,
And compare such a life with your own.

Vain jesters be mute, I'll a Sentiment give,
A Toast which esteem will not scorn;
May they who can taste them, Love's kisses receive,
And Tenderness meet a return.

THE TIMES.

TUNE.

"Once on a time, 'twas long ago."

GOOD

OOD people all, both great and small,
And eke, and aye, and also;

Pray lend an ear, and you shall hear,

And then I need not bawl so.

There was a Time, when Times were good,
The ancient Bard in rhyme sings;

So use Time well, 'tis Time we should,
We should so, did we time things.

But out of Time, and out of Tune,
We helter skelter go forth;
Sometimes too late, sometimes too soon,
Good lack-a-day, and so forth.
We give great folks the greatest crimes,
They can afford to father 'em,
But so impartial are the Times,
We're guilty, omnium gatherum.

Fox-hunting, boldly Bucks embrace,
But Sportsmen of discernment,
Abroad will chuse a Nabob's Chace,
Or hunt at home Preferment.
To hunt the Statesman, who's in play,
When Patriots cast-about, Sir,
A Pension stops the Hark-away,
And so the Field's flung out, Sir.

In such place-tempting Times as these,
Upright be our intentions;

Ill fare the Loon who first took Fees,
And him who first paid Pensions.
Yet Sine-cures we'll not abuse,
Nor their illustrious Givers,

We quarrel now, 'cause we can't chuse
Who shou'd be the Receivers.

Dear Englishmen and Country-folks,
Don't give yourselves uneas'ness,
Nor mind the flouts, the shouts, the jokes,
But only mind your bus'ness.
Wou'd one mind one, the Kingdom thro',.
And work within his station,

At home he'll find enough to do,
And not undo the Nation.

So to conclude, and make an end,
Of this nice-diction'd ditty,

Indeed 'tis Time, the Times shou'd mend,
In Country, Court, and City.

For our good Queen our song we'll sing,May she ne'er wake nor sleep ill;

And next, my lads,-God bless the King,. And all his faithful people.

AD INFINITUM.

SING

TUNE.

"Which nobody can deny."

INCE Life's but a jest, let us follow this ruleThere's nothing so pleasant as playing the Fool; In town we may practice, as well as at school, Which nobody can deny.

The World turns about, the same things o'er and

o'er;

We fool it; our forefathers fool'd it before:

They did what we do, which our sons will encore.

Life's but a half-holiday, lent us to stare;
We wander, and wonder, in Vanity's fair ;
All baby-like bawling for each bauble there.

If Denial shou'd follow a Lover's request,
Like a tooth-cutting child he's a troublesome guest,
Till the chit by his deary is hush'd to her breast.

When Discontents dare against Court-service riot,
The Minister, nurse-like, prepares proper diet;
They've Pensions for Pap, then the urchins are quiet.

We, Children-like, covet the glitter of gay things, Make racquet for ribbonds, and such sort of playthings

Which we cannot have tho'-without we can say things.

But before we can say, we shou'd see how things go, If the Market is high, or Majority low,

Then, just at the selling-price, give Yes, or No.

We take, or are all in our turns taken in;
The World, to be sure, 'tis a shame and a sin,
Might soon be much better,-but who will begin.
Each age has its folly, ours is dissipation,
Enfeebling-but why all this dull declamation!
If weaken'd, we'll drink to the Strength of the
Nation.

Allowing things wrong, Sir, which way shall we
right 'em?
'Tis Taste to hear good things, 'tis taste to slight 'em :
It was, is, and will be so, ad Infinitum,

Which nobody can deny.

THE RAREE SHEW.

TUNE.

"Now we're free from College Rules."

T

THE

HE Town's a Raree-Shew some say,
A rare Shew for projectors:

What pity 'tis, we spoil the play

For want of better Actors.

But sometimes in, and sometimes out,

'Tis so upon all stages;

Folks will not mind what they'are about,

But only mind the Wages.

Among the imitative arts,

Chief is an Actor's science:

Expressive Heads, and feeling Hearts,

With Nature form alliance.

Behind the scenes, tho' Party rage,

Caprice and Adulation,

With Slander-but we know the Stage

Shou'd represent the Nation.

A Representative indeed!

As Players make believe, Sir,
In this World's Drama, to succeed,
'Tis as you can deceive, Sir.

You may be caught, by face or dress,
Before you come to know folks;
But thee the Counterfeits confess,
They're all but only Shew-Folks.

Most aim great Characters to hit,
Pride spouts as Public Spirit,
Pert Dullness is mistook for Wit,
And Silence want of Merit.
Some study the Informer's arts,
Then Power their side espouses;
Some play the Pimps, and Flatterers parts,
In hopes to have full houses.

We title this same Droll we shew,
The Humours of the Nation-
Extremely high, extremely low,

Endemic Dissipation.

The World! What by that word we mean, Is self and self's disguises;

A busy, lazy, Lottery Scene,,

Where Folly fills up Prizes.

Whate'er we think, whate'er we say,
Whate'er we are pursuing,

Is o'er and o'er the self-same play
Of doing and undoing.
Life's vegetation ripes and rots,

'Till dust to dust returning:
So let us sprinkle well our spots,
And drink from Night to Morning.