University of Virginia Library

V. Friends and Acquaintances

On Dolly Chamberlain A Sempstress in the New Exchange

Dolly's beauty and art
Have so hemm'd in my heart
That I cannot resist the charm:
In revenge I will stitch
Up the hole next her breech
With a needle as long as my arm.

A Song on Black Bess

Epitaph on Mrs. Lundy

Here lies little Lundy a yard deep or more,
That never lay silent or quiet before,
For her brain was still working, her tongue was still prating,
And the pulse of her heart continually beating,
To the utmost extremes of loving and hating.
Her reason and humor were always at strife,
But yet she perform'd all the duties of life,
For she was a true friend and a pretty good wife.
So indulgent a mother that no one could say
Whether Minty or Patty did rule or obey,
For the government changed some ten times a day.
At the hour of her birth some lucky star gave her
Wit and beauty enough to have lasted for ever;
But fortune, still froward when nature is kind,
A narrow estate maliciously join'd
To a very great genius and a generous mind.
Her body was made of that superfine clay,
Which is apt to be brittle for want of allay;
And when, without show of outward decay,
It began by degrees to molder away,
Her soul, then too busy on some foreign affair,
Of its own pretty dwelling took so little care,
That the tenement fell for want of repair.
Far be from hence both the fool and the knave,
But let all who pretend to be witty or brave,
Whether gen'rous friend or amorous slave,
Contribute some tears to water her grave.

On the Young Heiress of Lincoln's Inn Fields

Pindaric Petition to the Lords in Council

Humbly Sheweth,
Should you order Tom Brown
To be whip'd about town
For a scurvy lampoon,
Grave Southern and Crown,
Their pens wou'd lay down.
Even Durfey himself and such merry fellows
That put their whole trust in tunes and trangdilloes
May hang up their harps and themselves on the willows,
For if poets are punish'd for libelling trash,
John Dryden at sixty may yet fear the lash.
No pension nor praise,
Much birch without bays,
These are not the right ways
Our fancies to raise
To the writing of plays,
And prologues so witty,
That jerk at the city,
And now and then hit
Some spark in the pit
So hard and so pat
'Till he hides with his hat
His monstrous cravat.
The pulpit alone
Can never preach down
The fops of this town.
Then pardon Tom Brown,
And let him write on.
But if you had rather convert the poor sinner,
His foul, railing mouth may be stop'd with a dinner.
Give him clothes to his back, some meat, and much drink,
Then clap him close prisoner without pen and ink,
And your petitioner shall never pray, write, nor think.

On Mrs. Anne Roche when she Lost Sir John Daws

Like a true Irish merlin that has lost her flight,
Little Nancy sat mumping and sullen all night.
Tho' the jackdaw escap'd her, the loss is not great;
She may yet catch a woodcock, and that's better meat.