Whose wideness kept their toes from corns,
  And whence we claim our shoeing-horns,
  Shows how the art of cobbling bears
  A near resemblance to the spheres. 
    A scrap of parchment hung by geometry
  (A great refinement in barometry)
  Can, like the stars, foretell the weather;
  And what is parchment else but leather? 
  Which an astrologer might use
  Either for almanacs or shoes. 
    Thus Partridge by his wit and parts
  At once did practise both these arts: 
  And as the boding owl (or rather
  The bat, because her wings are leather)
  Steals from her private cell by night,
  And flies about the candle-light;
  So learned Partridge could as well
  Creep in the dark from leathern cell,
  And in his fancy fly as far
  To peep upon a twinkling star. 
    Besides, he could confound the spheres,
  And set the planets by the ears;
  To show his skill, he Mars could join
  To Venus in aspect malign;
  Then call in Mercury for aid,
  And cure the wounds that Venus made. 
    Great scholars have in Lucian read,
  When Philip king of Greece was dead,
  His soul and spirit did divide,
  And each part took a different side: 
  One rose a star; the other fell
  Beneath, and mended shoes in hell. 
    Thus Partridge still shines in each art,
  The cobbling and star-gazing part,
  And is install’d as good a star
  As any of the Caesars are. 
    Triumphant star! some pity show
  On cobblers militant below,
  Whom roguish boys in stormy nights
  Torment by pissing out their lights,
  Or thro’ a chink convey their smoke
  Inclos’d artificers to choke. 
    Thou, high exalted in thy sphere,
  May’st follow still thy calling there. 
  To thee the Bull will lend his hide,
  By Phoebus newly tann’d and dry’d: 
  For thee they Argo’s hulk will tax,
  And scrape her pitchy sides for wax;
  Then Ariadne kindly lends
  Her braided hair to make thee ends;
  The point of Sagittarius’ dart
  Turns to an awl by heav’nly art;
  And Vulcan, wheedled by his wife,
  Will forge for thee a paring-knife. 
  For want of room by Virgo’s side,
  She’ll strain a point, and sit astride,
  To take thee kindly in between;
  And then the signs will be thirteen.

  THE EPITAPH.

  Here, five foot deep, lies on his back
  A cobbler, star-monger, and quack;
  Who to the stars in pure good-will
  Does to his best look upward still. 
  Weep, all you customers that use
  His pills, his almanacs, or shoes: 
  And you that did your fortunes seek,
  Step to his grave but once a week: 
  This earth, which bears his body’s print,
  You’ll find has so much virtue in’t,
  That I durst pawn my ears ’t will tell
  Whate’er concerns you full as well,
  In physic, stolen goods, or love,
  As he himself could, when above.