Her petticoat transform'd apace,
Became black satin, flounced with lace.
"Plain Goody" would no longer down,
"T was "Madam," in her grogram gown.
Philemon was in great surprise,
And hardly could believe his eyes.
Amazed to see her look so prim,
And she admired as much at him.
Thus happy in their change of life,
Were several years this man and wife:
When on a day, which proved their last,
Discoursing o'er old stories past,
They went by chance, amid their talk,
To the church-yard to take a walk;
When Baucis hastily cried out,
"My dear, I see your forehead sprout!"
"Sprout," quoth the man; "what's this you tell us?
I hope you don't believe me jealous!
But yet, methinks I feel it true,
And really yours is budding too—
Nay-now I can not stir my foot;
It feels as if 't were taking root."
Description would but tire my Muse,
In short, they both were turn'd to yews.
Old Goodman Dobson of the green
Remembers he the trees has seen;
He'll talk of them from noon till night,
And goes with folks to show the sight;
On Sundays, after evening prayer,
He gathers all the parish there;
Points out the place of either yew,
Here Baucis, there Philemon, grew:
Till once a parson of our town,
To mend his barn, cut Baucis down;
At which, 'tis hard to be believed
How much the other tree was grieved,
Grew scrubbed, died a-top, was stunted,
So the next parson stubb'd and burnt it.
A DESCRIPTION OF A CITY SHOWER.
IN IMITATION OF VIRGIL'S GEORGICS.
CAREFUL observers may foretell the hour,
(By sure prognostics), when to dread a shower.
While rain depends, the pensive cat gives o'er
Her frolics, and pursues her tail no more.
Returning home at night, you'll find the sink
Strike your offended sense with double stink.
If you be wise, then, go not far to dine:
You'll spend in coach-hire more than save in wine
A coming shower your shooting corns presage,
Old aches will throb, your hollow tooth will rage;
Sauntering in coffee-house is Dulman seen;
He damns the climate, and complains of spleen.
Meanwhile the South, rising with dabbled wings,
A sable cloud athwart the welkin flings,
That swill'd more liquor than it could contain,
And, like a drunkard, gives it up again.
Brisk Susan whips her linen from the rope,
While the first drizzling shower is borne aslope;
Such is that sprinkling which some careless quean.
Flirts on you from her mop, but not so clean:
You fly, invoke the gods; then, turning, stop
To rail; she singing, still whirls on her mop.
Not yet the dust had shunn'd the unequal strife,
But, aided by the wind, fought still for life,
And wafted with its foe by violent gust,
"T was doubtful which was rain, and which was dust.
Ah! where must needy poet seek for aid,
When dust and rain at once his coat invade?
Sole coat! where dust, cemented by the rain,
Erects the nap, and leaves a cloudy stain!
Now in contiguous drops the flood comes down,
Threatening with deluge this devoted town.
To shops in crowds the daggled females fly,
Pretend to cheapen goods, but nothing buy.
The Templar spruce, while every spout's abroach.
Stays till 'tis fair, yet seems to call a coach.
The tuck'd up sempstress walks with hasty strides,
While streams run down her oil'd umbrella's sides.
Here various kinds, by various fortunes led,
Commence acquaintance underneath a shed.
Triumphant Tories, and desponding Whigs,
Forget their feuds, and join to save their wigs.
Box'd in a chair the beau impatient sits,
While spouts run clattering o'er the roof by fits,
And ever and anon with frightful din
The leather sounds; he trembles from within.
So when Troy chairmen bore the wooden steed,
Pregnant with Greeks impatient to be freed,
(Those bully Greeks, who, as the moderns do,
Instead of paying chairmen, ran them through),
Laocoon struck the outside with his spear,
And each imprison'd hero quaked for fear.
Now from all parts the swelling kennels flow,
And bear their trophies with them as they go:
Filth of all hues and odor, seem to tell
What street they sail'd from by their sight and smell.
They, as each torrent drives with rapid force,
From Smithfield to St. Pulchre's shape their course,
And in huge confluence join'd at Snowhill ridge,
Fall from the conduit prone to Holborne bridge.
Sweeping from butchers' stalls, dung, guts, and blood;
Drown'd puppies, stinking sprats, all drench'd in mud,
Dead cats, and turnip-tops, come tumbling down the flood.
THE PROGRESS OF CURIOSITY;
OR A ROYAL VISIT TO WHITBREAD'S BREWERY.
Sic transit gloria mundi !—Old Sun Dals.
From House of Buckingham, in grand parade,
To Whitbread's Brewhouse, moved the cavalcade.
THE ARGUMENT.-Peter's loyalty.-He suspecteth Mr. Warton" of joking.Complimenteth the poet Laureate.-Peter differeth in opinion from Mr. Warton.Taketh up the cudgels for King Edward, King Harry V., and Queen Bess.-Feats on Blackheath and Wimbledon performed by our most gracious sovereign.-King Charles the Second half damned by Peter, yet praised for keeping company with gentlemen.-Peter praiseth himself.-Peter reproved by Mr. Warton.-Desireth Mr. Warton's prayers.-A fine simile.-Peter still suspecteth the Laureate of ironical dealings-Peter expostulateth with Mr. Warton.-Mr. Warton replieth.-Peter administereth bold advice.-Wittily calleth death and physicians poachers.-Praiseth the king for parental tenderness.-Peter maketh a natural simile.-Peter furthermore telleth Thomas Warton what to say.-Peter giveth a beautiful example of ode-writing.
THE CONTENTS OF THE ODE-His Majesty'st love for the arts and sciences, even in quadrupeds.-His resolution to know the history of brewing beer.-Billy Ramus sent ambassador to Chiswell street.-Interview between Messrs. Ramus and Whitbread.-Mr. Whitbread's bow, and compliments to Majesty.-Mr. Ramus's return from his embassy.-Mr. Whitbread's terrors described to Majesty by Mr. Ramus.-The King's pleasure thereat.-Description of people of worship. -Acceant of the Whitbread preparation.-The royal cavalcade to Chiswell-street. -The arrival at the brewhouse.-Great joy of Mr. Whitbread.-His Majesty's nod, the Queen's dip, and a number of questions.-A West India simile.—The marvelings of the draymen described.-His Majesty peepeth into a pump.Beautifully compared to a magpie peeping into a marrow-bone.-The minute cu riosity of the King.-Mr. Whitbread endeavoreth to surprise Majesty.-His Majesty puzzleth Mr. Whitbread.--Mr. Whitbread's horse expresseth wonder.-Also Mr. Whitbread's dog.-His Majesty maketh laudable inquiry about Porter.Again puzzleth Mr. Whitbread.-King noteth notable things.-Profound questions proposed by Majesty.-As profoundly answered by Mr. Whitbread.-Majesty in a mistake.--Corrected by the brewer.-A nose simile.-Majesty's admira. tion of the bell.-Good manners of the bell.-Fine appearance of Mr. Whitbread's pigs.-Majesty proposeth questions, but benevolently waiteth not for auswers.— Peter telleth the duty of Kings.-Discovereth one of his shrewd maxims.-Sublime sympathy of a water-spout and a king.-The great use of asking questions.The habitation of truth.-The collation.-The wonders performed by the Royal Visitors.-Majesty proposeth to take leave.-Offereth knighthood to Whitbread.-Mr. Whitbread's objections.-The king runneth a rig on his host.-Mr Whitbread thanketh Majesty.-Miss Whitbread curtsieth.-The queen dippeth.The Cavalcade departeth.
Peter triumpheth.-Admonisheth the Laureate.-Peter croweth over the Lau reate.-Discovereth deep knowledge of kings, and surgeons, and men who hav lost their legs.-Peter reasoneth.-Vaunteth.-Even insulteth the Laureate.-Pe
ber proclaimeth his peaceable disposition.-Praiseth Majesty, and concludeth with prayer for curious kings.
TOM, soon as e'er thu strik'st thy golden lyre,
Thy brother Peter's muse is all on fire,
To sing of kings and queens, and such rare folk
Yet, 'midst thy heap of compliments so fine,
Say, may we venture to believe a line?
You Oxford wits most dearly love a joke.
Son of the Nine, thou writest well on naught;
Thy thundering stanza, and its pompous thought,
I think, must put a dog into a laugh:
Edward and Harry were much braver men
Than this new-christened hero of thy pen.
Yes, laurelled Odeman, braver far by half;
Though on Blackheath and Wimbledon's wide plain,
George keeps his hat off in a shower of rain;
Sees swords and bayonets without a dread,
Nor at a volley winks, nor ducks his head:
Although at grand reviews he seems so blest,
And leaves at six o'clock his downy nest,
Dead to the charms of blanket, wife, and bolster;
Unlike his officers, who, fond of cramming,
And at reviews afraid of thirst and famine,
With bread and cheese and brandy fill their holsters.
Sure, Tom, we should do justice to Queen Bess:
His present majesty, whom Heaven long bless
With wisdom, wit, and art of choicest quality,
Will never get, I fear, so fine a niche
As that old queen, though often called old b―ch,
In fame's colossal house of immortality.
As for John Dryden's Charles-that king
Indeed was never any mighty thing;
He merited few honors from the pen:
And yet he was a devilish hearty fellow,
Enjoyed his beef, and bottle, and got mellow,
And mind-kept company with gentlemen :
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