 | Poems on Several Occasions |  |
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To the same,
with DUNCOMBE's Feminead.
Apollo fairly tir'd one Day,
With making Verse, and making Hay,
(His Head reclin'd on Thetis' Breast)
Repos'd the World's great Eye in Rest;
When, with ill-tim'd Ambition fir'd,
Came Duncombe's Muse to be inspir'd.
Now, if the Books of Heaven be right,
'Squire Hermes kept the Doors that Night.
The God that loves a little Fun,
Conundrum quaint, or two-fac'd Pun,
Thus whisper'd in his Master's Ear;
“An't please your Grace, a Dun comes here:
“I'm sorry, Sir, but, 'faith, 'tis vain:
“The Rogue will certainly distrain.
“Poor Mrs. The will lose her Parrot,
“And you, my Lord! your Steeds and Chariot.
“Alas the Day! for want of Light,
“Poor Folks below are ruin'd quite.
“While Keil and Gargrave vainly hope
“To catch your Face in Telescope.
“Your Pardon, Sir! but I must tell ye,
“You'd better creep to some Whale's Belly.
“Here's many a one in these same Seas
“Wou'd take your Worship, when you please.
With making Verse, and making Hay,
(His Head reclin'd on Thetis' Breast)
Repos'd the World's great Eye in Rest;
When, with ill-tim'd Ambition fir'd,
Came Duncombe's Muse to be inspir'd.
Now, if the Books of Heaven be right,
'Squire Hermes kept the Doors that Night.
The God that loves a little Fun,
Conundrum quaint, or two-fac'd Pun,
Thus whisper'd in his Master's Ear;
“An't please your Grace, a Dun comes here:
104
“The Rogue will certainly distrain.
“Poor Mrs. The will lose her Parrot,
“And you, my Lord! your Steeds and Chariot.
“Alas the Day! for want of Light,
“Poor Folks below are ruin'd quite.
“While Keil and Gargrave vainly hope
“To catch your Face in Telescope.
“Your Pardon, Sir! but I must tell ye,
“You'd better creep to some Whale's Belly.
“Here's many a one in these same Seas
“Wou'd take your Worship, when you please.
The God, who now no longer slept,
Thus spoke, inrag'd; poor Thetis wept.
“That Bully, Mars, more rude than wise,
“The very Scandal of the Skies,
Is now come here to swear and hector,
Because He won five Bowls of Nectar.
Picquette, my Dear — nay never frown—
You know the whole is but a Crown.
By one poor Terce He chanc'd to win:
You, Porter, let the Rascal in.
Thus spoke, inrag'd; poor Thetis wept.
“That Bully, Mars, more rude than wise,
“The very Scandal of the Skies,
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Because He won five Bowls of Nectar.
Picquette, my Dear — nay never frown—
You know the whole is but a Crown.
By one poor Terce He chanc'd to win:
You, Porter, let the Rascal in.
Sir Duncombe kneel'd and told his Suit:
Loud Hermes laugh'd—the God was mute.
But, willing to improve the Jest,
Dan Cupid like Himself He drest,
And lodg'd Him in the Poet's Breast.
Loud Hermes laugh'd—the God was mute.
But, willing to improve the Jest,
Dan Cupid like Himself He drest,
And lodg'd Him in the Poet's Breast.
'Twas thus the God of Love inspir'd
What Duncombe wrote, and You admir'd.
The Bard, at his all-mighty Call,
To please one Woman, prais'd Them all.
What Duncombe wrote, and You admir'd.
The Bard, at his all-mighty Call,
To please one Woman, prais'd Them all.
| Poems on Several Occasions | |