Grave Dean of St. Patrick's, how comes it to pass, That you, who know music no more than an ass, That you who so lately were writing of drapiers, Should lend your cathedral to players and scrapers?...
"Here learn from moral truth and wit refined, How vice and folly have debased mankind; Strong sense and humour arm in virtue's cause; Thus her great votary vindicates her laws:...
Who can believe with common sense, A bacon slice gives God offence; Or, how a herring has a charm Almighty vengeance to disarm? Wrapp'd up in majesty divine, Does he regard on what we dine?
What though the Dean hears not the knell Of the next church's passing bell; What though the thunder from a cloud, Or that from female tongue more loud, Alarm not; At the Drapier's ear,...
With honour thus by Carolina placed, How are these venerable bustoes graced! O queen, with more than regal title crown'd, For love of arts and piety renown'd!...
HOLD! hold, my good friends; for one moment, pray stop ye, I return ye my thanks, in the name of poor Hoppy. He's not the first person who never did write, And yet has been fed by a benefit-night....
Who dares affirm this is no pious age, When charity begins to tread the stage? When actors, who at best are hardly savers, Will give a night of benefit to weavers?...
Beneath this verdant hillock lies Demar, the wealthy and the wise, His heirs,[1] that he might safely rest, Have put his carcass in a chest; The very chest in which, they say,...
When on my bosom thy bright eyes, Florinda, dart their heavenly beams, I feel not the least love surprise, Yet endless tears flow down in streams; There's nought so beautiful in thee,...
Now the active young attorneys Briskly travel on their journeys, Looking big as any giants, On the horses of their clients; Like so many little Marses...
Dick, thou'rt resolved, as I am told, Some strange arcana to unfold, And with the help of Buckley's[1] pen, To vamp the good old cause again: Which thou (such Burnet's shrewd advice is)...
Poor floating isle, tost on ill fortune's waves, Ordain'd by fate to be the land of slaves; Shall moving Delos now deep-rooted stand; Thou fix'd of old, be now the moving land!...
Virtue conceal'd within our breast Is inactivity at best: But never shall the Muse endure To let your virtues lie obscure; Or suffer Envy to conceal Your labours for the public weal....
Patron of the tuneful throng, O! too nice, and too severe! Think not, that my country song Shall displease thy honest ear. Chosen strains I proudly bring, Which the Muses' sacred choir,...
Harley, the nation's great support, Returning home one day from court, His mind with public cares possest, All Europe's business in his breast, Observed a parson near Whitehall,...