To The Tune Of 'To All You Ladies Now At Land.'

1 To one fair lady out of Court, And two fair ladies in, Who think the Turk and Pope a sport, And wit and love no sin; Come these soft lines, with nothing stiff in, To Bellenden, Lepell, and Griffin. With a fa, la, la.

2 What passes in the dark third row, And what behind the scene, Couches and crippled chairs I know, And garrets hung with green; I know the swing of sinful hack, Where many damsels cry alack. With a fa, la, la.

3 Then why to Courts should I repair, Where's such ado with Townshend? To hear each mortal stamp and swear, And every speech with 'zounds!' end; To hear 'em rail at honest Sunderland, And rashly blame the realm of Blunderland. With a fa, la, la.

4 Alas! like Schutz I cannot pun, Like Grafton court the Germans; Tell Pickenbourg how slim she's grown, Like Meadows run to sermons; To Court ambitious men may roam, But I and Marlbro' stay at home. With a fa, la, la.

5 In truth, by what I can discern Of courtiers, 'twixt you three, Some wit you have, and more may learn From Court, than Gay or me; Perhaps, in time, you'll leave high diet, To sup with us on milk and quiet. With a fa, la, la.

6 At Leicester Fields, a house full high, With door all painted green, Where ribbons wave upon the tie, (A milliner I mean;) There may you meet us, three to three, For Gay can well make two of me. With a fa, la, la.

7 But should you catch the prudish itch And each become a coward, Bring sometimes with you Lady Rich, And sometimes Mistress Howard; For virgins, to keep chaste, must go Abroad with such as are not so. With a fa, la, la.

8 And thus, fair maids, my ballad ends; God send the king safe landing; And make all honest ladies friends To armies that are standing; Preserve the limits of those nations, And take off ladies' limitations. With a fa, la, la.

THE THREE GENTLE SHEPHERDS.

Of gentle Philips will I ever sing, With gentle Philips shall the valleys ring; My numbers, too, for ever will I vary, With gentle Budgell, and with gentle Carey. Or if in ranging of the names I judge ill, With gentle Carey, and with gentle Budgell, Oh! may all gentle bards together place ye, Men of good hearts, and men of delicacy. May satire ne'er befool ye, or beknave ye, And from all wits that have a knack, God save ye!

EPIGRAM,

ENGRAVED ON THE COLLAR OF A DOG WHICH I GAVE TO HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS.

I am His Highness' dog at Kew; Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?

THE TRANSLATOR.

Ozell, at Sanger's call, invoked his Muse, For who to sing for Sanger could refuse? His numbers such as Sanger's self might use. Reviving Perrault, murdering Boileau, he Slander'd the ancients first, then Wycherley; Which yet not much that old bard's anger raised, Since those were slander'd most whom Ozell praised. Nor had the gentle satire caused complaining, Had not sage Rowe pronounced it entertaining; How great must be the judgment of that writer, Who the Plain Dealer damns, and prints the Biter!

THE LOOKING-GLASS.