*53

Earl c/RochesTir.

And now the Bottle briskly flies about,

Instead of Ice, wrapt up in a wet Clout.

A Brimmer follows the third Bit we eat ;

Small Beer becomes our Drink, and Wine our Meat.The Table was so large, that in less SpaceA Man might save six old Italians Place :

Each Man had as much Room as Porter Blunt,

Or Harris had in Culled % Bushel-

And now the Wine began to work, mine HostHad been a Col’nel, we must hear him boast,

Not of Towns won, but an Estate he’ad lostFor the King’s Service, which indeed he spentWhorirg and Drinking, but with good Intent. \He talk’d much of a Plot, and Money lentIn Cromwell’s Time. Alas! my Lady sheComplain’d our Love was coarse, our PoetryUnfit for modest Ears; small Whores and Play’rsWere of our hair-brain’d Youth the only Cares,

Who were too wild for any virtuous League,

Too rotten to consummate the Intrigue.

Falkland she prais'd, and Suckling's easy Pen,

And seem’d to taste their former Parts again.

Mine Host drinks to the Bejl in Christendom,

And decently my Lady quits the Room.

Left to ourselves, of sev’ial Things we prate;

Some regulate the Stage, and some the State.Half-wit cries up my Lord of Orrery,

Ah, how well Mustapba and Z anger die 1His Sense so little sore’d, that by one LineYou may the other easily divine:

And, which is worse, if any worse can be.

He nearer said one Word of it to me.

This is fine Poetry, you’d swear ’twere Prose,

So little on the Sense the Rhimes impose.

II j

D—me,