In ev'ning fair you may behold The clouds are fring'd with borrow'd gold, And this is many a lady's cafe, Who flaunts about in (a) borrow'd lace.

Grave matrons are like clouds of fnow, Their words fall thick, and foft, and flow. While brisk (b) coquets, like rattling hail, Our ears on every fide affail.

Clouds when they intercept our fight,
Deprive us of celeftial light:
So when my Chloe I puriue,
No heav'n befides I have in view.
Thus on (c) comparison you see,
In ev'ry inftance they agree,
So like, fo very much the fame,
That one may go by t'others name.
Let me (d) proclaim it then aloud,
That ev'ry woman is a cloud.

The VICAR's Race.
By JMS, Efq;
I'll tell you a ftory, a ftory so merry,

Of a wager that happen'd near Elford-ferry, Where my friend parfon V-n, let out with much heart,

And fo run a race with himself and was beat.

Says the noble Earl Berkshire, a peer yet unfold,

Whofe wit is ftill new, and whofe bounty is old, That you cannot five times round my gardens,

The gard'ners rejoic'd o'er each reverend ftride, And bleffing the prieft laid their rollers afide.

Each echo reply'd in the praife of Tom V-, As with speed he urg'd on his large collar of brawn,

Till the legs not rememb'ring a very long score, Forfook the great pauch which fupply'd them before.

As citizens choak'd in the pit with fat laughter.

As the fwain in Duke Montagu's picture of After,

As a dull Cambridge Soph who clofes his rhebus, So feem'd parfon V----n, and to look'd like a Nebus.

Whilft bishops for places and penfions contend,

New tranflations are wifh'd, and old herefies

mend,

Then let us remember in bumpers around, The ftaunch parfon V----n who so well stands his ground.

And let all the Staffordshire laymen go pray, Since firft the fat vicar has fhewn us the way, That our bishops when next in the fenate they

meet,

May fo run a race by themselves, and be beat.

The Rofe-Bud; a Song.

OBSERVE the rofe-bud ere it blows,
While the dawn glimmers o'er the sky!
Obferve its filken leaves unfold,

As fond of day's majestic eye!
At noon, more bold, in fulleft bloom,
It spreads a gals of fweets around;
At eve it mourns the fetting fun,

And sheds its honours on the ground.
So beauty's bafhful bud appears,

So blushes in the eye of praife:
So ripens in the noon of life,

And wither'd fo in age decays.
Time is the canker-worm of youth,
It bites the bloffom as it grows,
It blafts the flow'r that blooms at full,

And rudely sheds the falling rofe.
See, beauty, fee! how love and joy

On youth's light pinions hafte away; How fwift the moments glide along,

And age advances with delay! Now, beauty! crop the rofe-bud now, And catch the effence as it flies; Let pleasure revel in its bloom,

Let time poffefs it when it dies.

By borrow'd, I mean fuch as run in borest tradesmany of them did for French filver lace agai (b) Girls who love to hear themselves prate,

(c) I hope none will be fo uncomplaisant to (d) Tell it to the whole world, not to proclaim

The

The merry Monarch; or Knighthood a Jeft. A TALE.

WHEN good king Jemmy wore the British

crown,

A pleafant jef for highest wit went down:
A pun, a quibble, a conundrum quaint,
Oft made a bishop of a man no faint.
Smart repartees pais'd all for flerling coin,
And wit was then as unrefin'd as wine.
The king himself, fo reft his merry foul,
Could crack his joke ---- nor would his mirth
controul;

But laught full hearty, if the jeft was keen,
Nor could the care of kingdoms give him spleen.

Thus ftory tells ---- As he rode out one day, To chafe the ftag, he loft, by chance, his way: The courtiers eager, fcour the ipacious field, While duty there did unto pleature yield. Along king Jemmy, with his ufual grace, Kept ftepping onward in a common pace. 'Till near two cloruns he came, who work'd full hard,

Hedging a clofe, behind a farmer's yard.

They fpy'd the king, and from his awkward

Surrounded by a gaudy Scottish rout:

Fear not thy fortune, Jemmy loves a loon, And thou'rt fome ftarving knight that wants a boon.

Weel fare ye (quoth the king) ando'my weard, Geud character ye to your prince affeurd, And Ife wat weel, it au gangs to bis ear; Why then (quoth Dick) for once the truth he'll hear.

So faying, to a grove that lay in fight, On rede the king, and there thought fit to light; Cut ftretch'd his royal limbs upon the place, And flept full fweetly on the verdant grafs; No policies of ftate difturb'd his mind, But that good prince fnoar'd loud as any binds Until the chafe was o'er, a flag was dead, When duty found a place in courtiers heads: Nor had the noble train long fought their lord, E'er faft they found him on the gay greenfword. Hafty they then from reeking courfers fpring, While with a smile up rofe the jocound king.

My lords (quoth he) as you rid yonder by, Did ye not, hedging, twa auld carles spy, My liege, we did (Quoth one) ·See then (faid he) them bither

In leather doublets clad?

lead.

1111

Rend the blue arch, and ring th' alarms of war! Shrill trumpets, thund'ring drums, in concert join'd,

Fill with ftern horror ev'ry blaft of wind;
The martial din affails my foft retreat,
Stranger to noife! the Mufes filent feat!
--But fee! all gay, the mimick hoft appears,
In laughter loud, to difiipate my fears,
Tho' arm'd with fauchions, buff and ban-

dileers:

Eating, not arms, to day is all their trade,
Real the feast, the fighting mafquerade.
---So the dull afs, when cloath'd in lion's skin,
Shows terrible without, tho' calm within,
Pretends to reign the monarch of the wood,
And loudly brays to make his title good;
But vain to the pretence, the bray as vain,
His ears betray the cheat, and he's an afs again,

The following Lines were wrote on her Majefty's fetting up the Buftoes of Mr. Locke, Sir Ifaac Newton, Mr. Woolafton, and Dr. Clarke, in the Hermitage at Richmond.

Sic fiti letantur Docti.

WITH honour thus by Carolina plac'd,
How are these venerable huftoes grac'd!
O queen! with more than regal title crown'd,
For love of arts.and piety renown'd!
How do the friends of virtue joy to fee
Her darling fons exalted thus by thee!

1

Alafs! I die

In pitiful condition.
Before the news
Of your poor fpoufe
Had reached our New-
Haven,

My dear wife dy'd
Who was my bride,
In Anno eighty feven.

Thus being free,

Let's both agree To join our hands, for Boldly aver

[I do

A widower Is fitteft for a widow. You may be fure "Tis not your dow'r I make this flowing verfe on; In thefe fmooth lays, Tonly praile ffon. The glories of your perFor the whole that Was left to Mat, Fortune to me has granIn equal fore, [ted, Nay I have more, What Matthew always wanted.

No teeth, 'tis trae, You have to fhew, The young think teeth inviting;

But filly youths!

I love thofe mouths Where there's no fear of biting. A leaky eye

That's never dry, Thefe woful times is fitting: A wrinkled face Adds folemn grace To folks devout at meeting.

A furrow'd brow,
Where corn might

grow, [in't: Such fertile foil is feen A long hook nose, Tho' fcorn'd by foes, For fpectacles conveni

Thus to go on, I cou'd pen down Your charms from head

to foot, Set all your glory, In verfe before ye, But I've no mind to do't. Then hafte away, And make no ftay, For foon as you come hither,

We'll eat and fleep, Make beds and fweep, And talk and imoke together. But if, my dear, I must come there, Tow'rd Cambridge

ftrait I'll fet me, To towze the hay, On which you lay, If, madam, you will

Epigram,

let me.

CHARG'D with writing of bawdy, this was 's reply:

is what Dryden and Congreve have done as well as I.

In fecond pomp, thy rival fages rife.

Some future monarch fhall thy bufto blefs,
In the green covert, and the learn'd recefs.
Kings yet unborn fhall all thy counsels scan,
Dwell on each feature, and recount the man:
And when thro' pleafing majefty they trace
The copy'd luftre of our regent's face,
Shall own, that heav'n to blefs the white-
clifft shore,

Once, and once only, was profufe before;
O'er inbred faction, and the force of Spain.
When Albion cooly did her rights maintain;
And fate, the certain bleffing to difpenfe,
Join'd Cecil's wisdom to Eliza's fenfe.
Written under a fuljome Infcription on
a Tomb Stone in Berkshire.

STOP reader here, be not deceiv'd, I'll tell ye

This good man dy'd indebted to his belly. His heart like to his trade, was hard as ftone, He lov'd his wife, but ftarv'd his eldest fen. Tho' call'd above, a church of England lover, He knew no more on't than the words difcover. Thus, without merit, to advance his praite Ambitious Tom† this monument did raife.

On ber Majesty's fetting up the Bufto's of Sir Ifaac Newton, Mr. Locke, Dr. Clarke, and Mr. Woolafton, in the Hermitage at Richmond.

Sui memores alios fecere merendo. BEhold, Oftranger, new from foreign lands, Where flaves obey what lawless will commands;

Where ftatues to the proud oppreffor rife,
And hood-wink'd faith has put out reason's