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And how does mifs and madam do,

The little boy and all?'

All tight and well. And how do you,
• Good Mr. What-d'ye-call?'

The dinner comes, and down they fit:
Were ever fuch hungry folk?
There's little talking, and no wit;
It is no time to joke.

One wipeshis nofe upon his fleeve,
One fpits upon the floor,

Yet, not to give offence or grieve,
Holds up the cloth before.

The punch goes round, and they are dull
And lumpish ftill as ever;

Like barrels with their bellies full,
They only weigh the heavier.

At length the bufy time begins.

Come, neighbours, we maft wag-'

The money chinks, down drop their chins,
Each lugging out his bag.

One talks of mildew and of froft,

And one of ftorms of hail,

And one of pigs, that he has loft
By maggots at the tail.

Quoth one,

A rarer man than you

In pulpit none shall hear :

But yet, methinks, to tell you true,

You fell it plaguy dear.'

Oh, why are farmers made fo coarse,
Or clergy made fo fine!

A kick, that scarce would move a horse,
May kill a found divine.

Then let the boobies ftay at home;
Twould coft him, I dare fay,

Lefs trouble taking twice the fum,

Without the clowns that pay.

SONNET

ADDRESSED TO

HENRY COWPER, Esq.

On his emphatical and interefting Delivery of the Defence of Warren Haftings, Efq. in the Houfe of Lords.

COWPER, whofe filver voice, tasked fometimes hard, Legends prolix delivers in the ears

(Attentive when thou readeft) of England's peers, Let verfe at length yield thee thy juft reward. Thou waft not heard with drowsy difregard, Expending late on all that length of plea Thy generous powers, but filence honoured thee Mute as ever gazed on Orator or Bard.

Thou art not voice alone, but haft befide

1

Both heart and head; and couldft with mufic sweet

Of Attic phrafe and fenatorial tone,

Like thy renowned forefathers, far and wide

Thy fame diffuse, praised not for utterance meet

Of others' fpeech, but magic of thy own.

Lines addreffed to

DR. DARWIN,

AUTHOR OF "THE BOTANIC GARDEN."

Two Poets,* (poets, by report,

Not oft fo well agree)

Sweet Harmonift of Flora's court!
Confpire to honour Thee.

They best can judge a poet's worth,
Who oft themfelves have known

The pangs of a poetic birth

By labours of their own.

We therefore pleafed extol thy song,
Though various yet complete,

Rich in embellishment as ftrong,
And learned as it is fweet.

No envy mingles with our praife,
Though, could our hearts repine
At any poet's happier lays,

They would-they must at thine.

Alluding to the poem by Mr. Hayley, which accompanied

thefe lines.

But we, in mutual bondage knit
Of friendship's closest tie,
Can gaze on even Darwin's wit

With an unjaundiced eye;

And deem the Bard, whoever he be,

And howfoever known,

Who would not twine a wreath for Thee,
Unworthy of his own.

ON

MRS. MONTAGUE's

FEATHER-HANGINGS.

THE birds put off their every hue

To drefs a room for Montague.

The Peacock fends his heavenly dyes,

His rainbows and his starry eyes;

The Pheafant, plumes, which round infold
His mantling neck with downy gold;
The Cock, his arched tail's azure fhow;

And, river-blanched, the Swan, his fnow.

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