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I pity wretched Strephon, blind

To all the charms of woman-kind.

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Should I the queen of love refufe,

Because the rose from stinking ooze ?
To him that looks behind the scene,
Statira's but fome pocky queen.

WHEN Cælia all her glory fhows, If Strephon would but ftop his nofe,

Who now fo impioufly blafphemes

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Her ointments, daubs, and paints, and creams,
Her washes, flops, and every clout,

With which he makes fo foul a rout;
He foon will learn to think like me,
And blefs his ravifh'd eye to fee
Such order from confufion fprung,
Such gaudy tulips rais'd from dung.

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THE POWER OF TIME†.

Written in the year 1730.

F neither brafs nor marble can withstand

IF

The mortal force of Time's destructive hand

If mountains fink to vales; if cities die,
And lefs'ning rivers mourn their fountains dry:
When my old caffock (faid a Welfh divine)
Is out at elbows, why fhould I repine?

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THE REVOLUTION AT MARKET-HILL.

Written in the

year 1730.

FRom

Rom diftant regions Fortune fends An odd triumvirate of friends; Where Phoebus pays a fcanty stipend, Where never yet a codling ripen'd:

† Scarron bath written a larger poem on the fame fubjec

Hither the frantic goddess draws

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Three fuff'rers in a ruin'd caufe:

By faction banish'd here unite,

A Dean*, a Spaniard †, and a Knight
Unite, but on conditions cruel;

The Dean and Spaniard find it too well:
Condemn'd to live in fervice hard;
On either fide his Honour's guard,
The Dean to guard his Honour's back,
Muft build a caftle at Drumlack ||;
The Spaniard, fore against his will,
Muft raise a fort at Market-hill
And thus the pair of humble gentry
At north and south are posted centry ;··
While in his lordly caftle fixt

The Knight triumphant reigns betwixt :
And what the wretches moft resent,
To be his flaves must pay him rent;
Attend him daily as their chief,
Decant his wine, and carve his beef.
Oh! Fortune ! 'tis a fcandal for thee
To smile on those who are least worthy
Weigh but the merits of the three,
His flaves have ten times more than he..

PROUD Baronet of Nova Scotia !
The Dean and Spaniard muft reproach ye:
Of their two fames the world enough rings;
Where are thy fervices and fuff'rings?
What if for nothing once you kift,

Against the grain, a monarch's fift?

The author.

Col. Henry Leflie, who ferved and lived long in Spain.
Sir Arthur Achefon.

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The Irish name of a farm the Dean took, and was to build on, but changed his mind. He called it Drapier's-hill. Vide the poem fo called, p. 342.

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What if among the courtly tribe

You loft a place and fav'd a bribe ?
And then in furly mood came here
To fifteen hundred pounds a-year,
And fierce against the Whigs harangu❜d?
You never ventur❜d to be hang'd.
How dare you treat your betters thus ?

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·40

Are you to be compar'd with us?

COME, Spaniard, let us from our farms Call forth our cottagers to arms;

Our forces let us both unite,

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Attack the foe at left and right.

From Market-hill's exalted head,

Full northward let your troops be led ;
While I from Drapier's-mount descend,
And to the fouth my fquadrons bend.
New-river-walk, with friendly shade
Shall keep my hoft in ambuscade;

While you, from where the bason stands,
Shall scale the rampart with your bands.

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Nor need we doubt the fort to win;
I hold intelligence within.

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True, Lady Anne no danger fears,
Brave as the Upton fan fhe wears;

Then left upon our first attack

Her valiant arm should force us back,
And we of all our hopes depriv'd;

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I have a ftratagem contriv'd.

By these embroider'd high heel'd fhoes
She shall be caught as in a noose;
So well contriv'd her toes to pinch,
She'll not have pow'r to ftir an inch :
These gaudy shoes muft Hannah place
Direct before her lady's face;
The shoes put on our faithful portress
Admits us in to ftorm the fortrefs;
My Lady's waiting maid.

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While tortur'd Madam bound remains,

Like Montezume in golden chains,

Or like a cat with walnuts fhod,
Stumbling at ev'ry step she trod.
Sly hunters thus, in Borneo's ifle,
To catch a monkey by a wile

The mimic animal amuse ;

They place before him gloves and fhoes ;
Which when the brute puts awkward on,
All his agility is gone :

In vain to frisk or climb he tries;

The huntsmen seize the grinning prize.
BUT let us on our first affault
Secure the larder and the vault :
The valiant Dennis* you must fix on,
And I'll engage with Peggy Dixon † :
Then if we once can seize the key
And cheft, that keeps my Lady's tea,
They muft furrender at difcretion:
And foon as we have gain'd poffeffion,
We'll act as other conq'rors do,
Divide the realm between us two:

Then (let me fee) we'll make the Knight

Our clerk, for he can read and write;
But muft not think, I tell him that,
Like Lorimer to wear his hat;
Yet, when we dine without a friend,
We'll place him at the lower end.
Madam, whofe skill does all in drefs lie,
May ferve to wait on Mrs Leslie ;
But left it might not be fo proper,

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That her own maid should overtop her;

To mortify the creature more,

We'll take her heels five inches low'r.

FOR Hannah, when we have no need of her, 105 "Twill be our int'reft to get rid of her:

The butler.

+ The housekeeper.

The agent.

And when we execute our plot,
'Tis best to hang her on the spot ;
As all your politicians wife

Dispatch the rogues by whom they rise.

TRA ULU S.

A dialogue between Toм and ROBIN.
The first part.

Written in the year 1730.

Tom. SAY, Robin, what can Traulus mean
By bell'wing thus against the Dean ?

Why does he call him paltry scribler,
Papif, and Jacobite, and lib'ler?

Yet cannot prove a single fact?

Robin. Forgive him, Tom, his head is crackt.

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Tom. What mischief can the Dean have done him, That Traulus calls for vengeance on him?

Why must he fputter, fpawl, and slaver it
In vain against the people's fav'rite?
Revile that nation-faving paper,

Which gave the Dean the name of Drapier?
Robin. Why, Tom, I think the cafe is plain,

Party and spleen have turn'd his brain.

Tom. Such friendship never man profefs'd,

The Dean was never fo carefs'd;

For Traulus long his rancour nurst,
Till, God knows why, at laft it burst.
That clumfy outside of a porter,
How could it thus conceal a courtier ?

Robin. I own, appearances are bad;

Yet ftill infift the man is mad.
VOL. VI.

Hh

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