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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 succeed

pay a sage, who says that he can read;
Who titles knows, and indexes has feen;
But leaves to what lies between;
Of pompous books who shuns the proud expence,
And humbly is contented with their fense.

O, whose accomplishments make good
The promise of a long-illustrious blood,
In arts and manners eminently grac'd,
The ftri&teft honour ! and the finest taste!
Accept this verse; if Satire can agree
With so consummate an humanity.

By your example would HILAR 10 mend,
How would it grace the talents of my friend,
Who, with the charms of his own genius smit,
Conceives all virtues are compriz'd in wit !
But time his fervent petalance may cool;
For though he is a wit, he is no fool.
In time he'll learn to use, not waste, his fense ;
Nor make a frailty of an excellence.
He spares nor friend, nor foe; but calls to mind,
Like doom's-day, all the faults of all mankind.

What though wit tickles ? tickling is unsafe,
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 wit as feldom as your Fword;
And never on the weak; or you'll appear
As there no hero, no great genius here.


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 least when exquisitely 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 most facetious * letters came to hand,
Which my First Satire sweetly reprimand:
If that a juft offence to Marcus gave,
Say, MARCUS, which art thou, a Fool, or Knave?
For all but such with caution I forbore;
That thou wast either, I ne'er knew before :
I know thee now, both what thou art, and who;
No malk so good, but Marcus mut shine through:
False names are vain, thy lines their author tells
Thy beft concealment had been writing well :
But thou a bràve 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, some proudly lall
Their peevih reason; vain of being dull ;
When some home joke has ftung their folemn fouls,
In vengeance they determine to be fools;
Through spleen, that little nature gave, make left,
Quite zealous in the way of beariness ; .
To lumps inanimate a fondness take;
And difinherit fons that are awake.
These, when their utmost venom they would fpit.
Moft barbarously tell you." He's a wit."
Letters sent to the author, figned MARCUS.


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

LAMPRIDIUS, from the bottom of his breast,
Sighs o'er one child; but triumphs in the rest.
How just his grief! one carries in his head
A lefs proportion of the father's lead;
And is in danger, without special grace,
To rise above a justice of the peace.
The dunghill-breed of men a diamond scorn,
And feel a passion for a grain of corn;
Some stupid, plodding, money-loving wight,
Who wins their hearts by knowing black from white,
Who with much pains, exerting all his sense,
Can range aright his shillings, pounds, and pence.

The booby father craves a booby fon;
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 to pretty born to stand ?
Whilft these, what nature gave, disown, 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 Stag prite, to prove it true;
And adds, “ The learn'd delight in something new."
Is't not enough the blockhead scarce can read,
But must he wisely look, and gravely plead?
As far a formalift from wisdom fits,
In judging eyes, as libertines from wits.


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These subtle wights (so blind are mortal men,
'Though Satire couch them with her keenest pen)
For ever will hang out a solemn face,
To put off nonsense with a better

grace :
As pedlars with some hero's head make bold,
Illustrious 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 wise man's interest to be seen.

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 scorn how oft haft thou furvey'd
Of court and town the noontide masquerade;
Where swarms of knaves the vizor quite disgrace,
And hide secure 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 trusts 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 seen!
How blank his look! how discompos'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 silver lace.

A curious

A curious artist, long inur'd to toils
Of gentler forts with combs, and fragrant oils,
Whether by chance, or by fome god inspir'd,
So touch'd his curls, his mighty soul was fir’d.
The well-swoln ties an equal homage claim,
And either shoulder has its share of fame;
His sumptuous watch-case, tho' conceal'd it lies,
Like a good conscience, folid joy supplies.
He only thinks himself (so far from vain!)
STPe in wit, in breeding D-L-E.
Whene'er, by seeming chance, he throws his eye
On mirrors that reflect his Tyrian dye,
With how sublime a transport leaps his heart!
But fate ordains that dearest friends muft part.
In active measures, brought from France, he wheels
And triumphs, conscious of his learned beels.

So have I seen, on fome bright summer's day,
A calf of genius, debonnair and gay,
Dance on the bank, as if inspir'd by fame,
Fond of the pretty fellow in the stream.

Morose is funk with shame, whene'er surpris'd
In linen clean, or peruke undisguis'd.
No sublunary chance his vestments fear;
Valu'd, like leopards, as their spots appear.
A fam'd furtout he wears, which one was blue,
And his foot swims in a capacious shoe;
One day his wife (for who can wives reclaim :)
Leveli'd her barb'rous needle at his fame :
But open force was vain; by night she went,
And, while he slept, furpris'd the darling rent:
Where yawn'd the frieze is now become a doubts
And glory, at one entrance, quite fout out *.



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