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This is my Plea, on this I rest my cause---
What faith my council, learned in the laws?
F. Your plea is good; but ftill I fay, beware!
Laws are explain'd by men---so have a care---
It stands on record, that in Richard's times
A man was hang'd for very honeft rhymes;
Confult the Statute, quatt. I think, it is,
Edwardi fext. or prim. et quint. Eliz.
See Libels, Satires---here you have it---read.
P. Libels and Satires! lawless things indeed!
But grave Epifles, bringing Vice to light,
Such as a King might read, a Bishop write,
Such as Sir ROBERT would approve---

F. Indeed? The cafe is alter'd---you may then proceed; In fuch a cafe the plaintiff will be hifs'd, My Lords the judges laugh, and you're dismiss'd.

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WHAT, and how great, the Virtue and the Art

To live on little with a chearful heart;

(A doctrine fage, but truly none of mine)
Let's talk, my friends, but talk before we dine.
Not when a gilt Buffet's reflected pride
Turns you from found Philosophy aside;

Not when from plate to plate your eye-balls roll,
And the brain dances to the mantling bowl.

Hear BETHEL's Sermon, one not vers'd in schools, But strong in fenfe, and wife without the rules.

Go work, hunt, exercife! (he thus began) Then fcorn a homely dinner, if you can. Your wine lock'd up, your Butler stroll'd abroad, Or fish deny'd (the river yet unthaw'd)

If then plain bread and milk will do the feat,
The pleasure lies in you, and not the meat.

Preach as I please, I doubt our curious men
Will chufe a pheasant still before a hen;
Yet hens of Guinea full as good I hold,
Except you eat the feathers green and gold.
Of carps and mullets why prefer the great,
(Tho' cut in pieces ere my lord can eat)
Yet for fmall Turbots fuch efteem profess?
Because God made thefe large, the other lefs.
Oldfield with more than Harpy throat endu'd,
Cries" Send me, Gods! a whole Hog barbecu'd!"
Oh blaft it, South-winds! till a ftench exhale
Rank as the ripeness of a rabbit's tail.
By what Criterion do you eat, d'ye think,
If this is priz'd for fweetness, that for stink?
When the tir'd glutton labours thro' a treat,
He finds no relish in the sweetest meat,
He calls for fomething bitter, fomething four,
And the rich feast concludes extremely poor:
Cheap eggs, and herbs, and olives ftill we fee;
Thus much is left of old Simplicity!
The Robin-red-breast till of late had reft,
And children facred held a Martin's neft,
'Till Becca-ficos fold fo dev'lish dear

To one that was, or would have been, a Peer.
Let me extol a Cat, on oifters fed,
I'll have a Party at the Bedford-head;
Or ev❜n to crack live Crawfish recommend;
I'd never doubt at Court to make a Friend.

'Tis yet in vain, I own, to keep a pother. About one vice, and fall into the other : Between Excefs and Famine lies a mean;

Plain, but not fordid; tho' not splendid, clean.
Avidien, or his Wife (no matter which,
For him you'll call a dog, and her a bitch)
Sell their presented partridges, and fruits,
And humbly live on rabbits and on roots:
One half-pint bottle serves them both to dine,
And is at once their vinegar and wine.

But on fome lucky day (as when they found
A loft Bank bill, or heard their fon was drown'd)
At fuch a feaft, old vinegar to spare,

Is what two fouls fo gen'rous cannot bear : ́
Oil, tho' it ftink, they drop by drop impart,
But fowfe the cabbage with a bounteous heart.

He knows to live, who keeps the middle state,
And neither leans on this fide, nor on that;
Nor ftops, for one bad cork, his butler's pay,
Swears, like Albutius, a good cook away;
Nor lets, like Naevius, ev'ry error pass,
The mufty wine, foul cloth, or greafy glass.

Now hear what bleffings Temperance can bring:
(Thus faid our friend, and what he said I sing)
First Health: The stomach (cramm'd from ev'ry dish,
A tomb of boil'd and roast, and flesh and fish,
Where bile, and wind, and phlegm, and acid jar,
And all the man is one inteftine war)
Remembers of the School-boy's fimple fare,
The temp'rate fleeps, and spirits light as air.

How pale, each Worshipful and Rev'rend guest Rife from a Clergy, or a City feast! What life in all that ample body, say? What heav'nly particle inspires the clay ? The Soul fubfides, and wickedly inclines To feem but mortal, evʼn in sound Divines.

On morning wings how active springs the Mind
That leaves the load of yesterday behind?
How eafy ev'ry labour it pursues?

How coming to the Poet ev'ry Mufe?
Not but we may exceed, fome holy time,
Or tir'd in fearch of Truth, or search of Rhyme;
Ill health some just indulgence may engage;
And more the sickness of long life, Old age;
For fainting Age what cordial drop remains,
If our intemp❜rate Youth the veffel drains?

Our fathers prais'd rank Ven'son. You fuppofc, Perhaps, young men! our fathers had no nose. Not fo: a Buck was then a week's repast, And 'twas their point, I ween, to make it last; More pleas'd to keep it till their friends could come, 'Than eat the sweetest by themselves at home. Why had not I in these good times my birth, Ere coxcomb pyes or coxcombs were on earth? Unworthy he, the voice of Fame to hear, That sweetest music to an honeft ear; (For 'faith, Lord Fanny! you are in the wrong, The world's good word is better than a fong) Who has not learn'd, fresh sturgeon and ham-pyc Are no rewards for want, and infamy!

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