Α Ν Ο Τ Η Ε R.
TEVER speaking, still awake, ,

Pleasing most when most I speak,
The delight of old and young,
Though I speak without a tongue.
Nought but one thing can confound me,
Many voices joining round me;
Then I fret, and rave, and gabble,
Like the labourers of Babel.
Now I am a dog, or crow,
I can bark, or I can low,
I can bleat, or I can fing,
Like the warblers of the spring.
Let the love fick-bard complain,
And I mourn the cruel pain ;
Let the happy swain rejoice,
And I join my helping voice ;
Both are welcome, grief or joy,
I with either sport and toy.
Though a Lady, I am stout,
Drums and trumpets bring me out;
Then I clash, and roar, and rattle,
Join in all the din of battle.
Jove, with all his loudest thunder,
When I'm vex'd can't keep me under;
Yet so tender is my ear,
That the lowest voice I fear ;
Much I dread the courtier's fate,
When his merit's out of date,
For I hate a silent breath,
And a whisper is my death.

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Α Ν Ο Τ Η Ε R. MOST things by me do rise and fall,

And as I please they're great and small;



Invading foes, without resistance,
With ease I make to keep their distance ;
Again, as I'm dispos'd, the foe
Will come, though not a foot they go.
Both mountains, woods, and hills, and rocks,
And gaming goats, and feecy flocks,
* And lowing herds, and piping swains,
Come dancing to me o'er the plains.
The greatest whale that swims the sea,
Does instantly my pow'r obey.
In vain from me the sailor fies
The quickest ship I can surprize,
And turn it as I have a mind,
And move it against tide and wind.
Nay, bring me here the tallest man,
I'll squeeze him to a little span.
Or bring a tender child and pliant,
You'll see me stretch him to a giant;
Nor shall they in the least complain,
Because my magic gives no pain.




Α Ν Ο Τ Η Ε R.


WE E are little-brethren twain,

Arbiters of loss and gain,
Many to our counters run,
Some are made, and some undone.
But men find it to their cost,
Few are made, but numbers loft.
Tho' we play them tricks for ever,
Yet they always hope our favour.


EAR Sheridan! a gentle pair

Of Galstown lads (for such they are)




Besides a brace of grave divines
Adore the smoothness of thy. lines;
Smooth as our bason's silver flood,
Ere George had robb'd it of its mud;
Smoother chan Pegasus' old shoe,
Ere Vulcan comes to make him new.
The board on which we set our a - S,
Is not so smooth as are thy-verses.
Compar'd with which, and that's enough),
A smoothing-ir'n itself is rough.
Nor praise I lefs that circumcision,
By modern poets call'd elision,
With which, in proper station plac'd,
Thy polish'd lines are firmly brac'd.
Thus, a wise tailor is not pinching,
But turns at ev'ry seam an inch in,
Or else, be sure, your broad-cloth breeches
Will ne'er be smooth, nor hold their stitches.
Thy verse, like bricks, defy the weather,
When smooth'd by rubbing them together ;
Thy words fo closely wedg'd and short are,
Like walls, more lasting without mortar;
By leaving out the needless vowels,
You save the charge of lime and trowels.
One letter ftill another locks,
Each groov'd, and dove-tail'd, like a box ;
Thy muse is tuckt up and succinct;
In chains thy syllables are linkt.
Thy words together tyd in small hanks,
Close as the Macedonian phalanx;
Or like the umbo of the Romans,
Which fiercest foes could break by no means.
The critic to his grief will find,
How firmly these indentures bind :
So in the kindred painter's art
The short'ning is the niceft part.





PHILOLOGERS of future ages,
How will they pore upon thy pages !
Nor will they dare to break the joints,
But help thee to be read with points :
Or elfe, to sew their learned labour, you
May backward be peras'd like Hebrew,
Wherein they need not lose a bit
Or of thy harmony or wit.
To make a work completely fine,
Number, and weight, and measure join ;
Then all must grant your lines are weighty,
Where thirty weigh as much as eighty.
All must allow your numbers more,
Where twenty lines exceed fourscore;
Nor can we


measure short,
Where less than forty fill a quart,
With Alexandrian in the close,
Long, long, long, long, like Dan's long nose.



A REBUS written by a LADY * on the Reverend

Dean Swift. With his ANSWER.

U T the name of the Man who his mi-) Yo-seph. .

Atress deny'd,
And let the firft of it be only apply'd

Then say, what a horse is that runs very fast,
And that which deserves to be first put the last; 5
Spell all then, and put them together, to find
The name and the virtues of him I design'd.
Like the patriarch in Egypt, he's vers'd in the flate ;
Like the prophet in Jewry, he's free with the great ;
Like a racer, he flies to fuccour with speed,
When his friends want his aid, or defert is in need.

The • Mrs Vanhomrigh.





"HE nymph who wrote this in an amorous fit,

I cannot but envy the pride of her wit,
Which thus she will venture profusely to throw
On so mean a design, and a subject so low.
For mean's her defign, and her fubje&t as mean, 5
The firft but a REBUS, the last but a Dean.
A dean's but a parson, and what is a rebus ?
A thing never known to the muses or Phobus ;
The corruption of verse; for when all is done,
It is but a paraphrase made on a pun.
But a genius like hers no subject can ftifle,
It shews and discovers itself thro'a trifle.
By reading this trifle, I quickly began
To find her a great wit, but the Dean a small man.
Rich ladies will furnish their garrets with stuff, 15
Which others for mantuas would think fine enough:
So the wit that is lavishly thrown away here,
Might furnish a second-rate poet a year.
Thus much for the verse, we proceed to the next,
Where the NYMPH has intirely forsaken her text : 20
Her fine panegyrics are quite out of seafon,
And what he describes to be merit is treafon :
The changes which faction has made in the state,
Have put the Dean's politics quite out of date :
Now no one regards what he utters with freedom, 25
And should he write pamphlets, no great man would

read 'em ; *And should want or defert stand in need of his aid, This racer would prove but a dull founder'd jade.


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