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Yet, not forgetful of a friend,

They'll foon enable thee to spend,

If to Macartney thou wilt toaft,

And to his pious patron's ghoft.
Now manfully thou 'lt run a tilt

"On popes, for all the blood they 've fpilt,
"For maffacres, and racks, and flames,
"For lands enrich'd by crimson streams,
"For inquifitions taught by Spain,
"Of which the Chriftian world complain."
Dick, we agree-all's true thou 'ft said, ~
As that my Mufe is yet a maid.
But, if I may with freedom talk,
All this is foreign to thy walk :
Thy genius has perhaps a knack
At trudging in a beaten track,
But is for fate-affairs as fit
As mine for politicks and wit.
Then let us both in time grow wise,

Nor higher than our talents rife;

To fome fnug cellar let's repair

From duns and debts, and drown our care;
Now quaff of honest ale a quart,

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Now venture at a pint of port,

With which infpir'd, we 'll club each night
Some tender fonnet to indite,

And with Tom D'Urfey, Philips, Dennis,
Immortalize our Dolls and Jenneys.

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* General Macartney, who killed duke Hamilton.

HORACE,

HORACE, BOOK I. EP. V.

JOHN DENNIS the sheltering Poet's INVITATION to RICHARD STEELE, the fecluded Party-writer, and Member; to come and live with him in THE MINT; 1714*.

IF

Fit to be bound up with THE CRISIS.

F thou canft lay afide a fpendthrift's air,
And condefcend to feed on homely fare,
Such as we Minters, with ragouts unstor'd,
Will, in defiance of the law, afford:
Quit thy patrols with Toby's Christmas-box,
And come to me at The Two Fighting Cocks;
Since printing by fubfcription now is grown
The ftaleft, idleft cheat about the town;
And ev'n Charles Gildon, who, a Papift bred,
Has an alarm against that worship spread,
Is practifing thofe beaten paths of cruifing,
And for new levies on Propofals mufing.

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'Tis true, that Bloomsbury Square's a noble place: But what are lofty buildings in thy cafe? What's a fine house embellifh'd to profufion, Where fhoulder-dabbers are in execution? Or whence its timorous tenant feldom fallies, But apprehenfive of infulting bailiffs?

This and the preceding poem are printed from copies in the Lambeth Library, K. 1. 2. 29, 30. 4to.

S

This once be mindful of a friend's advice,

And ceafe to be improvidently nice;

Exchange the profpects that delude thy fight,

From Highgate's fteep afcent and Hampstead's height, With verdant fcenes, that, from St. George's field, More durable and fafe enjoyments yield.

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Here I, ev'n I, that ne'er till now could find

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Eafe to my troubled and fufpicious mind,
But ever was with jealoufies poffefs'd,
Am in a state of indolence and reft;
Fearful no more of Frenchmen in difguife,
Nor looking upon ftrangers as on spies,
But quite divefted of my former fpleen,
Am unprovok'd without, and calm within:
And here I'll wait thy coming, till the fun
Shall its diurnal courfe completely run.
Think not that thou of sturdy butt fhalt fail,

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My landlord's cellar's ftock'd with beer and ale,

With every fort of malt that is in ufe,

And every county's generous produce.

The ready (for here Chriftian faith is fick,
Which makes us feldom trefpafs upon tick)
Inftantly brings the choiceft liquors out,
Whether we ask for home-brew'd or for ftout,
For mead or cyder, or, with dainties fed,
Ring for a flask or two of white or red,

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Such as the drawer will not fail to fwear

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Was drunk by Pilkington when third time mayor.

That name, methinks, fo popularly known

For oppofition to the church and crown,

Might make the Lufitanian grape to pass,
And almost give a fanction to the glass ;
Efpecially with thee, whofe hafty zeal
Against the late rejected commerce-bill
Made thee rise up, like an audacious elf,
To do the fpeaker honour, not thyfelf.

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But, if thou foar'ft above the common prices, By virtue of fubfcription to thy Crifis,

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And nothing can go down with thee, but wines
Prefs'd from Burgundian and Campanian vines,
Bid them be brought; for, though I hate the French,
I love their liquors, as thou lov'st a wench;
Elfe thou must humble thy expensive taste,
And, with us, hold contentment for a feaft.

The fire's already lighted; and the maid

Has a clean cloth upon the table laid,
Who never on a Saturday had struck,
But for thy entertainment, up a buck.

Think of this act of grace, which by your leave
Sufan would not have done on Eafter Eve,
Had the not been inform'd over and over,
'Twas for th' ingenious Author of The Lover.

Ceafe therefore to beguile thyfelf with hopes,
Which is no more than making sandy ropes,
And quit the vain pursuit of loud applause,
That must bewilder thee in faction's caufe.
Pry'thee what is 't to thee who guides the state?
Why Dunkirk's demolition is fo late?

Or why her majefty thinks fit to cease

The din of war, and hufh the world to peace?

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The

The clergy too, without thy aid, can tell

What texts to chufe, and on what topicks dwell;

And, uninstructed by thy babbling, teach
Their flocks celeftial happiness to reach.

Rather let fuch poor fouls as you and I
Say that the holydays are drawing nigh,
And that to-morrow's fun begins the week,

Which will abound with store of ale and cake,
With hams of bacon, and with powder'd beef,
Stuff'd to give field-itinerants relief.

Then I, who have within thefe precincts kept,
And ne'er beyond the chimney-fweeper's stept,
Will take a loofe, and venture to be feen,
Since 'twill be Sunday, upon Shanks's green;
There, with erected looks and phrafe fublime,
To talk of unity of place and time,

And with much malice, mix'd with little fatire,
Explode the wits on t'other fide o’th' water.

Why has my lord Godolphin's fpecial grace
Invested me with a queen's-wai.er's place,
If I, debarr'd of feftival delights,
Am not allow'd to spend the perquifites?
He's but a fhort remove from being mad,
Who at a time of jubilee is fad,
And, like a griping ufurer, does fpare
His money to be fquander'd by his heir;
Flutter'd away in liveries and in coaches,
And washy forts of feminine debauches.

As for my part, whate'er the world may think,
I'll bid adieu to gravity, and drink;

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