EPISTLE VI.

TO THE

REVEREND CHRISTOPHER PITT,

ON HIS HAVING A FIT OF THE GOUT.

FROM HIS BROTHER.

AMONG the well-bred natives of our isle, "I kiss your hand, Sir," is the modish style; In humbler manner, as my fate is low,

I beg to kiss your venerable toe,

Not Old Infallibility's can have

Profounder reverence from its meanest slave.

What dignity attends the solemn Gout! What conscious greatness if the heart be stout! Methinks I see you o'er the house preside, In painful majesty and decent pride, With leg tost high, on stately sofa sit, More like a sultan than a modern wit;

Quick at your call the trembling slaves appear, Advance with caution, and retire with fear; Ev'n Peggy trembles, though (or authors fail) At times the anti-salic laws prevail.

Now, Lord have mercy on poor Dick! say I, "Where's the lac'd shoe-who laid the flannel by?" Within, 'tis hurry, the house seems possest; Without, the horses wonder at their rest. What terrible dismay, what scenes of care! Why is the sooty Mintrem's hopeful heir Before the morning-dawn compell'd to rise, And give attendance with his half-shut eyes? What makes that girl with hideous visage stare? What fiends prevent Ead's journey to the fair? Why all this noise, this bustle and this rout? "Oh, nothing-but poor master has the

gout."

Meantime, superior to the pains below,
Your thoughts in soaring meditations flow,
In rapturous trance on Virgil's genius dwell,
To us, poor mortals, his strong beauties tell,
And, like Aeneas, from your couch of state,
In all the pomp of words display the Trojan fate.

Can nothing your aspiring thoughts restrain? Or does the Muse suspend the rage of pain? Awhile give o'er your rage; in sickness prove Like other mortals, if you'd pity move: Think not your friends compassionate can be, When such the product of disease they see; Your sharpest pangs but add to our delight, We'll wish you still the Gout, if still you write.

EPISTLE VII.

TO

JOHN HAWKESWORTH, L. L. D.

BY FRANCIS FAWKES, M. A.

IF you, dear Sir, will deign to pass a day
In the fair vale of Orpington and Cray,
And live for once as humble vicars do,
On Thursday I'll expect you here by two.
Expect no niceties with me to pick,

But Bansted mutton, and a barn-door chick.
My friends with generous liquors I regale,
Good port, old hock, or, if they like it, ale;
But if of richer wine you choose a quart,
Why bring, and drink it here-with all my heart.
Plain is my furniture, as is my treat,

For 'tis my best ambition, to be neat.

Leave then all sordid views, and hopes of gain,
To mortals miserable, mad, or vain;
Put the last polish to th' historic page,
And cease awhile to moralize the age.

By your sweet converse chear'd the live-long day
Will pass unnotic'd, like the stream, away.

The living furniture I mean;

For what is all the costly traffic,

That comes from India, Spain, or Afric,
Compar❜d to sprightly wit and beauty,
That always pleasant is and new t' you?
Then had I seen in ev'ry kind,
Such beauties both of face and mind,
As oft are read of in romances,
The creatures of poetic fancies,
But save at Finedon, hardly found
On English, or un-English ground;
Then had I—but I cry you mercy,
For I must be content with hearsay,
Nor hope to see such sights as there are,
Unless I liv'd a great deal nearer.
But miles there are twenty and thirty,
Both woundy long, and plaguy dirty,
Which I, the laziest thing alive,
Could hardly pass in days twice five.
Would Pegasus let me bestride him,
And teach me skill, when up, to ride him;
Or had I wings well glu'd and corded,
Better than Icarus or Ford had,
Away I'd fly, nor stay to bait,
Until I knock'd at Finedon gate.
Then woe be to the beef and claret,
For by my faith I would not spare it ;
Nor should I, once possession taken,
Contrive or care to save your bacon.

But what a sot am I to think

Of such poor things as meat and drink,
And not revolve within my mind

The fairest of the fairest kind!

Since to the fair, with heart most fervent,
I vow myself an humble servant,

How should I joy to see the Lady

That makes three sweet ones call you Dady!
To see those pretty heirs apparent
Trip it along like fairies errant !
To view those little representers
Surpassing nicest skill of painters,
Resembling either Parent's face
The Digby and the Dolben race;
To read in ev'ry line and feature,
Avi avorum wrote by Nature.

These images, dear Sir, I find
So strongly painted in my mind,
That all the while I tell my story,
Methinks I see 'em full before me.
Thus distant half a hundred miles,
I view their little play and smiles,
While, as the absent lover's use is,
Fancy supplies what fate refuses.

You see, Sir, how this long epistle,
Just like young master's bell and whistle,