Had it come in the nick,
Had touch'd us to the quick;
But the meffenger fell fick.

Had it later been wrote,
And fooner been brought,
They had got what they fought,
But now it ferves for nought.

On Sandys they ran aground,
And our return was crown'd
With full ten thousand pound.

On

On Mr. THO. KILLI GREW's Return from Venice, and Mr. WILLIAM MURREY'S from Scotland.

Ο

UR refident Tom,

From Venice is come,

And hath left the statesman behind him :
Talks at the fame pitch,

Is as wife, is as rich;

And just where you left him, you find him.

But who fays he was not
A man of much plot,
May repent that falfe accusation;
Having plotted and penn'd

Six plays, to attend

The farce of his negotiation.

Before you were told

How Satan * the old

Came here with a beard to his middle;
Though he chang'd face and name,
Old Will was the fame,

At the noise of a can and a fiddle.

These statesmen, you believe,
Send straight for the shrieve, '

* Mr. W. Murrey.

For

For he is one too, or would be;

But he drinks no wine,

Which is a fhrewd fign

That all's not fo well as it should be.

These three, when they drink,
How little do they think
Of banishment, debts, or dying:
Not old with their years,

Nor cold with their fears;

But their angry stars ftill defying.

Mirth makes them not mad,

Nor fobriety fad;

But of that they are feldom in danger;'
At Paris, at Rome,

At the Hague they're at home;
The good fellow is no where a stranger.

TO SIR JOHN MENNIS, Being invited from Calais to Bologne, to eat a Pig.

ALL on a weeping Monday,

With a fat Bulgarian sloven,
Little admiral John

To Bologne is gone,

Whom I think they call old Loven.

Hadft thou not thy fill of carting,
Will Aubrey, count of Oxon.

When

When nofe lay in breech,
And breech made a speech,

So often cry'd a pox on?

A knight by land and water
Efteem'd at such a high rate,
When 'tis told in Kent,
In a cart that he went,
They'll fay now, hang him pirate.

Thou might't have ta'en example,
From what thou read'ft in ftory;
Being as worthy to fit

On an ambling tit

As thy predeceffor Dory.

But oh the roof of linen,

Intended for a shelter !

But the rain made an ass

And the fnow which you know is a melter.

But with thee to inveigle

That tender ftripling Aftcot,

Who was foak'd to the skin,

Through drugget fo thin,

Having neither coat nor waistcoat.

He being proudly mounted,
Clad in cloak of Plymouth,
Defy'd cart fo base,

For thief without grace,

That goes to make a wry mouth.

Nor

Nor did he like the omen,

For fear it might be his doom
One day for to fing,

With gullet in string,

---A hymn of Robert Wifdom.

But what was all this bufinefs?
For fure it was important:
For who rides i' th' wet

When affairs are not great,

The neighbours make but a sport on't.

To a goodly fat fow's baby,
O John, thou hadst a malice,
The old driver of fwine

That day fure was thine,
Or thou hadft not quitted Calais.

NATURA NATURATA.

WHAT gives us that fantastic fit,

That all our judgment and our wit

To vulgar custom we fubmit?

Treafon, theft, murder, and all the reft
Of that foul legion we so deteft,
Are in their proper names expreft.

Why is it then thought fin or fhame,

Thofe neceffary parts to name,

From whence we went, and whence we came ?

Nature,