LXXIV.

THE LIKENESS DISCOVERED.

When Chloe's picture was to Chloe shown,
Adorn'd with charms and beauty not her own,
Where Hogarth, pitying nature, kindly made
Such lips, such eyes as Chloe never had;
Ye gods! she cries, in ecstasy of heart,
How near can nature be express'd by art!
Well, it is wondrous like!—nay, let me die,
The very pouting lip, the killing eye!
Blunt and severe as Marly in the play,
Downright replies-Like, Madam, do you say,
The picture bears this likeness, it is true,
The canvas painted is, and so are you.

LXXV.

ON A GENELEMAN'S DRINKING TO THE HEALTH OF AN

UNKIND MISTRESS.

Why dost thou wish that she may live,
Whose living beauties make thee grieve?

D

Thou wouldst more wisely wish her kind,
That she may change her cruel mind;
Thy present wish can but this gain,'
That she may live, and thou complain.

LXXVI.

PATIENCE UNDER AFFLICTION,

My sickly spouse, with many a sigh,
Oft tells me,-Billy, I shall die:
I griev'd, but recollected strait,
'Tis bootless-to contend with fate:

So resignation to heav'n's will
Prepar'd me for succeeding ill;

'Twas well it did, for, on my life,

'Twas Heaven's will-to spare my wife.

LXXVII.

ARIADNE.

Fair Ariadne drown'd in tears,

Upbraids the faithless Grecian chief,

Till Bacchus, jolly god, appears,
And calms her woe, and lulls her grief.
The moral of this tale implies,

When woman yields her virgin store,
Away the sated lover flies,

Since there he can obtain no more.

A while she tries each female snare,
And seems ev'n lost in thinking;

But tir'd at length, with fruitless care,
She drowns her woes in drinking.

LXXVIII.

ON AN ACCIDENT THAT HAPPENED AT THE ORIGINAL REFRESENTATION OF CATO.

While Maudlin Whigs deplore their Cato's fate,

Still with dry eyes the Tory Celia sat;

But tho' her pride forbade her eyes to flow,

The gushing waters found a vent below.

Thro' secret paths with copious streams she mourns,

Like twenty river gods with all their urns.

Let others screw a hypocritic face,

She shews her grief in a sincerer place!

Here Nature reigns, and passion void of art; For that road leads directly to the heart.

LXXIX.

THE REMEMBRANCER.

Chloe her gossips entertains,
With stories of her childbed-pains.
And fiercely against Hymen rails ;
But Hymen's not so much to blame;
She knows, unless her memory fails,
Ere wedded she had much the same.

LXXX.

THE CONCEITED SCEPTICS.

On grace, free-will, and mysteries high,
Two wits harangu'd the table;

Twaddle believes, he knows not why,

Brass swears 'tis all a fable.

Peace, idiots, peace! and both agree,

Brass, kiss thy empty brother;
Religion laughs at foes like thee,
But dreads a friend like t'other.

LXXXI.

THE CHALLENGE ANSWERED.

'Tis not the fear of death, nor smart, Makes me averse to fight;

But to preserve a tender heart,

Not mine but Celia's right.

Then let your fury be supprest,
Not me, but Celia spare;

Your sword is welcome to my breast,
Whenever she's not there..

LXXXII.

TIME TO THE ANTIQUARIAN.

Pox on't, quoth Time to Thomas Hearne,

Whatever I forget you learn.