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I neither strut with ev'ry fav’ring breath, 300
Nor strive with all the tempeft in my teeth.
In pow'ry, wit, figure, virtue, fortune, plac'd
Behind the foremost, and before the last.

: “ But why all this of Av'rice? I have none.”
I wish you joy, Sir, of a Tyrant gone; 305
But does no other lord it at this hour,
As wild and mad? the Avarice of pow'r!
Does neither Rage inflame, nor Fear appall?
Not the black fear of death, that faddens all?
With terrors round, can Reafon hold her throne, 310
Despise the known, nor tremble at th' unknown?
Survey both worlds, intrepid and entire,
In spight of witches, devils, dreams, and fire ?
Pleas'd to look forward, pleas'd to look behind,
And count each birth-day with a grateful mind? 315
Has life no fourness, drawn so near its end?
Can'ft thou endure a foe, forgive a friend?
Has age but melted the rough parts away,
As winter-fruits grow mild e'er they decay!
Or will you think, my friend, your bufiness done, 320
When, of a hundred thorns, you pull out one?

Learn to live well, or fairly make your will; You've play'd, and lov’d, and eat, and drank your Walk fober off; before a sprightlier age Comes titt'ring on, and shoves you from the stage: Leave fuch to trifle with more grace and ease, 326 Whom Folly pleases, and whose Follies please.

Notes. Imitator is only for removing the false terrors from the world of spirits, such as the diablerie of witchcraft and purgatory



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Quid vetat et nofmet Lucili fcripta legentes
Quaerere, num illius, num rerum dura negarit
Verficulos natura magis factos, et euntes




IR; though (I thank God for it) I do hate

Perfectly all this town; yet there's one ftate In all ill things so excellently best; That hate towards them, breeds pity towards the rest. Though Poetry, indeed, be such a fin, As, I think, that brings dearth and Spaniards in : Though like the pestilence, and old-fashion'd love, Ridlingly it catch men, and doth remove Never, till it be ftarv'd out ; yet their state Is s poor, disarm’d, like Papists, not worth hate.

One (like a wretch, which at barre judg’d as dead, Yet prompts him which stands next, and cannot read, And saves his life) gives Idiot Actors means, (Starving himself) to live by's labour'd scenes. As in some Organs, Puppits dance above And bellows pant bellow, which them do move. One would move love by rythmes; but witchcraft's

charms Bring not now their old fears, nor their old harms";


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ES; thank my stars! as early as I knew

This Town, I had the sense to hate it too:
Yet here, as ev'n in Hell, there muft be still
One Giant-Vice, so excellently ill,
That all beside, one pities, not abhors;

5 As who knows Sapho, smiles at other whores.

I grant that Poetry's a crying fin; It brought (no doubt) th’ Excise and Army in: Catch'd like the Plague, or Love, the Lord knows

how, But that the cure is starving, all allow.

10 Yet like the Papist's, is the Poet's state, Poor and disarm’d, and hardly worth your hate!

Here a lean Bard, whose wit could never give Himself a dinner, makes an Actor live: The Thief condemn'd, in law already dead, IS So prompts, and saves a rogue who cannot read. Thus as the pipes of some carvid Organ move, The gilded puppets dance and mount above. Heav'd by the breath th' inspiring bellows blow: Th' inspiring bellows lie and pant below.

20 Onc fings the Fair; but songs no longer move; No rat is rhym'd to death, nor maid to love:

* O

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