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A CONVERT's but a fly, that turns about, After his head 's pull’d off, to find it out.


ALL mankind is but a rabble,
As filly and unreasonable
As those that, crowding in the street,
To see a show or monster, meet;
Of whom no one is in the right,
Yet all fall out about the fight ;
And, when they chance t'agree, the choice is
Still in the most and worst of vices;
And all the reasons that prevail
Are measur’d, not by weight, but tale.

AS in all great and crowded fairs
Monsters and puppet-plays are wares,
Which in the less will not go off,
Because they have not money enough ;

in princes? courts will pass, That will not in another place.

LOGICIANS use to clap a propofition,
As justices do criminals, in prison,
And, in as leam'd authentic nonsense writ,
The names of all their moods and figures fit :
For a logician 's one that has been broke
To ride and pace his reason by the book,
And by their rules, and precepts, and examples,
To put his wits into a kind of trammels.


THOSE get the least that take the greatest pains,
But most of all i' th’ drudgery of brains ;
A natural sign of weakness, as an ant
Is niore laborious than an elephant ;
And children are more busy at their play
Than those that wisely'st pass their time away.

ALL the inventions that the world contains,
Were not by reason first found out, nor brains;
But pass for theirs who had the luck to light
Upon them by mistake or oversight.





S misers their own laws enjoin,

To wear no pockets in the mine,
For fear they should the ore purloin ; :
So he that toils and labours hard
To gain, and what he gets has spar'd,
Is from the use of all debarr’d.
And, though he can produce more spankers
Than all the usurers and bankers,
Yet after more and more he hankers ;

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And, after all his pains are done,
Has nothing he can call his own,
But a mere livelihood alone,




H O L L A N D.


COUNTRY that draws fifty foot of water,

In which men live as in the hold of Nature,
And, when the sea does in upon them break,
And drowns a province, does but spring a leak;
That always ply the pump, and never think
They can be safe, but at the rate they stink;
That live as if they had been run aground,
And, when they dic, are cast away and drown'd;
That dwell in ships, like fwarms of rats, and

Upon the goods all nations' fleets convey ;
And, when their merchants are blown-up and crackty
Whole towns are cast away in storms, and wreckt;
That feed, like Cannibals, on other fishes,
And serve their cousin-germans up in dishes :
A land that rides at anchor, and is moor’d,
In which they do not live, but go aboard.




O not unjustly blame

My guiltless breast,
For venturing to disclose a flame

It had so long fuppreft.

In its own alhes it defign'd

For ever to have lain;
But that my sighs, like blasts of wind,

Made it break out again.


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O not mine affection night,

my locks with age are white :
Your breasts have snow without, and snow within,
While flames of fire in your bright eyes are seen.

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THE jolly members of a toping club, ,

Like pipe-staves, are but hoop'd into a tub,
And in a close confederacy link,
For nothing else but only to hold drink.



IN days of yore, when knight or squire

By Fate were summon'd to retire,
Some menial poet still was near,
To bear them to the hemisphere,
And there among the stars to leave them,
Until the gods sent to relieve them :
And sure our Knight, whose very fight wou'd
Entitle him Mirror of Knighthood,
Should he neglected lie, and rot,
Stink in his grave, and be forgot,
Would have just reason to complain,
If he should chance to rise again ;
And therefore, to prevent his dudgeon,
In mournful doggrel thus we trudge on.

Oh me! what tongue, what pen, can tell
How this renowned champion fell,

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* Neither this Elegy, nor the following Epitaph, is to be found in The Genuine Remains of Butler, as published by Mr. Thyer. Both however having frequently been reprinted in The Pofthumous Works of samuel Butler ; and as they, besides, relate particularly to the hero of his principal poem ; there needs no apology for their being thus preserved. Some other of the post. bumous poems would not have disgraced their supposed author ; but, as they are so positively rejected by Mr. Thyer, we have not ventured to admit them. Na

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