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At Havre, we play'd well our parts,
Tho' our Game they pretended to scoff, For Trumps we turn'd up English Hearts,
They threw down their Cards and sheer'd off. They have met with their match now they feel,
Their Shuffling and Cutting we check ; They were lurch'd at Crown Point, and lost Deal,
And faith they got slamm'd at Quebec.
It took an odd turn on Conflans;
So set up an old English Dance.
By the strength of that tune they were trounc'd, The Tididols looking confounded,
While Hawke faith their feather-heads pounc'd.
Our instruments always do wonders,
From Round-tops we give serenades ;
Our Concerts are brisk Cannonades.
Our messes they never can beat,
And as to our Balls they're forc'd-meat.
God bless our King George, with Three Cheers, Sirs,
And God bless his Consort, Amen.
For pastime we'll drub them again.
Beyond seas, my boys, we'll o'ercome,
And keep yourselves quiet at home.
WHY shou'd you, lov’d Sensible, shou'd you
The portrait of Grief you appear ;
With my lips let me wipe off that tear.
Let Patience to Clamour submit; It is better that Slander shou'd say you was wrong,
Than that you the wrong shou'd commit.
The Atheist, if really such madmen exist,
Belief will delirious decry,
What they cannot conceive they deny.
Thus some of your sex, old and ugly, will rail,
Like Atheists all goodness they doubt, Insisting men may o'er all beauties prevail,
Because themselves could not hold out.
You must pardon the cry, think not strange what I say,
They Mercy from you must receive; Be it known to your tenderness, 'tis the world's way,
Who injure will never forgive. Smile, smile, and smile on, let Day beam on your face,
To Oblivion be Obloquy hurl'd; By the best you're belov’d, thou fair figure of Grace,
So laugh at the rest of the world.
"HAT the World is a Stage, and the Stage is a
a , a School, Where some study Knave's parts, and some play the
Was said, and again so we say ;
As Vanity dresses the Play.
Do not seriously think of these whimsical times, But sing or say something in whimsical rhimes,
The World's but a Whim, and all that; I mean not the world which revolves on the poles, But the Animal World, that's made up of odd Souls,
The sons and the daughters of Chat.
For a new Exhibition their portraits we'll plan,
Where all may their semblances see;
So leave no employment for me.
Let us tenderly take off those masks, and their cures Attempt, by exposing such caricatures
In Impartiality's Hall; But if the gall’d sinner shou'd wince at a line, And cry, " Curse the fellow! the picture's not mine,"
The Prime-serjeant Painter I call.
Come, Satyr, assist me, my project is new.-
And this was his Symphony's Song : “ Shou'd I sing of these Times, or in prose or in verse, “ Weak things, but not wicked ones I shou'd rehearse,
A medley betwixt Right and Wrong. “ This Æra is much too insipid for me, Futility's only in practice I see,
“ Unworthy one stroke of my lash; • The fashion is Folly, let Folly go on, “ To shew Sense subsides, and True Tasteto Bon Ton,
“ And Genius is banish'd for Trash."
Disdain frown'd his brow, redd’ning Rage his eyes cast, Contempt o'er his countenance spread as he past,
No more Dissipation he'll school. We'll be quite the thing then, as life's but a toy, A bustle in which we can only enjoy
The Pleasure of playing the Fool.
VE tempted to err, ill betide the sad time,
Since we her
suffer for Grandmamma's crime, The Scurvy has tainted us all.
To curb the contagion which putrifies here,
In vain have the Faculty try'd;
In vulgar Éruptions of Pride.
A Poorness or Foulness of Blood;
Where Meanness in office is plac'd,
And fancy ill breeding is taste.
The malady takes a new turn;
As before they were bloated with scorn.
When Comates they coldly commend; Nay, oft it breaks out in illiberal sneers, i
And poisons the Fame of a Friend,