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By hunger, thirst, and sickness undone,
And bound to Redriff first, then London.
But whose is that mug, pray! and spread
For whom yon comfortable bed?

MATE. The bed's our captain's bed, d'ye see
I wish you'd let a body be-
The mug, you mean that has the grog in?
That, master, is the captain's noggin.
He, good soul, must have his potion :
Thirst can reach the sons of ocean.
Unwilling I my lips unclose;
Leave me, leave me, to repose.

Tim. Once again my call obey,
Master mate, awake and say,
Which

way

I to bed may go ; Pray have ye one for me, or no ?

Mate. There on the floor mattress and bolster are ;
Who wish for more may ask th' upholsterer.
Now my weary lips I close;
Leave

leave me, to repose.
Tim. Master mate, my call obey,
Rouse yourself once more and say,
If in this ship a poor starved sinner
May sup; to-day I had no dinner.

me,

Mare. Sure, when you were on deck, Sir, you heard
Our cook a-scraping pots to leeward.
A sooty seaman blusters there,
Who never comb'd his lamp-black hair,
Nor scrub'd his angry brow, nor par'd
The bristles of his shaggy beard.
He by your chop or steak shall sit,
Hissing on gridiron or on spit.
Now my weary lips I close :
Leave me, I beg you, to repose.

Tim. Once yet again awake, and tell us,
Who are those surly ragged fellows ;
Why each about so madly hops,
Howling, and tugging tarry ropes ;
Why at the slacken'd cords they swear,
And fluttering sails that flap in air :
Tell me whence this hubbub rose.
Then I leave thee to repose.
Mate. Ha! no traveller art thou

i Fresh water friend, I smoke thee now, As ignorant a rogue as ever

Tim. No mate genteel, polite and clever
Art thou ; nor ever wert a sailor;
But, as I rather guess, a tailor.

MATE. Hie thee hence, and thank my mercy,
Or rather drowsiness, that spares ye.
Hence! or I'll drive you : for no fellow
Shall break my sleep with his vile bellow,
Till this cold pitchy cloud of night
Melt in the warmth of morning light;
That is, till four o'clock, or three, Sir,
What, won't you go!

-Here, Cesar, Cesar.

Desunt cætera.

TOM JONES.

THE beau buys Fielding's works complete, Each page with

rapture cons, Sophias finds in every street,

And is himself Tom Jones.

To some gay girl his vows are given ;

And soon he learns to tell,
That, when she smiles, he is in heaven,

And, when she frowns, in hell.

Ague or Influenza soon

Comes on; he weds a wife :
The warm fit ends with one short moor,,

The cold fit lasts for life.

HORACE, Epist. I. 5.

IMITATED.

January 1, 1787.
STUFF'D now and stun'd so long, with feast and riot,
If you can pass an humble hour in quiet,
From bows, and thanks, and compliments descend,
To talk plain friendly language with a friend;
Why then I give you joy, and all is right,
If you agree to sup with us to-night.
For wine to foreign lands we seldom roam;
Our patriot bowls with British porter foam:
Porter, with which not Whitbread would find fault,
Or the best he that deals in hops and malt :
However, lest your nicer taste should mock it,
Bring of your own a bottle in your pocket.

Come then; the ready plates your hand require,
And briskly burns for you the evening fire.
Leave bills and bonds, and let the law-suit cool,
And the pert fop forget, and pedant fool.
Now, slipt from cold Futurity's embrace,
The youthful months begin their jovial race :

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