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Tell me if Congreve's fools are fools indeed ? Alone deserves the favour of the great:
What pert low dialogue has Farquhar writ! Think of those authors, sir, who would rely
How Van wants grace, who never wanted wit! More on a reader's sense, than gazer's eye.
The stage how loosely does Astræa tread,

Or who shall wander where the Muses sing?
Who fairly puts all characters to bed!

Who climb their mountain, or who taste their spring is bet And idle Cibber, how he breaks the laws,

How shall we fill a library with wit,
To make poor Pinkey eat with vast applause ! When Merlin's cave is half unfurnish'd yet?
But fill their purse, our poets' work is done,

My liege! why writers little claim your though, tapi Alike to them, by pathos or by pun.


guess; and, with their leave, will tell the fault: O you! whom vanity's light bark conveys

We poets are (upon a poet's word)
On fame's mad voyage by the wind of praise, Of all mankind, the creatures most absurd :
With what a shifting gale your course you ply, The season, when to come, and wben to go,
For ever sunk too low, or borne too high!

To sing, or cease to sing, we never know;
Who pants for glory finds but short repose,

And if we will recite nine hours, in ten,
A breath revives him, or a breath o'erthrows. You lose your patience just like other men.
Farewell the stage! if just as thrives the play, Then too we hurt ourselves, when, to defend
The silly bard grows fat, or falls away.

A single verse, we quarrel with a friend;
There still remains, to mortify a wit,

Repeat unask'd; lament the wit's too fine
The many-headed monster of the pit;

For vulgar eyes, and point out every line;
A senseless, worthless, and unhonour'd crowd: But most, when straining with too weak a wing,
Who, to disturb their betters, mighty proud,

We needs will write epistles to the king;
Clattering their sticks before ten lines are spoke, And from the moment we oblige the town,
Call for the farce, the bear, or the black-joke. Expect a place, or pension from the crown ;
What dear delight to Britons farce affords!

Or, dubb'd historians by express command, Ever the taste of mobs, but now of lords;

T' enroll your triumphs o'er the seas and land, (Taste, that eternal wanderer, which flies

Be call’d to court to plan some work divine, From heads to ears, and now from ears to eyes.) As once for Louis, Boileau and Racine. The play stands still; damn action and discourse, Yet think, great sir! (so many virtues shown) Back fly the scenes, and enter foot and horse ; Ah, think, what poet best may make them knowo! Pageants on pageants, in long order drawn,

Or choose at least some minister of grace,
Peers, heralds, bishops, ermine, gold and lawn; Fit to bestow the laureat's weighty place.
The champion too! and, to complete the jest,

Charles, to late times to be transmitted fair,
Old Edward's armour beams on Cibber's breast. Assign'd his figure to Bernini's care;
With laughter sure Democritus had dy'd,

And great Nassau to Kneller's hand decreed
Had he beheld an audience gape so wide.

To fix him graceful on the bounding steed; Let bear or elephant be e'er so white,

So well in paint and stone they judg’d of merit: The people, sure, the people are the sight!

But kings in wit may want discerning spirit. Ah, luckless poet! stretch thy lungs and roar, The hero William, and the martyr Charles, That bear or elephant shall heed thee more; One knighted Blackmore, and one pension'd While all its throats the gallery extends,

Quarles; And all the thunder of the pit ascends !

Which made old Ben and surly Dennis swear, Loud as the wolves, on Orcas' stormy steep,

“ No lord's anointed, but a Russian bear." Howl to the roarings of the northern deep,

Not with such majesty, such bold relief, Such is the shout, the long-applauding note,

The forms august, of king, or conquering chief, At Quin's high plume, or Oldfield's petticoat; E'er swellid on marble ; as in verse have shin'd Or when from court a birth-day suit bestow'd,

(In polish'd verse) the manners and the mind. Sinks the lost actor in the tawdry load.

Oh! could I mount on the Mæonian wing,
Booth enters hark! the universal peal !

Your arms, your actions, your repose to sing!
“ But bas he spoken ?" Not a syllable.
What shook the stage, and made the people stare? Your country's
Cato's long wig, flower'd gown, and lacquer'd chair.

Yet, lest you think I rally more than teach,
Or praise malignly arts I cannot reach,
Let me for once presume t'instruct the times,
To know the poet from the man of rhymes :
"Tis he who gives my breast a thousand pains,
Can make me feel each passion that he feigns;
Enrage, compose, with more than magic art;
With pity, and with terror, tear my beart;
And snatch me, o'er the earth, or through the air,
To Thebes, to Athens, when he will, and where.

But not this part of the poetic state

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What seas you travers d, and what fields you fought!

peace, how oft, how dearly bought!
How barbarous rage subsided at your word,
And nations wonder'd while they dropp’d the sword!
How, when you nodded, o'er the land and deep,
Peace stole her wing, and wrapp'd the world in sleep;
Till earth's extremes your mediation own,
And Asia's tyrants tremble at your thronem
But verse, alas ! your majesty disdains ;
And I'm not us’d to panegyric strains:
The zeal of fools offends at any time,
But most of all, the zeal of fools in rhyme.
Besides, a fate attends on all I write,
That when I aim at praise, they say I bite.

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A vile encomium doubly ridicules :

“ D’ye think me, noble general, such a sot? FLY There's nothing blackens like the ink of fools. Let him take castles who has ne'er a groat.” azt's et: If true, a woful likeness; and if lies,

Bred up at home, full early I begun
Nuss sich " Praise undeserv'd is scandal in disguise :". To read in Greek the wrath of Peleus' son.
=teste der Well may he blush, who gives it, or receives ; Besides, my father taught me from a lad,
And when I flatter, let my dirty leaves

The better art to know the good from bad :
ish'd ver: (Like journals, odes, and such forgotten things (And little sure imported to remove,
za foar the As Eusden, Philips, Settle, writ of kings)

To hunt for truth in Maudlin's learned grove.) I tell the à Clothe spice, line trunks, or fluttering in a row, But knottier points we knew not half so well Befringe the rails of Bedlam and Soho.

Depriv'd us soon of our paternal cell;

And certain laws, by sufferers thought unjust,

Deny'd all posts of profit or of trust:
Ludentis speciem dabit, et torquebitur. Hor. Hopes after hopes of pious Papists failid,

Dear Col'nel, Cobham's and your country's friend! While mighty William's thundering arms prevail'd. other ni You love a verse, take such as I can send.

For right hereditary tax'd and fin'd, 1, 43 4* A Frenchman comes, presents you with his boy,

He stuck to poverty with peace of mind;
Bows, and begins" This lad, sir, is of Blois;

And me, the Muses help'd to undergo it;
1 100 tr? Observe his shape how clean! his locks how curl'a! Convict a Papist he, and I a poet.
rer litt My only son ; I'd have him see the world:

But (thanks to Homer) hence I live and thrive, Do wentut His French is pure; his voice too—you shall hear. Indebted to no prince or peer alive. dhe kings Sir, he's your slave, for twenty pound a-year.

Sure I should want the care of ten Monroes, the mal Mere wax as yet, you fashion him with ease,

If I would scribble, rather than repose. the crx. Your barber, cook, upholsterer, what you please :

Years following years, steal something every day, A perfect genius at an opera song

At last they steal us from ourselves away; seas 23:2 To say too much might do my honour wrong.

In one our frolics, one amusements end,
Eork duz Take him with all his virtues, on my word;

In one a mistress drops, in one a friend :
His whole ambition was to serve a lord:

This subtle thief of life, this paltry time, = virtuves it But, sir, to you, with what would I not part?

What will it leave me, if it snatch my rhyme ? zake theae Though faith, I fear 'twill break his mother's heart. If every wheel of that unweary'd mill, of graces Once (and but once) I caught him in a lie,

That turn'd ten thousand verses, now stands still? y place . And then, unwhipp’d, he had the grace to cry:

But after all, what would you have me do? Esmitted is The fault he has I fairly shall reveal,

When out of twenty I can please not two;
(Could you o'erlook but that) it is, to steal."

When this heroics only deigns to praise,
If, after this, you took the graceless lad,

Sharp satire that, and that pindaric lays ? lingerie Could you complain, my friend, he prov'd so bad ?

One likes the pheasant's wing, and one the leg; Lude's dis 'Faith, in such case, if you should prosecute,

The vulgar boil, the learned roast an egg.
I think Sir Godfrey should decide the suit:

Hard task! to hit the palate of such guests,
Who sent the thief that stole the cash, away,

When Oldfield loves what Dartineuf detests.
And punish'd him that put it in his way.

But grant I may relapse, for want of

grace, Consider then, and judge me in this light;

Again to rhyme: can London be the place ?
I told you when I went, I could not write;

Who there his Muse, or self, or soul attends,
You said the same; and are you discontent

In crowds, and courts, law, business, feasts, and With laws, to which you gave your own assent?

My counsel sends to execute a deed : (friends?
Nay worse, to ask for verse at such a time!

A poet begs me I will hear him read:
D'ye think me good for nothing but to rhyme ?

In Palace-yard at nine you'll find me there-
In Anna's wars, a soldier poor and old

At ten, for certain, sir, in Bloomsbury-squareHad dearly earn'd a little purse of gold:

Before the Lords at twelve my cause comes on
Tir'd with a tedious march, one luckless night,

There's a rehearsal, sir, exact at one.
He slept, poor dog! and lost it, to a doit.

“ Oh but a wit can study in the streets,
This put the man in such a desperate mind,

And raise his mind above the mob he meets."
Between revenge, and grief, and hunger join’d,

Not quite so well however as one ought;
Against the foe, himself, and all mankind,

A hackney-coach may chance to spoil a thought;
He leap'd the trenches, scal'd a castle-wall,

And then a nodding beam, or pig of lead,
Tore down a standard, took the fort and all.

God knows, may hurt the very ablest head.
Prodigious well !” his great commander cry'd,

Have you not seen, at Guildhall's narrow pass,
Gave him much praise, and some reward beside.

Two aldermen dispute it with an ass ?
Next pleas'd his excellence a town to batter,

And peers give way, exalted as they are,

Ev'n to their own s-r-VR-nce in a car?
(Its name I know not, and 'tis no great matter);

Go, lofty poet! and in such a crowd,
" Go on, my friend, (he cry'd) see yonder walls !
Advance and conquer! go where glory calls!

Sing thy sonorous verse--but not aloud.
More honours, more rewards, attend the brave."

Alas! to grottos and to groves we run,

To ease and silence, every Muse's son:
Don't you remember what reply he gave?

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Blackmore himself, for any grand effort,

Prune the luxuriant, the uncouth refine,
Would drink and doze at Tooting or Earl's-court. But show no mercy to an empty line:
How shall I rhyme in this eternal roar ? [fore? Then polish all with so much life and ease,
How match the bard whom none e'er match'd be You think 'tis nature, and a knack to please :
The man, who, stretch'd in Isis' calm retreat, “ But ease in writing flows from art, not chance;
To books and study gives seven years complete, As those move easiest who have learn'd to dance."
See! strow'd with learned dust, his nightcap on, If such the plague and pains to write by rule,
He walks, an object new beneath the sun!

Better (say I) be pleas'd, and play the fool;
The boys flock round him, and the people stare : Call, if you will, bad rhyming a disease,
So stiff, so mute! some statue, you would swear, It gives men happiness, or leaves them ease.
Stepp'd from its pedestal to take the air!

There liv'd in primo Georgii (they record)
And here, while town, and court, and city roars, A worthy member, no small fool, a lord ;
With mobs, and duns, and soldiers, at their doors, Who, though the house was up, delighted sate,
Shall I, in London, act this idle part,

Heard, noted, answer'd, as in full debate:
Composing songs, for fools to get by heart?

In all but this, a man of sober life,
The Temple late two brother sergeants saw, Fond of his friend, and civil to his wife;
Who deem'd each other oracles of law;

Not quite a madman, though a pasty fell;
With equal talents, these congenial souls,

And much too wise to walk into a well. One lull’d th’exchequer, and one stunn'd the rolls; Him, the damn'd doctors and his friends immurid, Each had a gravity would make you split,

They bled, they cupp'd, they purg'd; in short they And shook his head at Murray, as a wit.

Whereat the gentleman began to stare- (cur'd: 'Twas,“ Sir, your law”-and“Sir, youreloquence,My friends! he cry'd, p-x take you for your care! “ Your's Cowper's manner"-and your's “ Talbot's That from a patriot of distinguish'd note,

Thus we dispose of all poetic merit, [sense.” Have bled and purg'd me to a simple vote. Your's Milton's genius, and mine Homer's spirit. Well, on the whole, plain prose must be my fate: Call Tibbald Shakspeare, and he'll swear the Nine, Wisdom (curse on it) will come soon or late. Dear Cibber! never match'd one ode of thine. There is a time when poets will grow dull: Lord ! how we strut through Merlin's cave, to see I'll e'en leave verses to the boys at school: No poets there but, Stephen, you and me.

To rules of poetry no more confin'd, Walk with respect behind, while we at ease

I'll learn to smooth and harmonize my mind, Weave laurel crowns, and take what names we Teach every thought within its bounds to roll, " My dear Tibullus ! if that will not do, (please. And keep the equal measure of the soul. Let me be Horace, and be Ovid you !

Soon as I enter at my country door, Or, I'm content, allow me Dryden's strains,

My mind resumes the thread it dropp'd before; And you shall rise up Otway for your pains.” Thoughts which at Hyde-park corner I forgot, Much do I suffer, much, to keep in peace

Meet and rejoin me, in the pensive grot. This jealous, waspish, wrong-head, rhyming race;

There all alone, and compliments apart, And much must flatter, if the whim should bite I ask these sober questions of my heart. To court applause by printing what I write:

If, when the more you drink, the more you crave, But let the fit pass o'er, I'm wise enough

You tell the doctor; when the more you have, To stop my ears to their confounded stuff.

The more you want, why not with equal ease In vain bad rhymers all mankind reject,

Confess as well your folly, as disease They treat themselves with most profound respect; The heart resolves this matter in a trice, 'Tis to small purpose that you hold your tongue, “ Men only feel the smart, but not the vice." Each prais'd within, is happy all day long :

When golden angels cease to cure the evil, But how severely with themselves proceed

You give all royal witchcraft to the devil: The men, who write such verse as we can read ? When servile chaplains cry, that birth and place Their own strict judges, not a word they spare, Indue a peer with honour, truth, and grace; That wants or force, or light, or weight, or care, Look in that breast, most dirty Dean! be fair, Howe'er unwillingly it quits its place,

Say, can you find out one such lodger there? Nay though at court (perhaps) it may find grace: Yet still, not heeding what your heart can teach, Such they'll degrade; and sometimes, in its stead, You go to church to hear these flatterers preach. In doworight charity revive the dead;

Indeed, could wealth bestow or wit or merit, Mark where a bold, expressive phrase appears, A grain of courage, or a spark of spirit, Bright through the rubbish of some hundred years; The wisest man might blush, I must agree, Command old words that long have slept, to wake, If D*** lov'd sixpence, more than he. Words, that wise Bacon, or brave Raleigh spake;

If there be truth in law, and use can give Or bid the new be English, ages hence,

A property, that's your's on which you live, (For use will father what's begot by sense), Delightful Abs-court, if its fields afford Pour the full tide of eloquence along,

Their fruits to you, confesses you its lord: Serenely pure, and yet divinely strong,

All Worldly's hens, nay, partridge, sold to town, Rich with the treasures of each foreign tongue ! His venison too, a guinea makes your own:

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The ship itself may make a better figure ;
He bought at thousands, what with better wit

But I that sail, am neither less nor bigger;
You purchase as you want, and bit by bit;
Now, or long since, what difference will be found ? I neither strut with every favouring breath,

Nor strive with all the tempest in my teeth.
You pay a penny, and he paid a pound.

Heathcote himself, and such large-acred men, In power, wit, figure, virtue, fortune, plac'd
Lords of fat E'sham, or of Lincoln-fen,

Behind the foremost, and before the last.
Buy every stick of wood that lends them heat; “ But why all this of avarice? I have none."
Buy every pullet they afford to eat.

I wish you joy, sir, of a tyrant gone;
Yet these are wights, who fondly call their own But does no other lord it at this hour,
Half that the devil o'erlooks from Lincoln-town. As wild and mad? the avarice of power?
The laws of God, as well as of the land,

Does neither rage in tlame, nor fear appal ?
Abhor a perpetuity should stand:

Not the black fear of death, that saddens all ?
Estates have wings, and bang in fortune's power With terrors round, can reason hold her throne,
Loose on the point of every wavering hour,

Despise the known, nor tremble at th’unknown?
Ready, by force, or of your own accord,

Survey both worlds, intrepid and entire,
By sale, at least by death, to change their lord. In spite of witches, devils, dreams, and fire ?
Man? and for ever? wretch! what wouldst thou Pleas'd to look forward, pleas'd to look behind,
Heir urges heir, like wave impelling wave. [have? And count each birth-day with a grateful mind?
All vast possessions (just the same the case

Has life no sourness, drawn so near its end?
Whether you call them villa, park, or chase) Canst thoni endure a foe, forgive a friend?
Alas, my Bathurst ! what will they avail ?


but melted the rough parts away,
Join Cotswood hills to Saperton's fair dale,

As winter fruits grow mild ere they decay?
Let rising granaries and temples here,

Or will you think, my friend, your business done,
There mingled farms and pyramids appear,

When, of a hundred thorns, you pull out one? Link towns to towns with avenues of oak,

Learn to live well, or fairly make your will; Enclose whole downs in walls, 'tis all a joke! You've play'd, and lov’d, and eat, and drank your Inexorable death shall level all,

Walk sober off; before a sprightlier age (fill :
And trees, and stones, and farms, and farmer fall. Comes littering on, and shoves you from the stage:
Gold, silver, ivory, vases sculptur'd high,

Leave such to trifle with more grace and ease,
Paint, marble,gems, and robes of Persian dye, sare, Whom folly pleases, and whose follies please,
There are who have not-and thank Heaven there
Who, if they have not, think not worth their care.

Talk what you will of taste, my friend, you'll find EPILOGUE TO THE SATIRES. before Two of a face, as soon as of a mind.

Why, of two brothers, rich and restless one
Ploughs, burns, manures, and toils from sun to sun;
The other slights, for women, sports, and wines,

Fr. Not twice a twelvemonth you appear in print,
All Townshend's turnips, and all Grosvenor's mines :

And when it comes, the court see nothing in't. Why one like Bu— with pay and scorn content,

You grow correct, that once with rapture writ,
Bows and votes on, in court and parliament;

And are besides too moral for a wit,
One, driven by strong benevolence of soul,

Decay of parts, alas! we all must feel
Shall fly, like Oglethorpe, from pole to pole:

Why now, this moment, don't I see you steal ?
Is known alone to that Directing Power,

'Tis all from Horace; Horace long before ye Who forms the genius in the natal hour;

Said, “ Tories call’d him Whig, and Whigs a
That God of Nature who, within us still,

Inclines our action, not constrains our will;

And taught his Romans, in much better metre,
Various of temper, as of face or frame,

" To laugh at fools who put their trust in Peter." Each individual; his great end the same.

But Horace, sir, was delicate, was nice;
Yes, sir, how small soever be my heap,

Bubo observes, he lash'd no sort of vice :
A part I will enjoy, as well as keep.

Horace would say, Sir Billy serv'd the crown,
My heir may sigh, and think it want of grace

Blunt could do business, Higgins knew the town;
A man so poor would live without a place:

In Sappho touch the failings of the sex,
But sure no statute in his favour says,

In reverend bishops note some small neglects,
How free, or frugal, I shall pass my days:

the Spaniard did a waggish thing, I, who at some times spend, at others spare,

Who cropt our ears, and sent them to the King. Divided between carelessness and care,

His sly, polite, insinuating style

Could please at court, and make Augustus smile : 'Tis one thing madly to disperse my store ;

that Another, not to heed to treasure more :

crept between

His friend and shame, and was a kind of screen, Glad, like a boy, to snatch the first good day,

But 'faith your very friends will soon be sore; And pleas’d, if sordid want be far away.

Patriots there are, who wish you'd jest no moremo What is't to me (a passenger God wot)

And where's the glory? 'twill be only thought Whether my vessel be first-rate or not?



And own,

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The great man never offer'd you a groat,

P. Why so if satire knows its time and place,
Go see Sir Robert

You still may lash the greatest--in disgrace:
P. See Sir Robert !-hum-

For merit will by turns forsake them all;
And never laugh—for all my life to come?

Would you know when ? exactly when they fall. Seen him I have, but in his happier hour

But let all satire in all changes spare Of social pleasure, ill-exchang’d for power ;

Immortal S-k, Seen him uncumber'd with a venal tribe,

Silent and soft, as saints remove to Heaven,

grave DeSmile without art, and win without a bribe.

All ties dissolv’d, and every sin forgiven, Would he oblige me? let me only find,

These may some gentle ministerial wing He does not think me what he thinks mankind.

Receive, and place for ever near a king! Come, come, at all I laugh he laughs, no doubt;

There, where no passion, pride, or shame transport,
The only difference is, I dare laugh out.

Lull'd with the sweet Nepenthe of a court;
F. Why yes: with scripture still you may be free; There, where no father's, brother's, friend's disgrace
A horse-laugh, if you please, at honesty ;

Once break their rest, or stir them from their place:
A joke on Jekyll, or some odd old Whig,


the sense of human miseries, Who never chang'd his principle, or wig ;

All tears are wip'd for ever from all eyes ;
A patriot is a fool in every age,

No cheek is known to blush, no heart to throb,
Whom all Lord Chamberlains allow the stage: Save when they lose a question, or a job. [glory,
These nothing hurts; they keep their fashion still, P. Good Heaven forbid, that I should blast their
And wear their strange old virtue, as they will. Who know how like Whig ministers to Tory,
If any ask you,“ Who's the man, so near

And when three sovereigns dy'd, could scarce be
His prince, that writes in verse, and has his ear?"

vext, Why answer, Lyttleton; and I'll engage

Considering what a gracious prince was next. The worthy youth shall ne'er be in a rage:

Have I, in silent wonder seen such things But were his verses vile, his whisper base,

As pride in slaves, and avarice in kings; You'd quickly find him in Lord Fanny's case. And at a peer, or peeress, shall I fret, Sejanus, Wolsey, hurt not honest Fleury,

Who starves a sister, or forswears a debt? But well may put some statesmen in a fury.

Virtue, I grant you, is an empty boast; Laugh then at any, but at fools or foes ;

But shall the dignity of vice be lost?
These you but anger, and you mend not those.

Ye gods! shall Cibber's son, without rebuke,
Laugh at your friends, and if your friends are sore, Swear like a lord, or Rich outwhore a duke?
So much the better, you may laugh the more. A favourite's porter with his master vie,
To vice and folly to confine the jest,

Be brib'd as often, and as often lie?
Sets half the world, God knows, against the rest; Shall Ward draw contracts with a statesman's skill?
Did not the sneer of more impartial men

Or Japhet pocket, like his Grace, a will?
At sense and virtue, balance all again.

Is it for Bond, or Peter, (paltry things) Judicious wits spread wide the ridicule,

To pay their debts, or keep their faith, like kings?
And charitably comfort knave and fool.

If Blount dispatch'd himself, he play'd the man ;
P. Dear sir, forgive the prejudice of youth : And so mayst thou, illustrious Passeran!
Adieu distinction, satire, warmth, and truth! But shall a printer, weary of his life,
Come, harmless characters that no one hit;

Learn, from their books, to hang himself and wife !
Come Henley's oratory, Osborn's wit!

This, this, my friend, I cannot, must not bear; The honey dropping from Favonio's tongue,

Vice thus abus'd, demands a nation's care: The flowers of Bubo, and the flow of Young ! This calls the church to deprecate our sin, The gracious dew of pulpit eloquence,

And hurls the thevder of the laws on gin. And all the well-whipt cream of courtly sense,

Let modest Foster, it he will, excel That first was H-vy's, F's next, and then, Ten metropolitans in preaching well ; The S-te's, and then H-vy's once again,

A simple Quaker, or a Quaker's wife,

Outdo Landaff in doctrine,-yea in life:
Ciceronian style,
O come,
So Latin, yet so English all the while,

Let low-born Allen, with an aukward shame,
As, though the pride of Middleton and Bland,

Do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame ; All boys may read, and girls may understand!

Virtue may choose the high or low degree,

'Tis just alike to virtue, and to me; Then might I sing, without the least offence,

Dwell in a monk, or light upon a king, And all I sung should be the nation's sense ;

She's still the same belov’d, contented thing.
Or teach the melancholy Muse to mourn,

Vice is undone, if she forgets her birth,
And stoops from angels to the dregs of earth:
But 'tis the fall degrades ber to a whore;
Let greatness own her, and she's mean no more ;
Her birth, her beauty, crowds and courts confess,
Chaste matrons praise her, and grave bishops bless;
In golden chains the willing world she draws,



Hang the sad verse on Carolina's urn,
And hail her passage to the realms of rest,
All parts perform’d, and all her children blest!
So-satire is no more I feel it die
No gazetteer more innocent than I
And let, a God's name, every fool and knave
Be grac'd through life, and flatter'd in his grave.

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