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 |
 | 1. |
| 2. |
 | 3. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
| 4. |
 | The works of Mr. Thomas Brown |  |
326
An ELEGY,
Suppos'd to be written by Stephen Switch, upon Dobbin a Coach-Horse, who departed this Mortal Life on Saturday the 8th of April.
Oh, cruel Death! whose Rage without Remorse is,
Why should'st thou persecute poor harmless Horses?
Whose righteous Blood, as said a Spokesman wise,
Against thy Malice will in Judgment rise.
On Courtiers thou'st my Leave to be severe,
For now and then I grudge thee not a Peer;
Spiritual or Temporal, no matter whether,
Or a whole Corporation take together.
Such Game methinks might thy keen Stomach stay,
Considering thou'd'st a Whale the other Day,
Then why the Plague must thou on Horse-flesh prey?
It grieves my Conscience, and disturbs my Quiet,
To see thee given to such Tartarian Diet
Poor Two-leg'd Beasts thou think'st not worth a Groat,
But into Porter's foolish Sport art got,
And must be playing at All-Fours, God wot.
Were I t'advise a Dinner for thy Palate,
A well-cram'd Priest should serve instead of Sallad,
Fat Draymen's Chines should be a standing Dish:
I'd have an Admiral, when I din'd on Fish.
If nought but tender Morsels wou'd go down,
Commend me to a Lady of the Town;
But for a choice tough Bit t'employ the Maw,
I'd take a Scriv'ner, or a Man of Law.
But thou'rt, I find, a Stranger to good Breeding,
And dost not know the Methods of good Feeding:
Why should'st thou persecute poor harmless Horses?
Whose righteous Blood, as said a Spokesman wise,
Against thy Malice will in Judgment rise.
On Courtiers thou'st my Leave to be severe,
For now and then I grudge thee not a Peer;
Spiritual or Temporal, no matter whether,
Or a whole Corporation take together.
Such Game methinks might thy keen Stomach stay,
Considering thou'd'st a Whale the other Day,
Then why the Plague must thou on Horse-flesh prey?
It grieves my Conscience, and disturbs my Quiet,
To see thee given to such Tartarian Diet
Poor Two-leg'd Beasts thou think'st not worth a Groat,
But into Porter's foolish Sport art got,
And must be playing at All-Fours, God wot.
Were I t'advise a Dinner for thy Palate,
A well-cram'd Priest should serve instead of Sallad,
Fat Draymen's Chines should be a standing Dish:
I'd have an Admiral, when I din'd on Fish.
If nought but tender Morsels wou'd go down,
Commend me to a Lady of the Town;
But for a choice tough Bit t'employ the Maw,
I'd take a Scriv'ner, or a Man of Law.
But thou'rt, I find, a Stranger to good Breeding,
And dost not know the Methods of good Feeding:
327
Oh! Dobbin, thou wert hurried off the Stage,
Just in the prime and vigour of thy Age.
Howe'er, dear Beast, 'tis to thy Friends some Ease,
Thou fell'st by a Right Worshipful Disease.
Instead of Clyster, Balls, and Farrier's Physick,
Thy Days, alas! were shorten'd by the Ptisick.
And all Men know (I speak it without scoffing)
That many an Alderman has di'd of Coughing.
But if Heav'ns Justice will endure Inspection,
What had thy Lungs done to deserve Infection?
For I can swear thou ne'er had'st the Ambition,
To talk Profaneness, Bawdy, or Sedition.
Just in the prime and vigour of thy Age.
Howe'er, dear Beast, 'tis to thy Friends some Ease,
Thou fell'st by a Right Worshipful Disease.
Instead of Clyster, Balls, and Farrier's Physick,
Thy Days, alas! were shorten'd by the Ptisick.
And all Men know (I speak it without scoffing)
That many an Alderman has di'd of Coughing.
But if Heav'ns Justice will endure Inspection,
What had thy Lungs done to deserve Infection?
For I can swear thou ne'er had'st the Ambition,
To talk Profaneness, Bawdy, or Sedition.
Once more farewel, my dear belov'd Quadruped,
The loss of thee has plainly made me stupid.
I knew thy Dad, thy Mother, and thy Grandsir,
But thou return'st to my Complaints no Answer.
No Hugmatee, nor Flip, my Grief can smother;
I lov'd thee, Dobbin, better than my Brother.
Since then so lame my Muse, so dull my Wit is,
I'll have thy Epitaph compos'd by Pittis.
The loss of thee has plainly made me stupid.
I knew thy Dad, thy Mother, and thy Grandsir,
But thou return'st to my Complaints no Answer.
No Hugmatee, nor Flip, my Grief can smother;
I lov'd thee, Dobbin, better than my Brother.
Since then so lame my Muse, so dull my Wit is,
I'll have thy Epitaph compos'd by Pittis.
| The works of Mr. Thomas Brown | |