See Varus, in his turn, affect
To treat you with as much negle&t;
Nay, fhuns you, as a worthless rogue,
For what? Because you're out of vogue.
A MAN there is, to all the country known,
Who neither lives in country, nor in town:
He's here, he's there, from place to place he flies,
In queft of that which Heav'n to man denies.
Curio, the prefent joys of life forgot,
Still fancies greater joys where he is not:
Hence, ever restless, go where'er you will,
You'll find poor Curio at your elbow still.
He boafts no wit; but yet, the Lord knows why, Curio ftill keeps the best of company.
Wherever well drefs'd folks in crowds appear,
Afk'd, or unafk'd-you'll ftill find Curio there.. At ev'ry venifon, ev'ry turtle feast,
See him, with anxious looks, a constant guest !
Drawn by the favoury steam, no doubt -Why no
He only comes to fee how matters go.
In fhooting feason, Curio takes his gun;
Is there a fishing party? He makes one:
Not for the fport-no; Curio neither went
To shoot, nor fish-but just to learn th' event.
To-day he comes, to fhew my Lord your place,
To-morrow does the fame, t'oblige his Grace:
Thus, mov'd by wires, this arrant punchinello,
For want of bufinefs-is a bufy fellow.
HOW dull's a country life! fage Bufo cries :
Dull as your life in town, his friend replies.
B. How can you bear the fame things o'er and o'er?
F. Yet what can Bath or London, pray, give more?
B. You eat and drink, and stroll about your fields.
F. Such are the joys your favourite town-life yields;
Yet, whilft our fields are green, our flow'rs are sweet,
You breathe in smoke, and tread the dusty street.
B. To fhift the fcene, we've various public places.
F. Yet ftill you meet the fame dull, bufy faces.
B. Then, fresh and fresh, we read the daily news.
F. Content, fome weekly journal I peruse.
B. Can you the rooms, cards, company resign?
F. Yes; for health, ease, good air, and wholesome wine.
B. But you've no neighbours. F. Yes, we have a few;
And then-we're seldom plagu'd with folks like you.
A REASONABLE SATISFACTION.
IMITATED FROM SIR THOMAS MORE.
WHILST glory's caufe, two long campaigns,
Thraso in diftant climes detains ;
His wife had fix'd her fad retreat
Contiguous to Sir Harry's seat ;
Who, in mere pity to her case,
Kindly fupply'd the husband's place.
Thrafo return'd, the tale transpires; Revenge the Captain's bofom fires.
He takes his fword, intent on blood, And meets the Knight behind a wood. "Scoundrel," quoth he, "fay, on thy life, "Haft thou prefum'd to kifs my wife?" The Knight, unmov'd by Thrafo's rant, Reply'd, and grasp'd his oaken plant,
Why, really, Sir, 'twixt me and you, "The thing you hint at's very true."
"You own it then!-oh! very well"Or elfe, by all the dev'ls in hell! «But that thou haft the fact confeft—
"This trufty sword had pierc'd thy breaft."
YOU often pity honeft Ned,
Condemn'd, you say, to write for bread.
His lib'ral foul, till Dodfley pays,
Still doom'd to faftor chew the bays.
Yet, by that jovial, ruddy look,
Not gain'd by poring o'er his book ;
That clammy ale his table spilt on;
That tankard, cover'd with a Milton;
By all these tokens, Ned, I fear,
Writes not fo much for bread-as beer.
STREPHON AND BLOWSALIND;
OR, THE AMOROUS SQUIRE.
STREPHON in vain pursued a rural fair,
The rofy object of his tender care!
The nymph, who long had lov'd a jollier fwain,
Still view'd the amorous Strephon with disdain.
Provok'd, he ftrove by force to storm her charms;
She rais'd her hand-and dafh'd him from her arms.
“Oh! ceafe," he cries, “fubdue that barbarous spite!
"Though doom'd to love-I was not born to fight!
"You've ftol'n my heart, deprive me not of breath;
"Those frowns are cruel-but that fift is death!"
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