Ere morning's dawn, stole out to spy
How markets went for hay and oats.
With that he draws two handfuls out,
The one was oats, the other hay;
Puts this to's excellency's snout,
And begs he would the other weigh.
My lord seems pleas'd, but still directs
By all means to bring down the rates;
Then, with a conjée circumflex,
Bush, smiling round on all retreats.
Our listener stood a while confus'd,
But gathering spirits, wisely ran for 't,
Enrag'd to see the world abus'd,
By two such whispering kings of Brentford.
THE PROBLEM.
"THAT MY LORD BERKELEY STINKS, WHEN HE IS IN LOVE."
DID ever problem thus perplex,
Or more employ the female sex?
So sweet a passion, who would think,
Jove ever form'd to make a stink?
The ladies vow and swear, they'll try,
Whether it be a truth or lie.
Love's fire, it seems, like inward heat,
Works in my lord by stool and sweat,
Which brings a stink from every pore,
And from behind and from before;
Yet, what is wonderful to tell it,
None but the favourite nymph can smell it.
