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Saunders, faid I, I would rather than a Quart of Ale, He would come into our Kitchen, and I would pin a Dish-clout to his Tail.

And now I must go, and get Saunders to direct this Letter,

For I write but a fad Scrawl, but my

fhe writes better.

Sifter Marget

Well, but I must run and make the Bed before my Master comes from Pray'rs,

And fee now, it ftrikes Ten, and I hear him coming up Stairs:

Whereof I could fay more to your Verses, if I could write written Hand;

And so I remain in a civil Way, your Servant to command,

MARY..

A quibbling ELEGY on the worShipful Judge BOAT.

Written in the Year 1723.

'O mournful Ditties, Clio, change thy Note,

T%

Since cruel Fate hath funk our Justice Boat; Why fhould he fink, where nothing feem'd to prefs? His Lading little, and his Ballast lefs.

Toft in the Waves of this tempestuous World,
At length, his Anchor fixt, and Canvas furl'd,

To

To* Lazy-Hill retiring from his Court,

*

At his Ring's-End he founders in the Port;
With Water fill'd, he could no longer float,
The common Death of many a ftronger Boat.

A POST fo fill'd, on Nature's Laws entrenches, Benches on Boats are plac'd, not Boats on Benches. And yet our Boat, how fhall I reconcile it? Was both a Boat, and in one Senfe a Pilot. With ev'ry Wind he fail'd, and well cou'd tack: Had many Pendents, but abhorr'd a § Jack. He's gone, although his Friends began to hope, That he might yet be lifted by a Rope.

BEHOLD the awful Bench, on which he fat,
He was as bard, and pond'rous Wood as that:
Yet, when his Sand was out, we find at last,
That, Death has overfet him with a Blaft.
Our Boat is now fail'd to the Stygian Ferry,
There to fupply old Charon's leaky Wherry:
Charon in him will ferry Souls to Hell;

A Trade, our | Boat hath practis'd here fo well.
And, Cerberus hath ready in his Paws,
Both Pitch and Brimstone to fill up his Flaws;
Yet, fpight of Death and Fate, I here maintain,
We may place Boat in his old Poft again.

The

Two Villages near the Sea, where Boatmen and Seamen

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The Way is thus, and well deferves your Thanks:
Take the three strongest of his broken Planks,
Fix them on high, confpicuous to be feen,

Form'd like the Triple-Tree near* Stephen's-Green;
And, when we view it thus, with Thief at End on't,
We'll cry; look, here's our Boat, and there's the
Pendent.

The EPITAPH.

HERE lies Judge Boat within a Coffin,
Pray, gentle Folks, forbear your Scoffing.
A Boat a Judge! yes, where's the Blunder!
A wooden Judge is no fuch Wonder.
And, in his Robes, you must agree,
No Boat was better deckt than He.
'Tis needless to defcribe him fuller,
In short, he was an able † Sculler.

*Where the Dublin Gallows ftands.

+ Query, Whether the Author meant Scholar, and wilfully mistook?

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On DREAM S.

An Imitation of PETRONIUS.

Somnia, quæ mentes ludunt volitantibus umbris, &c:

TH

Written in the Year 1724.

HOSE Dreams that on the filent Night
intrude,

And with falfe flitting Shades our Minds delude.
Jove never fends us downward from the Skies,
Nor can they from infernal Mansions rife ;
But all are mere Productions of the Brain,
And Fools confult Interpreters in vain.

FOR, when in Bed we rest our weary Limbs, The Mind, unburthen'd, fports in various Whims. The bufy Head with mimick Art runs o'er The Scenes and Actions of the Day before.

THE drowfy Tyrant by his Minions led,
To regal Rage devotes fome Patriot's Head.
With equal Terrors, not with equal Guilt,
The Murd'rer dreams of all the Blood he fpilt.

ΤΗΣ

THE Soldier fmiling hears the Widow's Cries, And ftabs the Son before the Mother's Eyes. With like Remorfe his Brother of the Trade, The Butcher, feels the Lamb beneath his Blade.

THE Statesman rakes the Town to find a Plot, And dreams of Forfeitures by Treafon got. Nor lefs Tom T-dman of true Statefman Mold, Collects the City Filth in Search of Gold.

A

ORPHANS around his Bed the Lawyer fees, And takes the Plaintiff's and Defendant's Fees. His Fellow Pick-Purfe, watching for a Job, Fancies his Fingers in the Cully's Fob.

THE kind Physician grants the Husband's Prayers, Or gives Relief to long-expecting Heirs. The fleeping Hangman ties the fatal Noofe; Nor unfuccefsful waits for dead Mens Shoes.

THE grave Divine, with knotty Points perplext, As if he were awake, nods o'er his Text: While the fly Mountebank attends his Trade, Harangues the Rabble, and is better paid.

THE hireling Senator of modern Days, Bedaubs the guilty Great with nauseous Praise: And Dick the Scavenger with equal Grace, Flirts from his Cart the Mud in Wlp-le's Face.

* WHIT

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