Has nothing else to recommed it,

But jingling sound, and yet I send it ;
For where no better can be had,
Respect is shewn, though fare be bad.

Thus, having tir'd myself and you, Sir, I kiss your hands, and so adieu! Sir.

A. ALSOP.

BRIGHTWELL,
March 8, 1725.

EPISTLE V.

то

The Honorable

GEORGE DODDINGTON,

[Afterwards Lord Melcombe.]

BY CHRISTOPHER PITT, M. A.

IF Doddington will condescend
To visit a poetic friend,

And leave a numerous bill of fare,
For four or five plain dishes here;
No costly welcome, but a kind
He and his friends will always find;
A plain, but clean and spacious room,
The master and his heart at home,
A cellar open as his face,

A dinner shorter than his grace;

10

Your mutton comes from Pimpern-down,
Your fish (if any) from the town;
Our rogues, indeed, of late, o'er-aw'd,
By human laws, not those of God,
No venison steal, or none they bring,
Or send it all to master King;

And yet, perhaps, some venturous spark
May bring it, now the nights are dark.
Punch I have store, and beer beside,
And port that's good, though frenchified.
Then, if you come, I'm sure to get
From Eastbery-a desert-of wit.

One line, good Sir, to name the day, And your petitioner will

pray, &c.

EPISTLE VI.

TO THE

REVEREND CHRISTOPHER PITT,

ON HIS HAVING A FIT OF THE GOUT.

FROM HIS BROTHER.

AMONG the well-bred natives of ur 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;

10

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. 24 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, 32
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.