ROBERT LLOYD.

BORN 1733-DIED 1764.

ROBERT LLOYD was the son of one of the mas

ters of Westminster school. He studied at Cambridge, and was for some time usher at Westminster, but forsook that employment for the life of an author and the habits of a man of pleasure. His first publication that attracted any notice was the Actor, the reputation of which stimulated Churchill to his Rosciad. He contributed to several periodical works; but was unable by his literary efforts to support the dissipated life which he led with Coleman, Thornton, and other gay associates. His debts brought him to the Fleet, and those companions left him to moralize on the instability of convivial friendships. Churchill however adhered to him, and gave him pecuniary relief, to prevent him from starving in prison. During his confinement he published a volume of his poems; wrote a comic opera, The Capricious Lovers, and took a share in translating the Contes Moraux of Marmontel. When the death of Churchill was announced to him, he exclaimed, "Poor Charles! I shall follow him soon," fell into despondency, and died within a few weeks. Churchill's sister, to whom he was attached, died of a broken heart for his loss.

SELECT POEMS.

CHIT-CHAT,

AN IMITATION OF THEOCRITUS.

IDYLL. XV. Evdo Пgativoa, &c.

Mrs. B. Is Mistress Scott at home, my dear? Serv. Ma'am, is it you? I'm glad you're here. My missess, though resolv'd to wait,

Is quite unpatient-'tis so late.

She fancied you would not come down,

-But pray walk in, ma'am-Mrs. Brown.
Mrs. S. Your servant, madam.

I'd giv'n you over.-Child, a chair.
Pray, ma'am, be seated.

Mrs. B.

Well, I swear

Lard! my dear,

I vow I'm almost dead with fear.

There is such scrouging and such squeeging,

The folks are all so disobliging;

And then the waggons, carts and drays

So clog up all these narrow ways,
What with the bustle and the throng,
I wonder how I got along.

Besides the walk is so immense-
Not that I grudge a coach expense,
But then it jumbles me to death,
-And I was always short of breath.

How can you live so far, my dear?
It's quite a journey to come here.

Mrs. S. Lard! ma'am, I left it all to him;
Husbands, you know, will have their whim.
He took this house.-This house! this den.-
See but the temper of some men.
And I, forsooth, am hither hurl'd,

To live quite out of all the world.
Husband, indeed!

There's a good boy; look up, my dear. 'Twas not papa we talk'd about.

-Surely he cannot find it out.

Mrs. B. See how the urchin holds his hands.

Upon my life he understands.

-There's a sweet child, come, kiss me, come.
Will Jacky have a sugar-plum?

Mrs. S. This person, madam, (call him so,

And then the child will never know)

From house to house would ramble out,
And every night a drunken bout.
For at a tavern he will spend
His twenty shillings with a friend.
Your rabbits fricasseed and chicken,
With curious choice of dainty picking,
Each night got ready at the Crown,
With port and punch to wash 'em down,
Would scarcely serve this belly-glutton,

Whilst we must starve on mutton, mutton.

Mrs. B. My good man, too-Lord bless us! wives Are born to lead unhappy lives,

Although his profits bring him clear
Almost two hundred pounds a year,
Keeps me of cash so short and bare,
That I have not a gown to wear;
Except my robe and yellow sack,
And this old lute string on my back.
-But we've no time, my dear, to waste.
Come, where's your cardinal, make haste.
The king, God bless his majesty, I say,
Goes to the house of lords to-day,
In a fine painted coach and eight,
And rides along in all his state.
And then the queen-

Mrs. S.

Ay, ay, you know,

Great folks can always make a show.

But tell me, do-I've never seen
Her present majesty, the queen.

Mrs. B. Lard! we've no time for talking now, Hark!-one-two-three-'tis twelve I vow.

Mrs. S. Kitty, my things,-I'll soon have done, It's time enough, you know, at one. -Why, girl! see how the creature stands ! Some water here to wash my hands. -Be quick-why sure the gipsy sleeps! -Look how the drawling daudle creeps. That basin there-why don't you pour? Go on, I say-stop, stop-no moreLud! I could beat the hussy down, She's pour'd it all upon my gown. -Bring me my ruffles-canst not mind? And pin my handkerchief behind. Sure thou hast awkwardness enough, Go-fetch my gloves, and fan, and muff. VOL. XXXVII.

R