English

To him,

Meanewell, Andrew .

And. God save you Tutors both.
Mean. Fie Andrew , fie;
What kisse your hand? you smell, not complement.
Hear. Besides, you come too near when you salute.
Your breath may be discover'd; and you give
Advantage unto him you thus accoast
To shake you by the hand, which often doth
Endanger the whole arme. Your Gallant's like
The Chrystall glasse, brittle; rude handling crackes him.

M rs Potlucke

Pot. Now help good Heaven! 'tis such an uncouth thing
To be a widow out of Term-time — — I
Doe feele such aguish Qualmes, and dumps and fits,
And shakings still an end — — I lately was
A wife I do confesse, but yet I had
No husband: he (alas) was dead to me
Even when he liv'd unto the world; I was
A widdow whiles he breath'd; his death did only
Make others know so much. But yet — —
Hear. How now?
So melancholy sweet?

Hear. W E 're made my Boys, we're made; me thinks I am
Growing into a thing that will be worship'd.
Slic. I shall sleep one day in my Chaine, and Skarlet
At Spittle -Sermon.
Shap. Were not my wit such
I'd put out monies of being Maior.
But O this braine of mine! that's it that will
Barre me the City Honour.
Hear. We're cry'd up
O'th' sudden for the sole Tutors of the Age.

'Twould wrong our Author to bespeake your Eares;
Your Persons be adores, but Judgement feares:
For where you please but to dislike, be shall
Be Atheist thought, that worships not his Fall.
Next to not marking, 'tis his hope that you
Who can so ably judge, can pardon too.
His Conversation will not yet supply
Follies enough to make a Comedy;
He cannot write by th' Poll; nor Act we here
Scenes, which perhaps you should see liv'd elsewhere;
No guilty line traduceth any; all

" Say It With Flowers "

Sweetheart, I would send you flow'rs,
On your breast I'd pin them,
Were it not the Freudian pow'rs
See such symbols in them.

There is not a flower that blows
Free from hintings hazy,
From the fragrant, flagrant Rose
To the modest Daisy.

I am strictly Peter Bell
On this floral question,
Yet the Primrose, Freudians tell,

CANTO THE FOURTH .

At length are seen the beauties long deferr'd,
And lips of melting snow have kiss'd the Bird.
Nor Fiction's herald was the gossip Fame,
But modest when the living meteor came;
His brilliant eye no painter's hue could reach,
No voice could emulate his gifted speech;
Nor less approv'd credentials to the Fair,
A look of spirit and a martial air.
Alas, that Beauty's provident Creator
Should in these charms have dress'd a shameless traitor!

CANTO THE THIRD .

In this light bark, his fugitive abode,
A pair of Nymphs, gay libertines, were stow'd —
A couple of Dragoons to these were join'd,
In ribbald wit both heroes of their kind —
A Monk — a Nurse — a thund'ring Gasconader,
Of Saints and Vestals a renown'd invader.
It must be own'd, that for a Bird of grace
The whims of chance had found a comic place:
But Strange are bedfellows that flock together,
With no credentials for it but the weather .

CANTO THE SECOND .

The feather'd Pupil could not be a fool
In gift of speech at such a vocal school,
But he was eloquent; the silver tone
Was by the Nuns adopted for their own.
It may be added that he talk'd a book
With a monastic air, and sapient look;
No gasconader, flirting, and profane,
Of the fair sex impertinently vain,
Or who, by secular endearments press'd,
Was into vice and foppery caress'd;
For he was moral, and of beak demure,
A Saint in feathers, innocent and pure;

CANTO I

T HOU , whose attractions, from the world retir'd,
Glow without art, and blush to be admir'd —
Whose piercing intellect, and born for truth,
To virtue has allied the charm of youth —
Has bound the Muses in a wreath of taste,
And vestal honour with a dimple grac'd;
At whose command I sing, in playful rhyme,
Offending purity, infection's crime,
The dupe, the cheat, the polish'd, and the coarse,
The saint by art, the libertine by force;
Be thou alone the genius of my lay,

Now with the rights of children three
Caesar rewards my Muse and me,
And mateless I'll remain.
The boon that one alone can give
By his divine prerogative
Must not be made in vain.