The works of Mr. Thomas Brown Serious and Comical, In Prose and Verse; In four volumes. The Fourth Edition, Corrected, and much Enlarged from his Originals never before publish'd. With a key to all his Writings |
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| EPIGRAMS. |
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 | The works of Mr. Thomas Brown |  |
EPIGRAMS.
An Epigram under the Picture of a Beau.
The vain thing set up for Man,But see what Fate attends him,
The poud'ring Barber first began
The Barber Surgeon ends him.
An extempore Epigram on Death.
If Death does come as soon as Breath departs,Then he must often die, who often farts.
And if to die; be but to lose one's Breath,
Then Death's a Fart, and so a Fart for Death.
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Thus merrily turn'd over a Glass.
The Crab does oft the tufted Ring possess,And crawls unseen about the heav'nly Place;
From whose soft Banks the whizing Waters fall,
And Show'rs of Love perform the Dev'l and all.
But when old Time has stretch'd the Channel wide,
And stop'd the Flux of the refreshing Tide,
'Tis Drudg'ry then in such a Pool to sail,
One Moment makes us glad to say, Farewel.
Mr. Brown's Extempore Version of two Verses out of Martial, occasion'd by a Clamorous Dun, who vow'd she would not leave him 'till she had her Money.
Sextus thou nothing ow'st, nothing I say,He something owes that something has to pay.
An Epigram by Mr. Tho. Brown.
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De Parnasso.
Thus paraphras'd.
O Phœbus!
Father of the rhiming Crowd,
Doom'd to be poor, yet destin'd to be proud;
Bright Ruler both of Poetry and Light;
'Tis true, you give us Wit, but starve us by't.
Behold us struggling in those slippery Ways,
Which lead from Profit to the Hopes of Praise;
That tempting Shadow which such Swarms pursue,
Tho' sooth'd by many, merited by few;
Yet oft by Fools, and Flatterers enjoy'd,
And to the more Deserving still deny'd,
But thy Son Homer, liv'd in better Days,
And shone in Wit, as glorious as thy Rays;
With Honour justly clim'd the lofty Hill,
And rul'd with Joy the sacred Pinacle;
Where none his ancient Title must dispute,
Or after him presume to set a Foot.
Inspir'd by these, he took so vast a Flight,
That modern Ages ne'er could reach his Height.
His Works forbid us to molest his Reign,
And shew that all Attempts would prove in vain.
Doom'd to be poor, yet destin'd to be proud;
Bright Ruler both of Poetry and Light;
'Tis true, you give us Wit, but starve us by't.
Behold us struggling in those slippery Ways,
Which lead from Profit to the Hopes of Praise;
That tempting Shadow which such Swarms pursue,
Tho' sooth'd by many, merited by few;
Yet oft by Fools, and Flatterers enjoy'd,
And to the more Deserving still deny'd,
But thy Son Homer, liv'd in better Days,
And shone in Wit, as glorious as thy Rays;
With Honour justly clim'd the lofty Hill,
And rul'd with Joy the sacred Pinacle;
Where none his ancient Title must dispute,
Or after him presume to set a Foot.
Inspir'd by these, he took so vast a Flight,
That modern Ages ne'er could reach his Height.
His Works forbid us to molest his Reign,
And shew that all Attempts would prove in vain.
Yet since all Ages have their certain Best,
And one has Right to tow'r above the rest;
God-like, from Cares exempt, I'll sit at Ease,
And jest with humane Follies as I please:
Ne'er pine in vain, or languish o'er my Wants,
But leave to whining Coxcombs such Complaints.
And as no earthly Monarch will admit
A rival Prince in his Imperial Seat;
So o'er Parnassus will I reign as King,
And whilst the envious Criticks rail, I'll sing.
The bending Arch of Heav'n shall be my Crown,
And thus unequall'd, will I rule alone,
'Till more aspiring Wit shall justly claim
Apollo's Kingdom, and surmount my Fame.
And one has Right to tow'r above the rest;
God-like, from Cares exempt, I'll sit at Ease,
And jest with humane Follies as I please:
Ne'er pine in vain, or languish o'er my Wants,
But leave to whining Coxcombs such Complaints.
And as no earthly Monarch will admit
A rival Prince in his Imperial Seat;
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And whilst the envious Criticks rail, I'll sing.
The bending Arch of Heav'n shall be my Crown,
And thus unequall'd, will I rule alone,
'Till more aspiring Wit shall justly claim
Apollo's Kingdom, and surmount my Fame.
| The works of Mr. Thomas Brown | |