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There pleafing objects useful thoughts suggeft;
The sense is ravish'd, and the foul is bleft;
On every thorn delightful wisdom grows;
In every

rill a sweet instruction flows.
But some, untaught, o'erhear the whisp'ring rill,
In spite of sacred leisure, blockheads still ;
Nor shoots up folly to a nobler bloom
In her own native soil, the drawing-room.

The Squire is proud to see his coursers strain,
Or well-breath'd beagles sweep along the plain.
Say, dear HIPPOLITUS (whose drink is ale,
Whose erudition is a Christmas-tale,
Whose mistress is faluted with a smack,
And friend receiv'd with thumps upon the back)
When thy sleek gelding nimbly leaps the mound,
And Ringwood opens on the tainted ground,
Is that thy praise ? Let Ringwood's fame alone;
Just Ringwood leaves each animal his own;
Nor envies, when a gypsy you commit,
And shake the clumsy bench with country wit;
When

you the dullest of dull things have said, And then ask pardon for the jest you made.

Here breathe, my muse ! and then thy task renew :
Ten thousand fools unsung are still in view.
Fewer lay-atheists made by church debates ;
Fewer great beggars fam'd for large estates;
Ladies, whose love is constant as the wind;
Cits, who prefer a guinea to mankind;
Fewer

grave lords, to SCR -Pe discreetly bend; And fewer shocks a statesman gives his friend.

Is there a man of an eternal vein,
Who lulls the town in winter with his strain,
At Bath, in summer, chants the reigning lass,
And sweetly whistles, as the waters pass?
Vol. I.

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Is

Is there a tongue, like Delia's o'er her cup,
That runs for

ages

without winding up ?
Is there, whom his tenth Epic mouuts to fame?
Such, and such only, might exhaust my theme:
Nor would these heroes of the task be glad;
For who can write so faft as men run mad ?

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Y muse, proceed, and reach thy deftin'd end;

Though toils and danger the bold talk attend. Heroes and Gods make other

poems Plain Satire calls for fense in every

line : Then, to what swarms thy faults I dare expose ! All friends to vice and folly are thy foes. When such the foc, a war eternal wage ;, 'Tis

moft ill-nature to repress thy rage :
And if these strains some nobler muse excite,
I'll glory' in the verse I did not write.

So weak are human kind by nature made,
Or to such weakness by their vice betray'd,
Almighty vanity! to thee they owe
Their xest of pleasure, and their balm of woe.
Thou, like the sun, all colours doft contain,
Varying, like rays of light, on drops of rain.
For every soul finds reasons to be proud,
Tho' hiss’d and hooted by the pointing crowd.

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Warm

Warm in pursuit of foxes, and renown,
* HIPPOLITUS demands the filvan crown;
But Florio's fame, the product of a shower,
Grows in his garden, an illustrious flower!
Why teems the earth? Why melt the vernal skies?
Why shines the sun ? To make + Paul Diack rise.
From morn to night has Florio gazing ftood,
And wonder'd how the gods could be so good;
What shape! What hue ! Was ever nymph so fair !
He doats ! he dies ! he too is rooted there.
O solid bliss ! which nothing can destroy,
Except a cat, bird, snail, or idle boy.
In fame's full bloom lies FlorI0 down at night,
And wakes next day a moit inglorious wight;
The tulip's dead ! See thy fair fifter's fate,
OC- --! and be kind ere 'tis too late.

Nor are those enemies I mention'd, all;
Beware, O Florist, thy ambition's fall.
A friend of mine indulg'd this noble flame ;
A Quaker serv’d him, Adam was his name;
To one lov'd tulip oft the master went,
Hung o'er it, and whole days in rapture spent ;
But came, and mist it, one ill-fated hour :
He rag'd! he roar'd! « What dæmon cropt my flow'r?"
Serene, quoth ADAM, “ Lo! 'twas. crusht by me;
“ Fall’n is the BAAL to which thou bow'dit thy knee.”

But all men want amusement; and what crime
In such a paradise to fool their time?
None: but why proud of this ? To fame they soar;
We grant they're idle, if they'll ask no more.

We smile at Florists, we despise their joy,
And think their hearts enamour'd of a toy :

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# This refers to the first Satire.
+ The name of a tulip,

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But are those wiser whom we most admire,
Survey with envy, and pursue with fire ?
What’s he who fighs for wealth, or fame, or pow'r?
Another Florio doating on a flower;
A short-liv'd flower; and which has often sprung
From sordid arts, as Flor10's out of dung.

With what, O CODRUS! is thy fancy smit?
The flow'r of learning, and the bloom of wit.
Thy gaudy shelves with crimson bindings glow,
And Epictetus is a perfect beau.
How fit for thee! bound up in crimson too,
Gilt, and, like them, devoted to the view!
Thy books are furniture Methinks 'tis hard
That science should be purchas'd by the yard ;
And T

N, turn'd upholsterer, fend home
The gilded leather to fit up thy room.

If not to some peculiar end defign'd,
Study's the specious trifling of the mind ;
Or is at bett a secondary aim,
A chace for sport alone, and not for game.
If so, sure they who the mere volume prize,
But love the thicket where the

quarry

lies. On buying books LOR e nzo long was bento. But found at length that it reduc'd his rent; His farms were flown; when, lo! a fale comes on, A choice collection ! what is to be done? He sells his laft; for he the whole will buy; Sells ev'n his house; nay, wants whereon to lie: So high the gen'rous ardour of the man For Romans, Greeks, and Orientals ran. When terms were drawn, and brought him by the clerk, LORENZO fign'd the bargain with his mark. Unlearned men of books assume the care, As eunuchs are the guardians of the fair.

Not

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