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The tortur'd pig from out his throat
Produc'd the genuine natural note.
All bellow'd ont-'twas very sad !
Sure never stuff was half so bad!
“That like a pig !'-each cried in scoff-
*Pshaw! nonsense! blockhead! off! off! off!
The mimic was extolld, and Grouse-
Was hiss'd, and catcall’d from the house--
“Soft ye, a word before I go,'
Quoth honest Hodge—and stooping low
Produc'd the pig, and thus aloud
Bespoke the stupid, partial crowd:
‘Behold, and learn from this poor creature,
How much you critics know of nature.'


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A PORTRAIT, at my lord's command,
Completed by a curious hand :
For dabblers in the nice vertû
His lordship set the piece to view,
Bidding their connoisseurships tell,
Whether the work was finish'd well.
Why,' says the loudest, on my word,
'Tis not a likeness, good my lord;
Nor, to be plain, for speak I must,
Can I pronounce one feature just.'
Another effort straight was made,
Another portraiture essay'd;
The judges were again besought,
Each t8 deliver what he thought.

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Worse than the first'--the critics bawl;
O what a mouth! how monstrous small!
Look at the cheeks, how lank and thin!
See, what a most preposterous chin!'
After remonstrance made in vain,
' I'll,' says the painter, once again,
If my good lord vouchsafes to sit,
Try for a more successful bit!
If you'll to-morrow deign to call,
We'll have a piece to please you all.'
To-morrow comes-a picture's plac'd
Before those spurious sons of taste-
In their opinions all agree,
This is the vilest of the three.
• Knowto confute your envious pride,'
His lordship from the canvass cried,
• Know-that it is my real face,
Where you could no resemblance trace: -
I've tried you by a lucky trick,
And prov'd your genius to the quick.
Void of all judgment, justice, sense,
Out-ye pretending varlets-hence.

The connoisseurs depart in haste,
Despis'd-detected—and disgrac'd.


Whoe’er, with curious eye, bas rang'd

Through Ovid's tales, has seen,
How Jove, incens'd, to monkies chang'd

A tribe of worthless meri,

Repentant soon th' offending race

Entreat the injur'd power,
To give them back the human face,
And reason's aid restore.

Jove, sooth'd at length, his ear inclin'd,

And granted half their prayer, But t'other half he bade the wind

Disperse in empty air.

Scarce had the thund'rer given the nod,

That shook the vaulted skies,
With haughtier air the creatures strode,

And stretch'd their dwindl'd size.

The bair in curls luxuriant now

Around their temples spread; The tàil, that whilom hung below,

Now dangl'd from the head.

The bead remains unchang’d within,

Nor alter'd much the face; It still retains its native grin,

And all its old grimace.

Thas half transform’d and half the same,

Jove bade them take their place, (Restoring them their ancient claim)

Among the human race.

Man with contempt the brute survey'd,

Nor would a name bestow;
Bat woman lik’d the motley breed,
Aud call'd the thing a beau.



When Tom to Cambridge first was sent,

A plain brown bob he wore,
Read much, and look'd as though he meant

To be a fop no more.

See him to Lincoln's Inn repair,

His resolution flag,
He cherishes a length of hair,

And sucks it in a bag.

Nor Coke nor Salkeld he regards,

But gets into the house,
And soon a judge's rank rewards

His pliant votes and bows.

Adieu, ye bobs! ye bags ! give place;

Full bottoms come instead :
Good Lord! to see the various ways

Of dressing a calf's head!



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'Sir, will you please to walk before?'
'—No, pray, sir-you are next the door.'
-Upon mine honour I'll not stir-
Sir, I'm at home; consider, sir-
* Excuse me, sir; I'll not go first,'

Well, if I must be rude, I must-
But yet I wish I could evade it-
'Tis strangely clownish, be persuaded

Go forward, cits! go forward, 'squires ! Nor scruple each what each admires. Life squares not, friends! with your proceeding, It flies while you display your breeding ; Snch breeding as one's granam preaches, Or some old dancing-master teaches. O for some rude tumultuous fellow, Half crazy, or at least, half mellow, To come behind you unawares, And fairly push you both down stairs ! But Death's at hand-let me advise ye, Go forward, friends! or he'll surprise ye.

Besides, how insincere you are ! Do ye not flatter, lie, forswear, And daily cheat, and weekly pray, And all for this to lead the way?


DISTRACTED with care
For Phyllis the fair,
Since nothing could move her,
Poor Damon, her lover,
Resolves in despair
No longer to languish,
Nor bear so much anguish;
But, mad with his love,
To a precipice goes,
Where a leap from above
Would soon finish his woes.
When in rage he came there
Beholding how steep
The sides did appear,
And the bottom how deep;

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