y obscure;
Nor rich rogues hear with a disdainful smile,
The low and petty knaveries of the poor.

"Beneath the gibbet's self perhaps is laid,
Some heart once pregnant with infernal fire,
Hands that the sword of Nero might have swayed,
And midst the carnage tuned the exulting lyre.

"Ambition to their eyes her ample page
Rich with such monstrous crimes did ne'er unroll,
Chill penury repressed their native rage,
And froze the bloody current of their soul.

"Full many a youth, fit for each horrid scene,
The dark and sooty flues of chimneys bear;
Full many a rogue is born to cheat unseen,
And dies unhanged for want of proper care."

Gay dedicated his first poem to Pope, then himself a young man, and this
led to an intimacy between them. In 1712 he held the office of Secretary
to Ann, Duchess of Monmouth; and in 1714 he accompanied the Earl of
Clarendon to Hanover. In this year he wrote a good travesty of Ambrose
Philips' pastoral poetry, of which the following is a specimen--

_Lobbin Clout._ As Blouzelinda, in a gamesome mood,
Behind a hayrick loudly laughing stood,
I slily ran and snatched a hasty kiss;
She wiped her lips, nor took it much amiss.
Believe me, Cuddy, while I'm bold to say,
Her breath was sweeter than the ripened hay.

_Cuddy._ As my Buxoma in a morning fair,
With gentle finger stroked her milky care,
I quaintly stole a kiss; at first, 'tis true,
She frowned, yet after granted one or two.
Lobbin, I swear, believe who will my vow,
Her breath by far excelled the breathing cow.

_Lobbin._ Leek to the Welsh, to Dutchmen butter's dear,
Of Irish swains potato is the cheer,
Oats for their feasts the Scottish shepherds grind,
Sweet turnips are the food of Blouzelind;
While she loves turnips, butter I'll despise,
Nor leeks, nor oatmeal, nor potato prize.

_Cuddy._ In good roast beef my landlord sticks his knife,
And capon fat delights his dainty wife;
Pudding our parson eats, the squire loves hare,
But white-pot thick is my Buxoma's fare;
While she loves white-pot, capon ne'er shall be
Nor hare, nor beef, nor pudding, food for me.

The following is not without point at the present day--

TO A LADY ON HER PASSION FOR OLD CHINA.

What ecstasies her bosom fire!
How her eyes languish with desire!
How blessed, how happy, should I be,
Were that fond glance bestowed on me!
New doubts and fears within me war,