He does. The father asks, “What have you there?

How dare you give a stranger vinegar?"
Sir, 'twas Champagne I gave him."-"Sir, indeed!
Take him and scourge him till the rascal bleed;
Don't spare him for his tears or age: i'll try
If cat-of-nine-tails can excuse a lie."

[lieve;
Thinks the clown, "That 'twas wine I do be-
But such young rogues are aptest to deceive:
He's none of mine, but his own flesh and blood,
And how know I but 't may be for his good?"

When the desert came on, and jellies brought, Then was the dismal scene of finding fault: They were such hideous, filthy, poisonous stuff, Could not be rail'd at, nor reveng'd enough. Humpus was ask'd who made them. Trembling he Said, Sir, it was my lady gave them me."No more such poison shall she ever give,

I'll burn the witch; 't'ent fitting she should live :
Set faggots in the court, I'll make her fry;
And pray, good sir, may't please you to be by ?"
Then, smiling, says the clown, " Upon my life,
A pretty fancy this, to burn one's wife!
And, since I find 'tis really your design, [mine."
Pray let me just step home, and fetch you

OF DREAMS.

For a dream cometh through the multitude of business. ECCLES. v. 4.

Somnia, quæ ludunt mente volitantibus umbris, Non delubra deûm nec ab æthere numina mittunt, Sed sibi quisque facit, &c.

PETRONIUS.

THE flitting dreams, that play before the wind,
Are not by Heaven for prophesies design'd;
Nor by ethereal beings sent us down,
But each man is creator of his own:
For, when their weary limbs are sunk in ease,
The souls essay to wander where they please;
The scatter'd images have space to play,
And night repeats the labours of the day.

THE ART OF MAKING PUDDINGS.

I. HASTY PUDDING.

I SING of food, by British nurse design'd,
To make the stripling brave, and maiden kind.
Delay not, Muse, in numbers to rehearse
The pleasures of our life, and sinews of our verse.
Let pudding's dish, most wholesome, be thy theme,
And dip thy swelling plumes in fragrant cream.
Sing then that dish so fitting to improve
A tender modesty and trembling love;
Swimming in butter of a golden hue,
Garnish'd with drops of rose's spicy dew.
Sometimes the frugal matron seems in haste,
Nor cares to beat her pudding into paste:
Yet milk in proper skillet she will place,
And gently spice it with a blade of mace;
Then set some careful damsel to look to't,
And still to stir away the bishop's-foot;

For, if burnt milk should to the bottom stick,
Like over-heated zeal, 'twould make folks sick.
Into the milk her flour she gently throws,
As valets now would powder tender beaux :
The liquid forms in hasty mass unite
Forms equally delicious, as they're white,
In shining dish the hasty mass is thrown,
And seems to want no graces but its own.
Yet still the housewife brings in fresh supplies,
To gratify the taste, and please the eyes.
She on the surface lumps of butter lays,
Which, melting with the heat, its beams displays;
From whence it causes, wondrous to behold,
A silver soil bedeck'd with streams of gold!

II. A HEDGE-HOG AFTER A QUAKING-PUDDING.

As Neptune, when the three-tongu'd fork he takes,

With strength divine the globe terrestrial shakes,
The highest hills, Nature's stupendous piles,
Break with the force, and quiver into isles;
Yet on the ruins grow the lofty pines,
And snow unmelted in the vallies shines:

Thus when the dame her hedge-hog-pudding Her fork indents irreparable streaks. [breaks, The trembling lump, with butter all around, Seems to perceive its fall; and then be drown'd; And yet the tops appear, whilst almonds thick With bright loaf-sugar on the surface stick.

VIII. OATMEAL PUDDING.

ADVICE TO HORACE,

TO TAKE HIS LEAVE OF TRINITY COLLEGE,
CAMBRIDGE.

HORACE, you now have long enough

At Cambridge play'd the fool:
Take back your criticing stuff
To Epicurus' school,

But, in excuse of this, you'll say,
You're so unwieldy grown,
That, if amongst that herd you lay,
You scarcely should be known.
How many butter'd crusts you've tost
Into your weem so big,

That you're more like (at college cost)
A porpoise than a pig.

But you from head to foot are brawn,
And so from side to side:
You measure (were a circle drawn)
No longer than you're wide.

Then, bless me, sir, how many craggs
You've drunk of potent ale!
No wonder if the belly swaggs
That's rival to a whale.

E'en let the Fellows take the rest,
They've had a jolly taster:
But no great likelihood to feast,
'Twixt Horace and the master!

EPIGRAM.

SAM WILLS had view'd Kate Bets, a smiling lass; And for her pretty mouth admir'd her face. Kate had lik'd Sam, for nose of Roman size, Not minding his complexion or his eyes. They met says Sam, "Alas, to say the truth. I find myself deceiv'd by that small mouth!" "Alas," cries Kate, "could any one suppose, I could be so deceiv'd by such a nose! But I henceforth shall hold this maxim just, To have experience first, and then to trust!"

TO MR. CARTER,

ATTEMPTED IN ENGLISH.

STEWARD TO THE LORD CARTERET.

ACCEPT of health from one, who, writing this,
Wishes you in the same that now he is;
Though to your person he may be unknown,
His wishes are as hearty as your own:
For Carter's drink, when in his master's hand,
Has pleasure and good-nature at command.
What though his lordship's lands are in your trust,
'Tis greater to his brewing to be just.
As to that matter, no one can find fault,
If you supply him still with well-dried malt.
Still be a servant constant to afford
A liquor fitting for your generous lord;
Liquor, like him, from seeds of worth in light,
With sparkling atoms still ascending bright:
May your accompts so with your lord stand clear,
And have your reputation like your beer;
The main perfection of your life pursue,
In March, October, every month, still brew,
And get the character of "Who but you?"

NERO.

A SATIRE.

We know how ruin once did reign,
When Rome was fir'd, and senate slain;
The prince, with brother's gore imbru'd;
His tender mother's life pursued;
How he the carcase, as it lay,
Did without tear or blush survey,
And censure each majestic grace
That still adorned that breathless face:
Yet he with sword could domineer
Where dawning light does first appear
From rays of Phoebus; and command
Through his whole course, ev'n to that strand
Where he, abhorring such a sight,.
Sinks in the watery gloom of night:
Yet he could death and terrour throw,
Where Thule starves in northern snow;
Where southern heats do fiercely pass
O'er burning sands that melt to glass.

Fond hopes! could height of power assuage
The mad excess of Nero's rage?
Hard is the fate, 'when subjects find
The sword unjust to poison join'd!

AD AMICUM.

PRIMUS ab Angliacis, Carolina Tyntus1 in oras,
Palladias artes secum, cytharamque sonantem
Attulit; ast illi comites Parnassido una
Adveniunt, autorque viæ consultis Apollo:
Ille idem sparsos longè latèque colonos
Legibus in cœtus æquis, atque oppida cogit;
Hinc hominum molliri animos, hinc mercibus optis
Crescere divitias et surgere tecta deorum.
Talibus auspiciis doctæ conduntur Athenæ,
Sic byrsa ingentem Didonis crevit in urbem
Carthago regum domitrix; sic aurea Roma
Orbe triumphato nitidum caput intulit astris.

I-Major Tynte, governor of Carolina.

TYNTE was the man who first, from British Palladian arts to Carolina bore; [shore,

His tuneful harp attending Muses strung,
And Phoebus' skill inspir'd the lays he sung.
Strong towers and palaces their rise began,
And listening stones to sacred fabrics ran.
Just laws were taught, and curious arts of peace,
And trade's brisk current flow'd with wealth's in-
On such foundations learned Athens rose; [crease.
So Dido's thong did Carthage first enclose:
So Rome was taught old empires to subdue,
As Tynte creates and governs, now, the new.

ULYSSES AND TIRESIAS.
ULYSSES.

TELL me, old prophet, tell me how,
Estate when sunk, and pocket low,
What subtle arts, what secret ways,
May the desponding fortune raise?
You laugh: thus misery is scorn'd!

TIRESIAS.

Sure 'tis enough, you are return'd Home by your wit, and view again Your farm of Ithac, and wife Pen.

ULYSSES.

Sage friend, whose word's a law to me, My want and nakedness you see : The sparks who made my wife such offers, Have left me nothing in my coffers: They 've kill'd my oxen, sheep, and geese, Eat up my bacon and my cheese. Lineage and virtue, at this push, Without the gelt, 's not worth a rush.

TIRESIAS.

Why, not to mince the matter more, You are averse to being poor; Therefore find out some rich old cuff, That never thinks he has enough: Have you a swan, a turkey-pie, With woodcocks, thither let them fly, The first-fruits of your early spring, Not to the gods, but to him bring. Though he a foundling bastard be, Convict of frequent perjury;

His hands with brother's blood imbrued, By justice for that cine pursued; Never the wall, when ask'd, refuse,

Nor lose your friend, to save your shoes.

TRANSLATION FROM TASSO,

CANTO III. st. 3.

So when bold mariners, whom hopes of ore
Have urg'd to seek some unfrequented shore;
The sea grown high, and pole unknown, do find
How faise is every wave, and treacherous every
wind!

If wish'd-for land some happier sight descries,
Distant huzzas, saluting clamours, rise:

Each strives to show his mate th' approaching bay,
Forgets past danger, and the tedious way,

FROM HESIOD.

WHEN Saturn reign'd in Heaven, his subjects here Array'd with godly virtues did appear;

Care, pain, old age, and grief, were banish'd far,
With all the dread of laws and doubtful war:
But cheerful friendship, mix'd with innocence,
Feasted their understanding and their sense;
Nature abounded with unenvied store,

Till their discretest wits could ask no more;
And when, by Fate, they came to breathe their last,
Dissolv'd in sleep their flitting vitals pass'd.
Then to much happier mansions they remov'd,
There prais'd their god, and were by him belov'd.

THAME AND ISIS.

So the god Thame, as through some pond he glides,
Into the arms of wandering Isis slides:
His strength, her softness, in one bed combine,
And both with bands inextricable join.
Now no cerulean nymph, or sea god, knows,
Where Isis, or where Thame, distinctly flows;
But with a lasting charm they blend their stream,
Producing one imperial river-Thame.

I WAKED, SPEAKING THESE OUT OF A DREAM IN
THE MORNING.

NATURE a thousand ways complaius,
A thousand words express her pains:
But for her laughter has but three,
And very small ones, Ha, ha, he!

THE STUMBLING BLOCK.

y'YOM CLAUDIAN'S RUFINUS'.

TWENTY Conundrums have of late
Been buzzing in my addle pate.
If earthly things are rul'd by Heaven,
Or matters go at six and seven,
The coach without a coachman driven?
A pilot at the helm to guide,
Or the ship left to wind and tide?
A great first cause to be ador'd,
Or whether all's a lottery-board?

I See a serious translation, above, p. 287.

For when, in viewing Nature's face,
1 spy so regular a grace!

So just a symmetry of features,
From stem to stern, in all her creatures!
When on the boistrous sea I think,
How 'tis confin'd like any sink!
How summer, winter, spring, and fall,
Dance round in so exact a bawl!

How, like a chequer, day and night,
One's mark'd with black, and one with white!
Quoth I, "I ken it well from hence,
There's a presiding influence!
Which won't permit the rambling stars
To fall together by the ears:

Which orders still the proper season
For hay and oats, and beans and peasen:
Which trims the Sun with its own beams;
Whilst the Moon ticks for her's, it seems,
And, as asham'd of the disgrace,
Unmasks but seldom all her face:
Which bounds the ocean within banks,
To hinder all its inad-cap pranks:
Which does the globe to an axle fit,
Like wheel to nave, or joint to spit!

"But then again! How can it be
Whilst such vast tracks of earth we see
O'er-run by barbarous tyranny!
Vile sycophants in clover bless'd;
Whilst patriots with duke Humphry feast,
Brow-beaten, bullied, and oppress'd!
Pimps rais'd to honour, riches, rule;
Whilst he, who secms to be a tool,

Is the priest's knave, the placeman's fool!"
This whimsical phænomenon,
Confounding all my pro and con,
Bamboozles the account again,
And draws me nolens volens in,
Like a press'd soldier, to espouse
The sceptic's hypothetic cause:
Who Kent will to a codling lay us,
That cross-or-pile refin'd the chaos;
That jovial atoms once did dance,
And form'd this merry orb by chance,
No art or skill were taken up,

But all fell out as round as hoop!

A vacuum's another maxim;

Where, he brags, experience backs him:
Denying that all space is full,

From inside of a Tory's skull.

As to a deity; his tenet

Swears by it, there is nothing in it;

Else 'tis too busy, or too idle,

With our poor bagatelles to meddle.
Anna's a curb to lawless Louis,
Which as illustrious as true is;
Her victories o'er despotic right,
That passive non-resisting bite,
Have brought this mystery to light:
Have fairly made the riddle out,

And answer'd all the squeamish doubt;
Have clear'd the regency on high,
From every presumptuous why.

No more I boggle as before,
But with full confidence adore;
Plain, as nose on face, expounding
All this intricate dumb-founding;
Which to the mean'st conception is,
As followeth hereunder, viz.

"Tyrants mount but like a meteor,
To make their headlong fall the greater."

THE GARDEN PLOT. 1709.

WHEN Naboth's vineyard look'd so fine,

The king cried out, "Would this were mine!"
And yet no reason could prevail,

To bring the owners to a sale;
Jezabel saw, with haughty pride,
How Ahab griev'd to be denied:
And thus accosted him with scorn,
"Shall Naboth make a monarch mourn?

A king, and weep! The ground's your own:
I'll vest the garden in the crown."
With that she hatch'd a plot, and made
Poor Naboth answer with his head.
And when his harmless blood was spilt,
The ground became the forfeit of his guilt.
Poor Hall, renown'd for comely hair,
Whose hands perhaps were not so fair,
Yet had a Jezabel as near.
Hall, of small scripture-conversation,
Yet howe'er Hungerford's quotation,
By some strange accident had got
The story of this garden plot;
Wisely foresaw he might have reason
To dread a modern bill of treason,
If Jezabel should please to want
His small addition to her grant;
Therefore resolv'd in humble sort
To begin first, and make his court;
And, seeing nothing else would do,
Gave a third part, to save the other two.

EPISTLE TO MR. GODDARD';

WRITTEN BY DR. KING,

IN THE CHARACTER OF THE REVIEW. To Windsor Canon, his well-chosen friend, The just Review does kindest greeting send, I've found the man by Nature's gift design'd To please my ear and captivate my mind, By sympathy the eager passions move, And strike my soul with wonder and with love! Happy that place, where much less care is had To save the virtuous, than protect the bad;

Taken from an admirable banter of our author's, entituled, Two Friendly Letters from honest Tom Boggy, to the rev. Mr. Goddard, Canon of Windsor, very proper to be tacked to the canon's sermon; first printed in 8vo, 1710. This sermon (full of high treason against high-church, hereditary right, and Sacheverell) was entituled, The Guilt, Mischief, and Aggravation of Censure; set forth in a Sermon preached in St. George's Chapel within her Majesty's Castle of Windsor, on Sunday the 25th of June, 1710. By Thomas Goddard, A. M. Canon of Windsor. London, printed for B. Lintot, 1710.-Mr. Goddard was

Where pastors must their stubborn flock obey,
Or that be thought a scandal which they say:
For, should a sin, by some grand soul belov'd,
Chance with an aukward zeal to be reprov'd,
And tender conscience meet the fatal curse,
Of hardening by reproof, and growing worse:
When things to such extremities are brought,
'Tis not the sinner's, but the teacher's, fault,
With great men's wickedness, then, rest content,
And give them their own leisure to repent;
Whilst their own head-strong will alone must curb
them,

And nothing vex, or venture to disturb them,
Lest they should lose their favour in the court,
And no one but themselves be sorry for 't.
Were I in panegyric vers'd like you,
I'd bring whole offerings to your merit due.
You've gain'd the conquest; and I freely own,
Dissenters may by churchmen be out-done.
Though once we seem'd to be at such a distance,
Yet both concentre in divine resistance:
Both teach what kings must do when subjects fight,
And both disclaim hereditary right.

By Jove's command, two eagles took their flight,
One from the east, the source of infant light,
The other from the west, that bed of night.
The birds of thunder both at Delphi meet,
The centre of the world, and Wisdom's seat.
So, by a power not decent here to name,
To one fixt point our various notions came,
Your thoughts from Oxford and from Windsor
flew,
[Review
Whilst shop and meeting-house brought forth
Your brains fierce eloquence and logic tried,
My humbler strain choice socks and stockings
Yet in our common principles we meet, [cried;
You sinking from the head, I rising from the feet.
Pardon a hasty Muse, ambitious grown,

T' extol a merit far beyond his own.
For, though a moderate painter can't command
The stroke of Titian's or of Raphael's hand:
Yet their transcendent works his fancy raise;
And there's some skill in knowing what to praise.

installed canon May 26, 1707, and was also rector of St. Bennet Finch, London. He published a 30th of January sermon, in 4to, 1703; and The Mercy of God to this Church and Kingdom, exemplified in the several Instances of it, from the Beginning of the Reformation down to the present Time. A Sermon preached in St. George's Chapel at Windsor, on Tuesday the 7th of November, the Day of Thanksgiving, 1710, Svo. They were all reprinted in 1715, with three others, under the title of Six Sermons on several Occasions, 8vo. N.

2 A well-known political paper by De Foe, in which Mr. Goddard's sermon was immoderately commended.. See a long account of this writer, and of Ridpath and Tutchin his associates, in the Supplement to Swift. N.

VOL. IX.