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CONTRAST between the PoST-HORSE and FARMER'S HORSE.
From the fame.

SHORT-fighter Doips that encompass thee:

HORT-fighted Dobbin!-thou canft only fee

Thy chains were freedom, and thy toils repose,
Could the poor post-horse tell thee all his woes;
Shew thee his bleeding fhoulders, and unfold
The dreadful anguish he endures for gold:
Hir'd at each call of bufinefs, luft, or rage,
That prompt the trav❜ller on from stage to stage.
Still on his ftrength depends their boasted speed;
For them his limbs grow weak, his bare ribs bleed;
And though he groaning quickens at command,
Their extra fhilling in the rider's hand
Becomes his bitter fcourge:-'tis he must feel
The double efforts of the lash and steel:
Till when, up hill, the deftin'd inn he gains,
And trembling under complicated pains,
Prone from his noftrils, darting on the ground,
His breath emitted floats in clouds around:
Drops chafe each other down his cheft and fides,
And fpatter'd mud his native colour bides:
Through his fwoln veins the boiling torrent flows,
And every nerve a separate torture knows.
His harness loos'd, he welcomes eager-eyed
The pail's full draught that quivers by his fide;
And joys to fee the well-known stable door,
As the ftarv'd mariner the friendly fhore.

Ah, well for him if here his fuff'rings ceas'd,
And ample hours of reft his pains appeas'd!
But rous'd again, and fternly bade to rife,
And thake refreshing flumber from his eyes,
Ere his exhaufted fpirits can return,

Or through his frame reviving ardour burn,

Come forth he muft, though limping, maim'd, and fore;
He hears the whip; the chaife is at the door :-

The collar tightens, and again he feels

His half-heal'd wounds inflam'd; again the wheels
With tirefome fameness in his ears refound,
O'er blinding duft, or miles of flinty ground.
Thus nightly robb'd, and injur'd day by day,
His piece-meal murd'rers wear his life away.

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What fay'ft thou, Dobbin? what though hounds await
With open jaws the moment of thy fate,
No better fate attends his public race;
His life is mifery, and his end difgrace.
Then freely bear thy burden to the mill,
Obey but one short law,-thy driver's will
Affection, to thy memory ever true,

Shall boaft of mighty loads that Dobbin drew;
And back to childhood fhall the mind with pride
Recount thy gentleness in many a ride

To pond, or field, or village fair, when thou
Held'ft high thy braided mane and comely brow;
And off the tale fhall rife to homely fame

Upon thy gen'rous spirit and thy name.

SUFFOLK CHEESE; from the fame.

UNRIV

NRIVALL'D ftands thy country cheese, O Giles!
Whofe very name alone engenders smiles;
Whose fame abroad by every tongue is spoke,
The well-known butt of many a flinty joke,
That pas like current coin the nation through;
And, ah! experience proves the fatire true.
Provifion's grave, thou ever craving mart,
Dependent, huge metropolis! where art
Her poring thousands flows in breathless rooms,
Midft pois'nous fmokes and fteams, and rattling looms;
Where grandeur revels in unbounded stores;
Reftraint, a flighted ftranger at their doors!
Thou, like a whirlpool, drain'ft the countries round,
Till London market, London price, refound
Through every town, round every passing load,
And dairy produce throngs the eaftern road:
Delicious veal, and butter, every hour,
From Effex lowlands, and the banks of Stour;
And farther far, where numerous herds repofe,
From Orwell's brink, from Weveny, or Oufe.
Hence Suffolk dairy-wives run mad for cream,
And leave their milk with nothing but its name;
Its name derifion and reproach purfue,

And firangers tell of three times fkimm'd fky-blue."
To cheele converted, what can be its boaft?
What, but the common virtues of a poft!
If drought o'ertake it faster than the knife,
Moft fair it bids for ftubborn length of life,

And,

And, like the oaken shelf whereon 'tis laid,
Mocks the weak efforts of the bending blade;
Or in the hog-trough refts in perfect 1pite,
Too big to fwallow, and too hard to bite.
Inglorious victory! Ye Cheshire meads,
Or Severn's flow'ry dales, where plenty treads,
Was your rich milk to fuffer wrongs like these,
Farewell your pride! farewell renown'd cheese!
The fkimmer dread, whofe ravages alone
Thus turn the mead's sweet nectar into stone.

The RHYMING APOTHECARY; a Tale. By George Colman, Efq.

A Man, in many a country town we know,

Profeffing openly with death to wrestle;

Ent'ring the field against the grimly foe,
Arm'd with a mortar and a pestle.

Yet, fome affirm, no enemies they are;
But meet, juft like prize-fighters, in a fair:
Who firft thake hands before they box,
Then give each other plaguy knocks,
With all the love and kindness of a brother:
So (many a fuff'ring patient faith)

Though the apothecary fights with death,
Still they're fworn friends to one another.

A member of this Æfculapian line,
Lived at Newcastle-upon-Tyne:
No man could better gild a pill;
Or make a bill;

Or mix a draught, or bleed, or blifter;
Or draw a tooth out of your head;
Or chatter fcandal by your bed;
Or give a glister.

Of occupations these were quantum suff :
Yet ftill he thought the lift not long enough;
And therefore midwifery he chofe to pin to't.
This balanc'd things:-for if he hurl'd
A few score mortals from the world,

He made amends by bringing others into't.

His fame full fix miles round the country ran;
In fhort, in reputation he was folus :
All the old women call'd him "a fine man!"
His name was Bolus.

Benjamin

Benjamin Bolus, though in trade,

(Which oftentimes will genius fetter) Read works of fancy it is faid;

And cultivated the Belles Lettres.

And why should this be thought fo odd?
Can't men have tafte who cure a phthysick?
Of poetry though patron God,

Apollo patronizes phyfic.

Bolus loved verfe;-and took fo much delight in't,
That his preferiptions he refolved to write in't.
No opportunity he e'er let pafs

Of writing the directions on his labels,
In dapper couplets like Gay's fables;

Or, rather, like the lines in Hudibras.

Apothecaries rhyme! and where's the treafon?
Tis fimply honeft dealing-not a fault.
When patients fwallow phyfic without reason,
Is it not fair to give a little falt?

He had a patient lying at death's door,

Some three miles from the town-it might be four;
To whom, one evening, Bolus fent an article,
In Pharmacy, that's called cathartical.

And, on the label of the ftuff,

He wrote this verse;

Which one would think was clear enough,

And terfe:

"When taken,"

"To be well fhaken."

Next morning, early, Bolus rofe;
And to the patient's house he goes;—
Upon his pad,

Who a vile trick of stumbling had :
It was indeed a very forry hack ;—
But that's of course:

For what's expected from a horse,
With an apothecary on his back?
Bolus arrived; and gave a doubtful tap ;-
Between a single and a double rap.-

7

Knocks

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Well, how's the patient!" Bolus faid.
John fhook his head.

Indeed!-hum!-ha! that's very odd!"
"He took the draught?"-John gave a nod.
"Well,-how-what then?-fpeak out, you dunce!”,
Why then"-fays John-" we shook him once.”
"Shook him!-how ?"-Bolus ftammer'd out:-
"We jolted him about."

"Zounds! shake a patient, man!—a fhake won't do."
"No, fir--and fo we gave him two."
"Two shakes! odds curfe!

" 'Twould make the patient worse."

"It did fo, fir !—and sò a third we tried."
"Well, and what then?"-" then fir, my mafter died!"

Account

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