EPIGRAMS, Occasion'd by An Invitation to Court

In the Lines that you sent, Are the Muses and Graces; You've the Nine in your Wit, And Three in your Faces.

They may talk of the Goddesses, In Ida Vales, But You shew your Wit, Whereas They show'd their Tails.

You Bellenden, Griffin, and little Lepell, By G— you all lie like the D—l in Hell; To say that at Court there's a Dearth of all Wit, And send what Argyll, would he write, might have writ.

Adam had fallen twice, if for an Apple, The D—l had brought him Bellenden and Lepell.

On Sunday at Six, in the Street that's call'd Gerrard, You may meet the two Champions, who are no Lord Sherrard.

They say A—ll's a Wit, for what? For writing? no,—for writing not.