Vertiginosus, inops, surdus, male gratus amicis; Non campana sonans, tonitru non ab Jove missum, Quod mage mirandum, saltem si credere fas est, Non clamosa meas mulier jam percutit aures. THE DEAN'S COMPLAINT, TRANSLATED AND ANSWERED DOCTOR. Deaf, giddy, helpless, left alone. ANSWER. Except the first, the fault's your own. DOCTOR. To all my friends a burden grown. ANSWER. Because to few you will be shewn. Give them good wine, and meat to stuff, You may have company enough. DOCTOR. No more I hear my church's bell, Than if it rang out for my knell. ANSWER. Then write and read, 'twill do as well. DOCTOR. At thunder now no more I start, Than at the rumbling of a cart. ANSWER. Think then of thunder when you f--t. DOCTOR. Nay, what's incredible, alack! No more I hear a woman's clack. ANSWER. A woman's clack, if I have skill, Sounds somewhat like a throwster's mill; But louder than a bell, or thunder: That does, I own, increase my wonder. THE DEAN'S MANNER OF LIVING On rainy days alone I dine Upon a chick and pint of wine. On rainy days I dine alone, And pick my chicken to the bone; But this my servants much enrages, No scraps remain to save board-wages. In weather fine I nothing spend, But often spunge upon a friend; Yet, where he's not so rich as I, I pay my club, and so good b'ye. EPIGRAM BY MR. BOWYER "IN SYLLABAM LONGAM IN VOCE VERTIGINOSUS A. D. SWIFT CORREPTAM" Musarum antistes, Phoebi numerosus alumnus, Vix omnes numeros Vertiginosus habet. Intentat charo capiti vertigo ruinam: Oh! servet cerebro nata Minerva caput. Vertigo nimium longa est, divina poeta; Dent tibi Pierides, donet Apollo, brevem. VERSES MADE FOR FRUIT-WOMEN APPLES Come buy my fine wares, Plums, apples, and pears. A hundred a penny, In conscience too many: Come, will you have any? My children are seven, I wish them in Heaven; My husband a sot, With his pipe and his pot, Not a farthing will gain them, And I must maintain them. ASPARAGUS Ripe 'sparagrass Fit for lad or lass, To make their water pass: O, 'tis pretty picking With a tender chicken! ONIONS Come, follow me by the smell, Here are delicate onions to sell; I promise to use you well. They make the blood warmer, You'll feed like a farmer; For this is every cook's opinion, No savoury dish without an onion; But, lest your kissing should be spoil'd, Your onions must be thoroughly boil'd: Or else you may spare Your mistress a share, The secret will never be known: She cannot discover The breath of her lover, But think it as sweet as her own. OYSTERS