Now for a piece of my poetry to let you see my talent is universal, and then I believe I shall have quitted scores with you. In a hot sunshine day this summer, when the sun was climb’d to his meridian heighth, and the progeny of every cow-turd had taken wing, and were buzzing about streets in search of cooks shops, sugarbakers, and grocers, that a man cou’d not walk _London_-streets without having his nose persecuted by gnats, wasps or blue-bottles, my stomach, which is generally as forward without sustenance at that hour, as a hungry sucking child without the bubby, would not let me be at rest till I had purchased its pacification at the expence of nine-pence; in order to gratify the cormorant, I stepp’d into a cook’s shop where a six-penny slice of veal was brought me, so garnish’d with fly-blows, that there lay a whole covey of the little embroys upon every morsel, that I had more picking work than a surgeon has with a patient whose buttocks are pepper’d with small shot, which put me in such a poetick fury, by that time I had half swallowed up my noonings, that I pluck’d out my pen and ink, and whilst my fancy was warm writ a satire against _Fly-Blows_, wherein perhaps you may find as much wit and ill nature mix’d artfully together as you may in that incomparable satire, _The True-born Englishman_; so pray read and judge favourably. A Satire against _Fly-Blows_. By Mr. _W_---- _Ye worst of vermin that our isle affords,_ _Spawn of curs’d flies, engender’d first in t--rds_ _Ye nitty off-spring of a winged plague,_ _That swarms in mutton from the rump to th’ craig:_ _Tormentors of our cooks, all_ England’s _foes,_ _From rural gluttons, to our_ London _beaus._ _In ev’ry cloven joint thy mother’s blow,_ _Where if not crush’d, you will to maggots grow,_ _Raise your black heads, and crawl about our food,_ _And poison what was eatable and good;_ _Pollute that flesh which should our lives maintain,_ _To dogs condemn what was design’d for man._ _Ye eggs of mischief that in clusters dwell,_ _Hateful to the eyes and nauseous to the smell,_ _Ill omens of a worse succeeding harm,_ _That makes good housewives blush, the husbands storm._ _For thee the faultless cook-maid bears the blame,_ _More salt, you slattern, crys the angry dame,_ _And then the falchion-ladle goes to work:_ _I’ll teach you, jade, to salt the beef and pork._ _May showers of brine each powdering-tub o’erflow,_ _Pepper and salt in every orchard grow;_ _Then may each hand to seas’ning be employ’d,_ _That thy curs’d race may be at once destroy’d._