- 15

Him for a happy man I own,
Whofe fortune is not overgrown ;
And happy be who wisely knows
To use the gifts that heav'n bestows ;
Or, if it please the pow'rs divine,
Can suffer want, and not repine.
The man who, infamy to fhun,
Into the arms of death would run,
That man is ready to defend
With life his country, or his friend.

20

VERSEs made for women who cry apples, &c.

115

ON I O N S.

COM

OME, follow me by the smell,

Here's delicate onions to sell,
I promise to use you well.
They make the blood warmer :
You'll feed like a farmer;
For this is ev'ry cook's opinion,
No fav'ry dith without an onion :
But left your kissing should be spoild,
Your onions must be thoroughly boil'd;

Or elfe you may spare

Your mistress a share,
The secret will never be known;

She cannot discover

The breath of her lover, But think it as sweet as her own.

ÖY E R

Ö Y S T E R S.
C
HARMING oysters I cry,

My masters, come buy, i
So plump and so fresh,
So sweet is their flesh;
No Colchefter oysteri
Is sweeter and moifter;.

Your ftomach they settle,
And rouse up your mettle ; ...

They'll make you a dad
Of a lafs or a lad; ;
And Madam your wife

They'll please to che life ;
Be the barren, be the old,
Be she slut, or be she fcold,
Eat my oysters, and lie near her,
She'll be fruitful, never fear her.

10

1.5

HE R.

HERRINGS
BE
E not sparing;

Leave off swearing
Buy my herring
Fresh from Malahide *,

Better ne'er was try'd. ,
Come eat 'em with pure fresh butter and mustard,
Their bellies are foft, and as white as a custard.
Come, fixpence a dozen to get me some bread,
Or, like my own herrings, I soon shall be dead.

a

O R A N G E S.

COME
OME buy my fine oranges, sauce for your veal,
And charming when squeez'd in a pot of brown.

ale. Well roasted with sugar and wine in a cup, They'll make a sweet bishop when gentlefolks fup.

To LOVE.

IN
N all I wish how happy should I be,

Thou grand deluder, were it not for thee?
So weak thou art, that fools thy pow'r despise,
And yet so strong, thou triumph'ft o'er the wife.
Thy traps are laid with such peculiar art,
They catch the cautious; let the rath depart.
Most nets are filld by want of thought and care,
But too much thinking brings us to thy snare.

Where held by thee, in slavery we stay,
And throw the pleasing part of life away.

HO

Malahide, about five miles from Dublin, famous for berrings.

21

But what does most my indignation move, Discretion, thou wert ne'er a friend to Love ! Thy chief delight is to defeat those arts, By which he kindles mutual flames in hearts; While the blind loit'ring god is at his play, 15 Thou steal'ft his golden pointed darts away ; Those darts which never fail ; and in their stead Convey'st malignant arrows tipt with lead : - The heedless god suspecting no deceits, Shoots on, and thinks he has done wondrous feats ; But the poor nymph, who feels her vitals burn, And from her shepherd can find no return, Laments and rages power

divine, When, curs’d Difcretion! all the fault was thine. Cupid and Hymen thou hast set at odds,

25 And bred such feuds betwixt those kindred gods, That Venus cannot reconcile her sons ; When one appears, away the other runs. - The former scales, wherein he us’d to poise Love against love, and equal joys with joys, 30 Are now fill'd up with avarice and pride, Where titles, power, and riches still subside. Then, gentle Venus, to thy father run, And tell him how thy children are undone ; Prepare his bolts to give one fatal blow,

35 And strike Discretion to the lades below.

at the

The following lines were wrote upon a very old glass of Sir ARTHUR Acheson's.

FR
RAIL glass, thou mortal art, as well as I,

Tho' none can tell, which of us first shall die.

Answered

Anfwered extempore by Dr SWIFT. We both are mortal; but thou, frailer creature,

, May'st die, like me, by chance, but not by na

ture.

Verses cut by two of the Dean's friends upon

a pane of glafs in one of his parlours. A

Bard, on whom Phoebus his fpirit bestow'd,

Resolving t'acknowledge the bounty he ow'd, Found out a new method at once of confefling, And making the most of fo mighty a blessing. To the god he'd be grateful, but mortals he'd choufe By making his patrón preside in his house;

6 And wisely foresaw this advantage from thence, That the god would in honour bear most of th' ex

pence : So the bard he finds drink, and leaves Phebus to treat With the thoughts he inspires, regardless of meat. jo? Hence they that come hither expecting to dine, Are always sobb’d of with sheer wit and sheer wine.

On another window.

ARE

RE the guests of this house still doom'd to be

cheated ? Sure the fates have decreed they by halves should be

treated. In the day of good John t, if you came here to dine, You had choice of good meat, no choice of good wine.