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MATE. Sure, when you were on deck, Sir, you heard

Our cook a-scraping pots to leeward.

A sooty seaman blusters there,

Who never comb'd his lamp-black hair,

Nor scrub'd his angry brow, nor par'd
The bristles of his shaggy beard.
He by your chop or steak shall sit,
Hissing on gridiron or on spit.
Now my weary lips I close:

Leave me, I beg you, to repose.

TIM. Once yet again awake, and tell us,
Who are those surly ragged fellows;

Why each about so madly hops,
Howling, and tugging tarry ropes;
Why at the slacken'd cords they swear,
And fluttering sails that flap in air :
Tell me whence this hubbub rose.

Then I leave thee to repose.

MATE. Ha! no traveller art thou;

Fresh water friend, I smoke thee now,

As ignorant a rogue as ever

TIM. No mate genteel, polite and clever

Art thou; nor ever wert a sailor;

But, as I rather guess, a tailor.

MATE. Hie thee hence, and thank my mercy,

Or rather drowsiness, that spares ye.

Hence! or I'll drive you: for no fellow
Shall break my sleep with his vile bellow,
Till this cold pitchy cloud of night
Melt in the warmth of morning light;
That is, till four o'clock, or three, Sir,-
What, won't you go!-Here, Cesar, Cesar.-

Desunt cætera.

TOM JONES.

THE beau buys Fielding's works complete,

Each page with rapture cons,

Sophias finds in every street,

And is himself Tom Jones.

To some gay girl his vows are given ;
And soon he learns to tell,

That, when she smiles, he is in heaven,
And, when she frowns, in hell.

Ague or Influenza soon

Comes on; he weds a wife :

The warm fit ends with one short moor,
The cold fit lasts for life.

HORACE, EPIST. I. 5.

IMITATED.

January 1, 1787.

STUFF'D now and stun'd so long, with feast and riot,
If you can pass an humble hour in quiet,

From bows, and thanks, and compliments descend,
To talk plain friendly language with a friend;
Why then I give you joy, and all is right,
If you agree to sup with us to-night.

For wine to foreign lands we seldom roam;
Our patriot bowls with British porter foam:
Porter, with which not Whitbread would find fault,
Or the best he that deals in hops and malt:
However, lest your nicer taste should mock it,
Bring of your own a bottle in your pocket.

Come then; the ready plates your hand require,
And briskly burns for you the evening fire.
Leave bills and bonds, and let the law-suit cool,
And the pert fop forget, and pedant fool.
Now, slipt from cold Futurity's embrace,
The youthful months begin their jovial race :

Now games and mirth the tedious night beguile,
Now the glass sparkles, now the muses smile;
And I, untouch'd with critick's blame or praise,.
Hail the new year and you, in porter and in lays.
What cannot porter's mighty power dispose,
What art not teach, what secret not disclose?
Porter with hope the anxious bosom warms,
Porter impells the cowardly to arms.

Whom like bland porter does the wretch commend,

So sure a comforter, so firm a friend?

What miser tastes, but scorns the sordid ore,
Opes his old purse, and buys a bottle more?
Is there a spell, by witch or poet sung,

That tips with eloquence the coachman's tongue,
And makes him, high on alehouse bench reclin'd,
With Europe's interest swell his opening mind;
Makes him, with fist and mug, elate in hope,

Knock down the French king, and drink down the Pope;
And fill the coffers of the coming year,

By taxing claret, and exempting beer?

No: these high deeds, to antient art unknown,
Porter, thy power performs, and thine alone.

Obsequious to your wish, my willing care

Shall smooth your napkin, and shall dust your chair,

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