 | Poems on various subjects |  |
221
Epigrams, &c.
223
EPITAPH ON A WICKED MAN.
Here lies what was a tool of Pow'r,
Physician spite of Skill,
Who, if he knew not how to cure,
He seldom fail'd to kill.
Physician spite of Skill,
Who, if he knew not how to cure,
He seldom fail'd to kill.
Ye honest men who wander here,
Think ye have lost a foe:
Ye virgins, ye have nought to fear,
Since Death has struck the blow.
Think ye have lost a foe:
Ye virgins, ye have nought to fear,
Since Death has struck the blow.
Mourn drunkards, panders, gamesters, mourn,
For you have lost the knave:
Ye bawds, with tears bedew this urn—
Your friend lies in the grave.
For you have lost the knave:
Ye bawds, with tears bedew this urn—
Your friend lies in the grave.
224
DEATH AND THE DOCTOR.
So many had old Nostrum kill'd, that DeathAt length grew jealous, and just stopp'd his breath.
A while thy labour now, grim king, give o'er—
Thou'st conquer'd him who kill'd full many a score.
TO WITLESS.
That Fortune's fickle I ne'er doubt;An' if she weel can see,
She maun be daft beyond dispute,
To smile on ane like thee.
EPIGRAM.
[‘The proper study of mankind is man:’]
‘The proper study of mankind is man:’Then tell me, men of learning, if you can,
Why is young Flippant call'd a brainless elf,
Who spends his time in gazing at himself.
225
THE IRISH ECHO.
So civil's our Echo in Ireland, quoth Teague,That, if you but whisper to't, how do ye do?
It answers, tho' distant far more than a league,
I'm very well, thank ye—pray, Pat, how are you?
THE HUSBAND TO DEATH.
Thanks, friendly Death, I now rejoice,Her noise no more I fear;
Thunder was music to that voice,
Which yet methinks I hear.
TO AN ARTIST.
Knight of the Brush, if thou wilt paintLords, lions, bears, and bishops still the same,
That strangers may know what is meant,
For heav'n's sake write below each creature's name.
226
FORTUNE'S FOOL.
Poor
Tom last week was thought a dunce,
All wonder'd much at his thick sconce,
Who sat six hours, and spoke but once,
All wonder'd much at his thick sconce,
Who sat six hours, and spoke but once,
And that indeed was deem'd great impudence.
Rich Tom, this week, all ask his hand,
Dogs, horses, men, doth Tom command;
He talks what none can understand;
Rich Tom, this week, all ask his hand,
Dogs, horses, men, doth Tom command;
He talks what none can understand;
Yet all admire this murderer of sense.
Then why will man dame Fortune e'er despise,
Whose gifts oft make the greatest fool seem wise?
Then why will man dame Fortune e'er despise,
Whose gifts oft make the greatest fool seem wise?
THE MISER'S FEAST.
When Skinflint once a week doth dine,Bread serves for pyes, tarts, beef, and mutton;
Water he calls ale, beer, or wine;
Then thinks himself expensive glutton.
227
EPITAPH.
Here lies a wretch, to whom, we're told,No pleasure life did give,
Who, when she could no longer scold,
No longer wish'd to live.
EPITAPH ON A FRIEND.
A husband, parent fond, a friend sincere,To Vice a foe, to Virtue ever dear;
One who well knew the world, and lov'd mankind,
Who liv'd in peace, belov'd, and died resign'd:
In wisdom old, ere he had reach'd his prime,
Death clos'd a life scarce sullied by a crime.
Such was the son of Worth who here doth lie—
Reader, like him, prepare in time to die.
THE END.
| Poems on various subjects | |