Lest a host

Beneath his foot be lost!

Turn'd aside

From his hide
Safe from wound,
Darts rebound.
From his nose

Clouds he blows:

When he speaks,
Thunder breaks!

When he eats,
Famine threats!
When he drinks,
Neptune shrinks!
Nigh thy ear,
In mid air,

On thy hand

Let me stand;
So shall I,

Lofty poet! touch the sky.

A GENTLE ECHO ON WOMAN.

IN THE DORIC MANNER.

[These verses were supposed, by the late Mr Reed, to have been written either in imitation of Lord Sterling's Aurora, or of a scene of the old play, entitled, "The Hog has lost his Pearl." There is a similar scene in Webster's Duchess of Malfy, and every reader must remember the dialogue between the Bearward and Echo in Hudibras.]

SHEPHERD.

ECHO, I ween, will in the woods reply,
And quaintly answer questions: shall I try;

SHEPHERD.

ECHO. Try.

What must we do our passion to express?

SHEPHERD.

ECHO. Press.

ECHо. Before.

How shall I please her who ne'er lov'd before?

SHEPHERD.

What most moves women when we them address?

SHEPHERD.

Say, what can keep her chaste, whom I adore!

SHEPHERD,

ECHO. A dress.

Eсно. A door.

ECHO. Lyar.

If music softens rocks, love tunes my lyre.

SHEPHERD.

Then teach me, Echo, how shall I come by her?

SHEPHERD.

ECно. Buy her.

Eсно. Her deer.

When bought, no question, I shall be her dear?

SHEPHERD.

But deer have horns: how must I keep her under?

SHEPHERD.

How shall I hold her, ne'er to part asunder?

SHEPHERD.

ECHO. Keep her under.

ECHо. A-Se under.

ECHо. Beer.

ECHо. Be kind.

But what can glad me, when she's laid on bier?

SHEPHERD.

What must I do, when woman will be kind?

SHEPHERD.

What must I do, when woman will be cross?

SHEPHERD.

Lord, what is she, that can so turn and wind?

SHEPHERD.

If she be wind, what stills her when she blows?

SHEPHERD.

ECHо. Be cross.

ECHO. Wind.

ECHO. Blows.

ECHO. Bang her.

ECHO. Hang her.

But, if she bang again, still should I bang her?

SHEPHERD.

Is there no way to moderate her anger?

SHEPHERD.

Thanks, gentle Echo! right thy answers tell
What woman is, and how to guard her well.

ECHо. Guard her well.

EPITAPH.*

HERE continueth to rot
The body of FRANCIS CHARTRES;
Who with an INFLEXIBLE CONSTANCY,
and INIMITABLE UNIFORMITY of life,
PERSISTED,

In spite of AGE and INFIRMITIES,
In the practice of EVERY HUMAN VICE,
Excepting PRODIGALITY and HYPOCRISY:

* This epitaph on a man infamous for all manner of vices, was written by Dr Arbuthnot,

His insatiable AVARICE exempted him from the first;
His matchless IMPUDENCE from the second.
Nor was he more singular in the undeviating pravity
of his manners, than successful in accumulating

WEALTH:

For, without TRADE or PROFESSION,
Without TRUST of PUBLIC MONEY,
And without BRIBE-WORTHY SERVICE,
He acquired, or more properly created,

A MINISTERIAL ESTATE.

He was the only person of his time

Who could CHEAT without the mask of HONESTY; Retain his primeval MEANNESs when possessed of

TEN THOUSAND a-YEAR;

And, having daily deserved the GIBBET for what

he did,

Was at last condemned to it for what he could not do.*

O indignant reader!

Think not his life useless to mankind! PROVIDENCE Connived at his execrable designs, To give to after ages conspicuous PROOF and

EXAMPLE

Of how small estimation is EXORBITANT WEALTH in the sight of GOD,

By his bestowing it on the most UNWORTHY of

ALL MORTALS.

JOHANNES jacet hic Mirandula-cætera norant Et Tagus et Ganges-forsàn et Antipodes.

*The Colonel, at a very advanced period of life, was tried for a rape.

APPLIED TO F. C.

HERE Francis Chartres lies*-be civil!
The rest God knows-perhaps the Devil.

EPIGRAM.

PETER complains, that God has given
To his poor babe a life so short:
Consider, Peter, he's in Heaven;
'Tis good to have a friend at court,

ANOTHER.

You beat your pate, and fancy wit will come:
Knock as you please, there's nobody at home.

EPITAPH OF BY-WORDS.

HERE lies a round woman, who thought mighty odd Ev'ry word she e'er heard in this church about God. To convince her of God the good Dean did endea

vour;

But still in her heart she held Nature more clever.

* Thus applied by Mr Pope: "Here lies Lord Coningsby."-H.