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Not in his authors' liveries alone

Is CODRUS' erudite ambition shown:

Editions various, at high prices bought,

Inform the world what CODRUS would be thought;
And to this cost another muft fucceed

To pay a fage, who says that he can read;

Who titles knows, and indexes has feen;

But leaves to

what lies between ;

Of pompous books who fhuns the proud expence,
And humbly is contented with their fenfe.
O, whose accomplishments make good
The promise of a long-illuftrious blood,
In arts and manners eminently grac❜d,
The strictest honour! and the finest tafte!
Accept this verfe; if Satire can agree
With fo confummate an bumanity.

By your example would HILARIO mend,
How would it grace the talents of my friend,
Who, with the charms of his own genius fmit,
Conceives all virtues are compriz'd in wit!
But time his fervent petulance may cool;
For though he is a wit, he is no fool.
In time he'll learn to use, not waste, his fenfe;
Nor make a frailty of an excellence.

He fpares nor friend, nor foe; but calls to mind,
Like doom's-day, all the faults of all mankind.
What though wit tickles? tickling is unfafe,
If ftill 'tis painful while it makes us laugh.
Who, for the poor renown of being smart,
Would leave a sting within a brother's heart?

Parts may be prais'd, good-nature is ador'd;
Then draw your roit as feldom as your word;
And never on the weak; or you'll appear
As there no hero, no great genius here.

As

As in smooth oil the razor beft is whet,
So wit is by politeness sharpest set:

Their want of edge from their offence is seen ;
Both pain us leaft when exquifitely keen.
The fame men give is for the joy they find;
Dull is the jefter, when the joke's unkind.

Since MARCUs, doubtless, thinks himself a wit
To pay my compliment, what place fo fit?
His moft facetious * letters came to hand,
Which my First Satire sweetly reprimand:
If that a just offence to MARCUS gave,

Say, MARCUS, which art thou, a Fool, or Knave?
For all but fuch with caution I forbore;

That thou waft either, I ne'er knew before :

I know thee now, both what thou art, and who;
No mask so good, but MARCUS must shine through:
False names are vain, thy lines their author tell
Thy beft concealment had been writing well:
But thou a brave neglect of fame haft shown,
Of others' fame, great genius! and thy own.
Write on unheeded; and this maxim know,
The man who pardons, disappoints his foe.

In malice to proud wits, fome proudly lull
Their peevish reafon; vain of being dull;
When fome home joke has ftung their folemn fouls,
In vengeance they determine to be fools;
Through fpleen, that little nature gave, make lefs,
Quite zealous in the way of heaviness;
To lumps inanimate a fondness take;
And difinherit fons that are awake.

These, when their utmost venom they would spit,
Moft barbaroufly tell you" He's a wit.”

Letters fent to the author, figned Marcus.

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Poor negroes, thus, to fhew their burning spite
To cacodemons, fay, they're dev'lish white.

LAMPRIDIUS, from the bottom of his breaft,
Sighs o'er one child; but triumphs in the reft.
How juft his grief! one carries in his head
A lefs proportion of the father's lead;
And is in danger, without fpecial grace,
To rife above a juftice of the peace.
The dunghill-breed of men a diamond scorn,
And feel a paffion for a grain of corn;

Some ftupid, plodding, money-loving wight,

Who wins their hearts by knowing black from white,
Who with much pains, exerting all his fenfe,

Can range aright his fhillings, pounds, and pence.
The booby father craves a booby son;

And by Heav'n's blessing thinks himself undone.
Wants of all kinds are made to fame a plea;

One learns to lifp; another, not to see :

Miss D, tottering, catches at your hand:
Was ever thing fo pretty born to stand?

Whilft thefe, what nature gave, difown, through pride,

Others affect what nature has deny'd;

What nature has deny'd, fools will pursue,

As apes are ever walking upon two.

CRASSUS, a grateful fage, our awe and sport !
Supports grave forms; for forms the fage support.
He hems; and cries, with an important air,
"If yonder clouds withdraw it will be fair :"
Then quotes the Stagyrite, to prove it true;

And adds, "The learn'd delight in fomething new."
Is't not enough the blockhead scarce can read,
But muft he wifely look, and gravely plead?

As far a formalift from wisdom fits,

In judging eyes, as libertines from wits.

These

Thefe fubtle wights (fo blind are mortal men, Though Satire couch them with her keenest pen) For ever will hang out a folemn face,

Το put off nonfenfe with a better grace:

As pedlars with fome hero's head make bold,
Illuftrious mark! where pins are to be fold.
What's the bent brow, or neck in thought reclin'd ?
The body's wisdom to conceal the mind.

A man of sense can artifice disdain;

As men of wealth may venture to go plain ;
And be this truth eternal ne'er forgot,
Solemnity's a cover for a fot.

I find the fool, when I behold the skreen;
For 'tis the wife man's intereft to be feen.
Hence,
that openness of heart,
And just disdain for that poor mimic art ;
Hence (manly praise !) that manner nobly free,
Which all admire, and I commend, in thee.

With generous fcorn how oft haft thou furvey'd
Of court and town the noontide masquerade;
Where swarms of knaves the vizor quite difgrace,
And hide fecure behind a naked face?
Where nature's end of language is declin❜d,
And men talk only to conceal the mind;
Where gen'rous hearts the greatest hazard run,
And he who trufts a brother, is undone?

These all their care expend on outward show
For wealth and fame; for fame alone, the beau.
Of late at WHITE's was young FLORELLO feen!
How blank his look! how difcompos'd his mien!
So hard it proves in grief fincere to feign!
Sunk were his spirits; for his coat was plain.
Next day his breast regain'd its wonted peace;
His health was mended with a filver lace.

A curious

A curious artist, long inur'd to toils
Of gentler fort, with combs, and fragrant oils,
Whether by chance, or by fome god inspir'd,
So touch'd his curls, his mighty foul was fir'd.
The well-fwoln ties an equal homage claim,
And either shoulder has its share of fame;
His fumptuous watch-cafe, tho' conceal'd it lies,
Like a good confcience, folid joy fupplies.
He only thinks himself (so far from vain !)
STPE in wit, in breeding D-L-E.
Whene'er, by feeming chance, he throws his eye
On mirrors that reflect his Tyrian dye,
With how fublime a tranfport leaps his heart!
But fate ordains that dearest friends muft part.
In active measures, brought from France, he wheels,
And triumphs, confcious of his learned heels.

So have I feen, on fome bright fummer's day,
A calf of genius, debonnair and gay,

Dance on the bank, as if infpir'd by fame,
Fond of the pretty fellow in the ftream.

MOROSE is funk with fhame, whene'er furpris'd
In linen clean, or peruke undifguis'd.
No fublunary chance his veftments fear;
Valu'd, like leopards, as their pots appear.
A fam'd furtout he wears, which once was blue,
And his foot fwims in a capacious shoe;
One day his wife (for who can wives reclaim ?)
Levell❜d her barb'rous needle at his fame:
But open force was vain; by night she went,
And, while he flept, furpris'd the darling rent:
Where yawn'd the frieze is now become a doubt j
And glory, at one entrance, quite shut out *.

* MILTON.

He

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