Perplex'd, he still put off the evil day;
Grew fick, at length-and just expiring lay.
To which fad crifis having brought the matter,
"To wed, or die"-Jack wifely chofe the latter.

ON A GUARDIAN'S MARRYING HIS RICH WARD.

BY THE SAME.

MARIUS, by Calvus left in trust,
Does but the thing that's ftrictly juft;

To teftify his great regard,

And better to fecure his ward

From Irish bites, and fave her pelf,

He wifely marries her himself.

TO AN OLD LADY WHO BUILT A HOUSE IN A VERY BLEAK SITUATION.

BY THE SAME.

HER winds to feamen fells the Lapland witch;

Would vou but trade in winds, you'd foon grow rich.

ON A GLOBE OF THE WORLD.

BY THE SAME.

TINNIT INANE EST.

TRY, ere you purchase; hear the bauble ring: "Tis all a cheat; a hollow, empty thing!

VOLTAIRE'S VISIT TO CONGREVE*.

BY THE SAME.

ERE France, intent on her Utopian plan,

Had (purn'd all laws t' affert "the rights of man," On liberty fo zealously employ'd,

Both liberty and property destroy'd;

She long had view'd, with envy-and applause,

The matchlefs fyftem of our British laws :

When young Voltaire, by freedom's charms inspir'd,

To freedom's feat from defpotifm retir'd.

Here heroes he beheld, who bravely fought; Patriots, who wifely plann'd, or greatly thought;

See Johnfon's Life of Congreve.

Philofophers and bards of glorious name,
Pope, who poffefs'd, Young rifing into fame:
Congreve had long the temple's height attain'd,
Yet fcorn'd the art, by which that height he gain'd.
Voltaire, by laudable ambition led

To view the bard, whofe works he oft had read,
Now introduc'd, the youth with rapture fir'd,
Express'd how much the poet he admir'd!

Young man!" fays Congreve," you're of France,

I find;

"But polifh'd manners, and a liberal mind

"Unite us all-yet you're deceiv'd, I fear, ""Tis as a gentleman, I see you here."

Sir! quoth Voltaire, we've gentlemen in France, Who drefs, and bow, talk politics, and dance; But you are more—and therefore am I come : And, were you not, Sir, I had ftaid at home.

MARTIAL. LIB. II. EP. VII.

YES, you're a pretty preacher, Sir, we know it, Write pretty novels*, are a pretty poet;

A pretty critic, and tell fortunes † too;

Then who writes farce or epigrams like you?
At every ball how prettily you nick it!
You fiddle, fing, play prettily at cricket.
Yet, after all, in nothing you excel,

Do all things prettily, but nothing well.
What fhall I call you?-fay the best I can,
You are, my friend, a very busy ‡ man.

*Bellas, hiftorias.

+ Bellus es aftrologus.

Magnus es Ardelio.

AN EXPENSIVE JILT.

MART. LIB. 11. EP. L.

BY THE SAME.

Hæc noffe falus eft adolefcentulis. TER.

THERE's not an hour, my Phillis, in the day,

But contrive to make

you

my fondness pay. Your maid, an artful flut, now cries,

"Alas!

"What shall I do? I've broke my lady's glass."
Then Phillis comes herself, in tears, poor thing!
And tells me she has lost her favourite ring,
Or dropt, perchance, a diamond from her locket—
Then, a new piece of filk must* pick my pocket.
Behold her next, her effence-box produce,

Which wants fome rich perfume, or eau-de-luce.
Now an old hag, pretending to divine

And folve her dreams, must have some old tent wine†.
I then for fish the market must explore,

Some demirep will dine with us at four.

*Furtiva lucri.

"Nigra," to appease the infernal deities.