Yes; you call'd my Mafter a Knave: Fie, Mr. She ridan, 'tis a Shame

For a Parson, who shou'd know better Things, to come out with fuch a Name:

Knave in your Teeth, Mr. Sheridan, 'tis both a Shame and a Sin,

And the Dean, my Master, is an honester Man than you and all

your

Kin:

He has more Goodness in his little Finger, than you have in your whole Body,

My Master is a parsonable Man, and not a spindlefhank'd Hoddy-daddy. !

1

And now whereby I find you would fain make an Excufe,

Because my Master one Day, in Anger, call'd you Goose.

Which, and I am fure I have been his Servant four Years fince October,

And he never call'd me worse than Sweet-heart drunk or fober:

Not that I know his Reverence was ever concern'd to my Knowledge,

Tho' you and your Come-rogues keep him out fo late in your wicked College.

You

You fay you will eat Grafs on his Grave; a

Chriftian eat Grafs!

Whereby you now confefs your felf to be a Goofe or an Afs:

But that's as much as to fay, that my Mafter should die before ye;

Well, well, that's as God pleafes, and I don't believe that's a true Story,

And fo fay I told you fo, and you may go tell my Master; what care I

I?

And I don't care who knows it, 'tis all one to Mary.

Every Body knows that I love to tell Truth, and shame the Devil;

I am but a poor Servant, but I think gentle-Folks should be civil.

Befides, you found Fault with our Vittels one Day that you was here,

I remember it was upon a Tuesday, of all Days in the Year.

And Saunders the Man fays, you are always jefting

and mocking,

Mary, faid he, (one Day, as I was mending my Master's Stocking,)

My

My Master is fo fond of that Minifter that keeps the School;

I thought my Mafter a wife Man, but that Man makes him a Fool.

Saunders, faid I, I would rather than a Quart of

Ale,

He would come into our Kitchin, and I would pin a Dish-clout to his Tail.

And now I must go, and get

Letter,

Saunders to dire& this

For I write but a fad Scrawl, but my Sifter Marget fhe writes better.

Well, but I must run and make the Bed before my Mafter comes from Pray'rs,

And fee now, it ftrikes Tep, and I hear him coming up Stairs:

Whereof I cou'd fay more to your Verfes, if I could write written Hand;

And fo I remain in a civil Way, your Servant to

command,

MART

PE

PETHOX the Great.

Written in the Year 1723.

ROM Venus born, thy Beauty shows;

FR

But who thy Father, no Man knows;

Nor can the skilful Herald trace

The Founder of thy antient Race.
Whether thy Temper, full of Fire,
Discovers Vulcan for thy Sire;

The God who made Scamandre boil,
And round his Margin fing'd the Soil;
(From whence Philofophers agree,
An equal Pow'r descends to thee.)
Whether from dreadful Mars you claim
The high Defcent from whence you came,
And, as a Proof, fhew num'rous Scars
By fierce Encounters made in Wars;
(Those honourable Wounds you bore
From Head to Foot, and all before;)

And

And still the bloody Field frequent,

Familiar in each Leader's Tent.
Or whether, as the Learn'd contend,
You from the neighb'ring Gaul descend;
Or from Parthenope the Proud,
Where numberlefs thy Vot'rics crowd.
Whether thy great Forefathers came
From Realms that bear l'efputio's Name;
For fo Conjectors would obtrude,
And from thy painted Skin conclude.
Whether, as Epicurus fhows

The World from joftling Seeds arofe;

Which mingling with prolifick Strife
In Chaos, kindled into Life;

So

your

Production was the fame,

And from contending Atoms came.

THY fair indulgent Mother crown'd
Thy Head with fparkling Rubies round;
Beneath thy decent Steps, the Road
Is all with precious Jewels ftrow'd.
The Bird of Pallas knows his Poft,
Thee to attend where-e'er thou go'ft.

Naples. Bubo, the Owl.

BYZAN