ΕΡΙΤΑΡΗ,

ON A COWARDLY OFFICER.

READER, a soldier here lies dead,
Who oft from fields of battle fled;

And, should he hear the trumpet's sound,
Tho' dead, he'll rise, and quit the ground.

THE MORALIST.

I GAVE fair Chloe a blushing rose,
And told her beauty, like the flow'r,
Its transitory empire owes

To youth's short-liv'd, but smiling hour.

I told her that delays were wrong;
"O name the happy hour!" I cried.:
She felt the moral of my song,

And was next morn my rival's bride.

ON THE LATE DUKE OF ARGYLE.

[GAY.]

ARGYLE, they say, has wit; for what?
For writing? No, for writing not.

ADVICE TO MR. POPE,

PREVIOUS TO HIS PUBLICATION OF HOMER.

O THOU, who, with a happy genius born,
Canst tuneful verse in flowing numbers turn,
Crown'd on thy Windsor's plains with early bays,
Be early wise, nor trust to barren praise:
Blind was the bard that sung Achilles' rage;
He sung, he begg'd, and curs'd th' ungiving age:
If Britain his translated song would hear,
First take the gold-then charm the list'ning ear;
So shall thy father Homer smile to see

His pension paid, tho' late, and paid to thee.

TO DR. TRAPP, ON HIS TRANSLATION OF VIRGIL. MIND but thy preaching, Trapp; translate no fur

ther:

Is it not written, " Thou shalt do no murther."

ON MR. GLOVER'S LEONIDAS BEING COMPARED TO VIRGIL.

EQUAL to Virgil! It may be, perhaps ;

But then, by Jove, 'tis Dr. Trapp's.

EPIGRAM.

[BY SWIFT.]

As Thomas was cudgell'd one day by his wife,
He took to his heels, and ran for his life:

Tom's three dearest friends came by in the squabble,
And screen'd him at once from the shrew and the

rabble.

They ventur'd to give him some wholesome advice; But Tom is a fellow of honour so nice,

Too proud to take counsel, too wise to take warning, He sent to all three a challenge next morning: He fought with all three-thrice ventur'd his life, Then went home again, and was thrash'd by his wife.

EXTEMPORANEOUS MOCK PARODY.

[BY DR. JOHNSON.]

HERMIT hoar, in solemn cell,

Wearing out life's evening grey,

Strike thy bosom, sage, and tell,
What is bliss, and which the way?

Thus I spoke, and speaking sigh'd,
Scarce repress'd the falling tear;

When the hoary sage reply'd,

Come, my lad, and drink some beer.

EPITAPH,

SENT TO BOB FORSTER,

THE CAMBRIDGE BARBER,

WITH A RECOMMENDATION TO HAVE IT ENGRAVED

ON HIS TOMB.

INCE WHICH THE UNIVERSITY HAS MADE HIM A CHA
RACTERISTIC PRESENT OF A SILVER BASON.

Cur smooth by Death's tremendous razor,
Lies Dapper Bob, eccentric shaver:
So warm his suds, his blade so keen,
Its gliding edge was scarcely seen;

One stroke or two, and from

your cheek He'd take the harvest of a week:

Kind earth, lie gently on his head,
For light his hand, and swift his tread.

ON AN ANTIQUATED LADY.

Too old for love, leave off that sin,
Reform-and put some water in your gin.

EPIGRAM.

TALK as you please of Turk or Pope, but I Still find my neighbour my worst enemy.

LINES SUPPOSED TO BE SPOKEN IMPROMPTU BY DEAN SWIFT,

ON HIS CURATE'S COMPLAINT OF HARD DUTY.

I MARCH'D three miles thro' scorching sand,
With zeal in heart, and notes in hand;
I rode four more to great St. Mary,
Using four legs when two were weary ;
To three fair virgins I did tie men
In the close bands of pleasing Hymen;
I dipp'd two babes in holy water,
And purify'd their mothers after;
Within an hour and eke a half

I preach'd three congregations deaf,
Which thund'ring out with lungs long-winded
I chopp'd so fast that few there minded :
My emblem, the laborious sun,
Saw all these mighty wonders done,
Before one race of his was run.

All this perform'd by Robert Hewitt,
What mortal else could e'er go thro' it?

LACONIC EPITAPH.

HERE I lays,

Kill'd by a chaise.