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AN

ELEGY

ON

THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG,

Good people all of every sort,

Give ear unto my song ;
And if you find it wondrous short,

It cannot hold you long.

In Islington there was a man,

Of whom the world might say, That still a godly race he ran,

Whene'er he went to pray.

A kind and gentle heart he had,

To comfort friends and foes ; The naked every day he clad,

When he put on his clothes.

And in that town a dog was found,

As many dogs there be, Both mungrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,

And curs of low degree.

This dog and man at first were friends ;

But when a pique began,
The dog, to gain his private ends,

Went mad, and bit the man.

Around from all the neighbouring streets

The wondering neighbours ran, And swore the dog had lost his wits,

To bite so good a man.

The wound it seem'd both sore and sad To every Christian

eye; And, while they swore the dog was mad,

They swore the man would die.

But soon a wonder came to light,

That show'd the rogues they lied; The man recover'd of the bite,

The dog it was that died.

AN

ELEGY

ON THE GLORY OF HER SEX,

MRS. MARY BLAIZE.

Good people all, with one accord,

Lament for Madam Blaize, Who never wanted a good word

From those who spoke her praise.

The needy seldom pass'd her door,

And always found her kind; She freely lent to all the poor

Who left a pledge behind.

She strove the neighbourhood to please,

With manners wondrous winning; And never follow'd wicked ways,

Unless when she was sinning.

At church, in silks and satins new,

With hoop of monstrous size; She never slumber'd in her pew

But when she shut her eyes.

Her love was sought, I do aver,

By twenty beaux and more;
The king himself has follow'd her-

When she has walk'd before.

But now her wealth and finery fled,

Her hangers-on cut short-all ;
The doctors found, when she was dead

Her last disorder mortal.

Let us lament, in sorrow sore,

For Kent-street well may say, That, had she lived a twelvemonth more,

She had not died to-day.

ON

A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH,

STRUCK BLIND BY LIGHTNING,

IMITATED FROM THE SPANISH.

Sure 'twas by Providence design'd,

Rather in pity than in hate,
That he should be, like Cupid, blind,

To save him from Narcissus' fate.

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