a

Strange disappointment in thy looks I read;

And now I hear thee in proud triuinph cry,
“Is this an action, Peter, this a deed

To raise a monarch to the sky ?
Tubs, porter, pumps, vats, all the Whitbread throng,
Rare things to figure in the Muse's song!"

Thomas, I here protest, I want no quarrels
On kings and brewers, porter, pumps, and barrels -

Far from the dove-like Peter be such strife,
But this I tell thee, Thomas, for a fact-

Thy Cæsar never did an act
More wise, more glorious in his life.

a

Now God preserve all wonder-hunting kings,

Whether at Windsor, Buckingham, or Kew-house :
And may they never do more foolish things

Than visiting Sam Whitbread and his brewhouse.

'THE AUTHOR AND THE STATESMAN

[ADDRESSED BY FIELDING TO SIR ROBERT WALPOLE.]

WHILE at the helm of state you ride,
Our nation's envy, and its pride;
While foreign courts with wonder gaze,
And curse those councils which they praise;
Would you not wonder, sir, to view
Your bard a greater man than you ?
Which that he is you can not doubt,
When

you have read the sequel out.

You know, great sir, that ancient fellows,
Philosophers, and such folks, tell us,
No great analogy between
Greatness and happiness is seen.
If then, as it might follow straight,
Wretched to be, is to be great;
Forbid it, gods, that you should try
What 'tis to be so great as I!

The family that dines the latest,
Is in our street esteem'd the greatest;
But latest hours must surely fall
'Fore him who never dines at all.

Your taste in architect, you know, Hath been admired by friend and foe: But can your earthly domes compare With all my castles in the air ?

We're often taught it doth behoove us To think those greater who 're above us : Another instance of my glory, Who live above you, twice two story; And from my garret can look down On the whole street of Arlington.

Greatness by poets still is painted
With many followers acquainted :
This too doth in my favor speak;
Your levee is but twice a week;
From mine I can exclude but one day,
My door is quiet on a Sunday.

Nor in the manner of attendance, Doth your great bard claim less ascendance. Familiar you to admiration May be approached by all the nation; While I, like the Mogul in Indo, Am never seen but at my window. If with my greatness you 're offended, The fault is easily amendel; For I'll come down, with wondrous ea-e, - Into whatever place you please. I'm not ambitious;

little matters Will serve us great, but humble creatures,

Suppose a secretary o' this isle, Just to be doing with a while; Admiral, gen'ral, judge, or bishop: Or I can foreign treaties dish up. If the good genius of the nation Should call me to negotiation,

Tuscan and French are in my head,
Latin I write, and Greek-I read.

If you should ask, what pleases best?
To get the most, and do the least.
What fittest for ?—You know, I'm sure;
I'm fittest for--a sine-cure.

THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE KNIFE

GRINDER.*

ANTI-JACOBIN.

FRIEND OF HUMANITY."
“Nerdy Knife-grinder! whither are you going?
Rough is the road, your wheel is out of order-
Bleak blows the blast; your hat has got a hole in 't,

So have your breeches !

“ Weary Knife-grinder! little think the proud ones,
Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike-
road, what hard work 'tis crying all day. Knives and

“Scissors to grind O!

*Tell me, Knife-grinder, how came you to grind knives?
Did some rich man tyrannically use you?
Was it the squire ? or parson of the parish ?

Or the attorney?

“ Was it the squire, for killing of his game? or
Covetous parson, for his tithes distraining ?
Or roguish lawyer, made you lose your little

All in a lawsuit ?

“ (Have you not read the Rights of Man, by Tom Paine ?)
Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids,
Ready to fall, as soon as you have told your

Pitiful story."

KNIFE-GRINDER.

“Story! God bless you! I have none to tell, sir,
Only last night a-drinking at the Chequers,
This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were

Torn in a scufile.

“ Constables came up, for to take me into Custody; they took me before the justice; Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish

Stocks for a vagrant.

“I should be glad to drink your Honor's health in
A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence;
But for my part, I never love to meddle

With politics, sir."

FRIEND OF HUMANITY. “I give thee sixpence! I will see thee damned firstWretch! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded,

Spiritless outcast !" (Kicks the Knife-grinder, overturns his wheel, and exit in a transport of Repub lican enthusiasm and universal philanthropy.]

INSCRIPTION

FOR THE DOOR OF THE CELL IN NEWGATE, WHERE MRS. BROWN

RIGG, THE 'PRENTICE-CIDE WAS CONFINED PREVIOUS TO HER EXECUTION.*

FROM THE ANTI-JACOBIN. 1797.

For one long term, or e'er her trial came,
Here BROWNRIGG linger'd. Often have these cells
Echoed her blasphemies, as with shrill voice
She screamed for fresh Geneva. Not to her
Did the blithe fields of Tothill, or thy street,
St. Giles, its fair varieties expand;
Tl at the last, in slow-drawn cart she went
To execution. Dost thou ask her crime?
She wuIPP'D TWO FEMALE 'PRENTICES TO DEATII,
AND HID THEM IN THE COAL-HIOLE. For her mind
Shaped strictest plans of discipline. Sage schemes !
Such as Lycurgus taught, when at the shrine
Of the Ortlıyan goddess he bade flog
The little Spartans; such as erst chastised
Our Milton, when at college. For this act
Did Brownrigg swing. Harsh laws! Bat time shall come
When France shall reign, and laws be all repeald !