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There dwelt a citizen of sober fame,
A plain good man, and Balaam was his name ;
Religious, punctual, frugal, and so forth;

To Richard Boyle, Earl of Burlington.
His word would pass for more than he was worth.
One solid dish his week-day meal affords, 'Tis strange, the miser should his cares emplog
And added pudding solemniz'd the Lord's; To gain those riches he can ne'er enjoy :
Constant at church and 'change; his gains were Is it less strange, the prodigal should waste

His wealth, to purchase what he ne'er can taste? His givings rare, save farthings to the poor.

Nor for himself he sees, or hears, or eats ; The devil was piqu’d such saintship to behold, Artists must choose his pictures, music, meats : And long'd to tempt him, like good Job of old : He buys for Tophain, drawings and designs ; But Satan now is wiser than of yore,

For Pembroke statues, dirty gods, and coins ; And tempts by making rich, not niaking poor. Rare monkish manuscripts for Hearne alone; Rous'd by the prince of air, the whirlwinds sweep And books for Mead, and butterflies for Sloane. The surge, and plunge his father in the deep; Think we all these are for himself? No more

Then full against his Cornish Jands they roar, Than his fine wife, alas ! or finer whore.
And two rich shipwrecks bless the lucky shore. Forwhat has Virro painted, built, and planted :

Sir Balaam now, he lives like other fólks ; Only to show how many tastes he wanted.
He takes his chirping pint, and cracks his jokes: What brought Sir Visto's ill-got wealth to waste?
“Live like yourself," was soon my lady's word; Some dæmon whisper'd, “ Visto! have a taste."
And lo! two puddings smok'd upon the board. Heaven visits with a taste the wealthy fool,
Asleep and nakeri as an Indian lay,

And needs no rod but Ripley with a rule. An honest factor stole a gem away;

Sce! sportive fate, to punish awkward pride, He pledg’d it to the knight; the knight had wit, Bids Bubo build, and sends him such a guide: So kept the diamond, and the rogue was bit. A standing sermon, at each year's expence, Sonne scruple rose, but thus he easd his thought: That never coxcomb reach'd magnificence! “ I'll now give sixpence where I gave a groat;

You show us Rome was glorious, not profuse, " Where once I went to church, I'll now go and pompous buildings once were things of use. “ twice,

Yet shall (iny Lord) your just, your noble rules " And am so clear too of all other vice." Fill half the land with imitating fools; (take,

The tempter saw his time; the work he plied; Who random drawings froin your sheets shall Stocks and subscriptions pour on ev'ry side, And of one beauty many blunders make; Till all the demon makes his full descent Load some vain church with old theatric state ; In one abundant show'r of cent. per cent. Turn arcs of triumph to a garden-gate ; Sinks deep within him, and

possesses whole,

Reverse your ornaments, and hang them all Then duts director, and sccures his soul. On some patchi'd dog-holcek'd with ends of wall;

Behold Sir Balaam, now a man of spirit, Then clap four slices of pilaster op 't, A cribes his gettings to his parts and nerit;

That, lacid with bits of rustic, makes a front : What late he call'd a blessing, now was wit,

Shall call the winds thro' long arcades to roar, And God's good providence, a lucky hit. Proud to catch cold at a Venetian door; Things change their tities, as our manners turn : Conscious they act a true Pallarlian part, Ilis compting-house employ'd the Sunday morn: And if they starve, they starve by rules of art. Seldon at church ('twas such a busy life), Oft have you hinted to your brother peer, But duly sent his fainily and wife.

A certain truth, which many buy too dear; There (so the devil ordin'd) one Christmas-tide Soinething there is more needful than expence, Ny good old lady catch'd a cold, and died. And something previous ev'n to taste- 'tis sense:

A nymph of quality admires our knight; Good sense, which only is the gift of Heaven, He inarries, bows at court, and grows polite ; And, and tho' no science, fairly worth the seven: Leaves the dull cits, and joins (to please the fair) A light, which in yourself you must perceive; Tiic well-bred cuckolds in St. James's air ; Jones and Le Nôtre have it not in give. First, for his son a gay commissiou buys, To build, to plant, whatever you intend, Who drinks, whores, fights, and in a dnel dies. To rear the column, or the archi to bend, His daughter Aaunts a viscount's tawdry wife; Toswell the terrace, or to sink the grot; She bears a coronet aud p-x for life.

In all, let nature never be forgot; In Britain's senate hea seat obrains,

But treat the goddess like a modest fair, And one more pensioner St Stephen gains. Nor over-dress, nor leave her wholly bare; My lady fails to play: so bail her chance, Let not each beauty ev'ry where be spied, He must repair it; takes a bribe from France; Where half the skill is decently to hide. The House in peach him, Coningsby harangues; He gains all points who decently confounds, The Court forsake him, and Sir Balaam hangs; Surprises, varies, and conceals the bounds. Wife, son, and daughter, Satan! are thy own, Consult the genius of the place in all; Ilis wealth, yet dearer, forfeit to the crown;

That tells the waters or to rise or fall; 'The devil and the king divide the prize, Or help th' anıbitious hill the heavens to scale, And sad Sir Balaam curses God and dies. Or scoops in circling theatres the vale;


Calls in the country, catching op’ning glades, Unwater'd see the drooping sea-horse mourn,
Joins willing woods,and varies shadesfromshades; And swallows roost in Nilus' dusty urn.
Now breaks, or now directs, th’intending lines; My lord advances with majestic mien,
Paints as you plant, and, as you work, designs. Smit with the mighty pleasure to be seen :

Still follow sense, of ev'ry art the soul, But soft - by regular approach—not yet
Parts answering paris shall slide into a whole; First thro' the length of yon hot terrace sweat;
Spontaneous beauties all around advance, And when up ten steep slopes you've dragg’d your
Start ev'n from difficulty, strike from chance ; Just at his study-door he'll bless your eyes. (thighs,
Nature shall join you ; time shall make it grow His study! with what authors is it störd?
A work to wonder at — perhaps a Stow. In books, not authors, curious is my lord;

Without it, proud Versailles ! thy glory falls; To all their dated backs he turns you round,
And Nero's terraces desert their walls: These Aldus printed, those Du Sueil has bound.
The vast parterres a thousand hands shall make, Lo, some are vellum; and the rest as good,
Lo! Cobham comes, and tioats them with a lake; For all his lordship knows, but they are wood.
Or cut wide views thro' mountains to the plain, For Locke or Milton 'tis in vain to look ;
You 'll wish your hill or shelter'd seat again.

These shelves admit not any modern book. Ex n in an ornament its place remark,

And now the chapel's silver bell you hear, Norin an herinitage set Dr. Clarke.

That summons you to all the pride of pray'r: Behold Villario's ten years toil complete ;

Light qnirks of music, broken and uneven, His Quincunx darkens, his Espaliers meet; Make the soul dance upon a jig to heaven. The wood supports the plain, the parts unite, On painter ceilings you devoutly stare, And strength of shade contends with strength of Where sprawl the saints of Verrio or Laguerre, A waving glow the bloomy beds display, [light; Or gilded clouds in fair expansion lie, Blushing in bright diversities of day,

And bring all Paradise before your eye. With silver-quiv’ring rills meander’d o'er — To rest the cushion and soft dean invite, Enjoy them, you! Villario can no more ;

Who never mentions hell 10 cars polite. Tir'd of the scene parterres and fountains yield, But hark! the chiming clocks to dinner call; He finds at last he better likes a field.

A hundred footsteps scrape the marble hall: Thro' his young woorls how pleas'd Sabinus The rich buffet well-color'd serpents grace, Or sate delighted in thethick’ningshade, (stray'd, And gaping Tritons spew to wash your face. With annual joy the redd’ning shoots to greet,' Is this a dinner? this a genial room? Or see the stretching branches long too meet ! No, 'tis a temple, and a hetacomb ! His son's fine taste an op'ner vista loves, A solemn sacrifice, perform'd in state ; Foe to the dryads of his father's groves ;

You drink by measure, and to minutes eat. One boundless green, or flourishd carpet views, So quick retires each flying course, you 'd swear With all the mournful family of yews;

Sancho's dread doctor and his wand were there. The thriving plants, ignoble broomsticks made, Between each act the trembling salvers ring, Now sweep those alleys they were born to shade. From soup to sweet-wine, and God bless the king.

At Timou's villa let us pass a day, [away!" In plentystarving, tantaliz'd in state, Where all cry out, “ What sums are thrown And complaisantly help'd to all I hate. So proud, so grand; of that stupendous air, Treated, caress'd, and tird, I take


Icave, Soft and agreeable come never there

Sick of his civil pride from morn to eve; Greatness, with Timon, dwells in such a draught I curse such lavish cost, and little skill, As brings all Brubdignag before your thought. And swear no day was ever pass'd so ill! To compass this, his building is a town, Yet hence the poor are cloth d, the hungry fed; His pond an ocean, his parterre a down Health to himself, and to his infants bread Who but must laugh, the master when he sees, The lab'rer bears : what his hard heart denies, A puny insect, shiv'ring at a breeze ! His charitable vanity supplies. Li, what huge heaps of littleness around ! Another age shall see the golden ear The whole a labor'd quarry above ground.

Imbrown the slope, and nod on the parterre, Two Cupids squirt before : a lake behind Deep harvest bury all his pride has plann'd, Improves the keenness of the northern wind. And laughing Ceres re-assure the land. Ilis gardens next your admiration call;

Who then shall race, or who improve the soil? On ev'ry side you look, behold the wall! Who plants like Bathurst, or who builds like No pleasing intricacies intervene,

"Tis use alone that sanctities expence, (Boyle. No artful wildness to perplex the scene ;

And splendor borrows all her ravs from sense. Groe nods at grove, each alley has a brother, His father's acres who enjoys in peace, And half the platform just reflects the other. Or makes his neighbour glad, if he increase ; The suff'ring eye inverted nature sees,

Whose cheerful tenants ble-s their yearly toil, Trues cut to statues, statues thick as trees ; Yet to their lord owe niore than to the soil; With here a fountain never to be play'd ; Whose ample lawns are not asham'd to fced. And there a sumıner-house that knows no shade; The milky heifer and deserving steed; Ilere Amphitite sails thro' myrtle bow'rs; Whose rising forests, not for pride or show, There gladiators fight, or die in flow'rs; But future buildings, future navies, grow :


Let his plantations stretch from down to down, And Curio, restless by the fair one's side, First shade a country, and then raisc a town. Sighs for an Otho, and neglects his bride.

You too proceed ! make falling arts your care, Theirs is the vanity, the learning thine : Erect new wonders, and the old repair ; Touch'd by thy hand, again Rome's glories shine, Jones and Palladio to themselves restore, Her gods and godlike heroes rise to view, And be whate'er Vitruvius was before : And all her faded garments bloom a-new. Till kings call forth th' ideas of your mind Nor blush, these studies thy regard engage ; (Proud to accomplish what such hands design d), These pleas' the fathers of poetic rage : Bids harbours open, public ways extend ; The verse and sculpture bure an equal part, Bid temples, worthier of the Goul, ascend; Anil art reflected images to art. Bid the broad arch the dang’rous flood contain, Oh when shall Britain, conscious of herclaiin, The mole projected break the roaring main ; Stand emulous of Greek and Roman fame? Back to his bounds their subject sea command, In living medals see her wars enrolld, And roll obedient rivers thro' the land; And vanquishid realms supply recording gold? These honors peace to happy Britain brings : Here, rising bold, the patriot's honest face; These are imperial works, and worthy kings. There, warriors frowning in historic brass :

Then future ages with delight shall see

How Plato's, Bacon's Newton's looks agree; $ 18. Epistle to Mr. Addison, occasioned ly Or in fair series laurell'd bards be shown, his Dialogues on Medals. Pope.

A Virgil there, and here an Addison. Ser the wild waste of all-devouring years !

Then shall thy Craggs (and let me call him mine) How Rome her own sad sepulchre appears,

On the cast ore, another Pollio, shine ; With nodding arches, broken temples spread! With aspect open shall erect his head, The very tombs now vanish'd like their dead! And round the orb in lasting notes be read, Imperial wonders rais'd on nations spoild, Statesman, yet friend to truth! of soul sincere, Where, mix'd with slaves, the groaning martyr

“ In action faithful, and in honor clear; toild:

Who broke no promise, serı'd no private end, Huge theatres, that now unpeopled woods, Who gain'd no'title, and who lost no friend: Now drain'd a distant country of her floods : Ennobled by himself, by all approv'd, Fanes, which admiring gods with pride survey, And prais d, unenvied, by the Muse he lor'd." Statues of men scarce less alive than they! Some felt the silent stroke of mould'ring age, Some hostile fury, some religious rage.

$ 19. Epistle to Dr. Arluthnot, leing the Barbarian blindness, Christian zeal conspire,

Prologue to the Satires. Pope. And Papal piety, and Gothic fire.

P. SHUT, shut the door, good John, fatigu'd Perhaps, by its own ruin sav'd from flaine,

I said, Some buried marble half preserves a name :


пр the knocker; say I'ın sick, I'm dead. That name the learn’d with fierce disputes pursue, The Dog-star rages ! nay 'tis past a doubt, And give to Titus old Vespasian's due. All Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let out :

Ambition sigh'd : she found it vain to trust l'ire in each eye, and papers in each hand, The faithless colunin and the crumbling bust: They fave, recite, and madden round the land. Huge moles, whose shadow stretch'd from shore What walls can guard me, or what shades can to shore,


[glide; Their ruins perish'd, and their place no more! They pierce my thickets, thro' my grut they Convine'd, she now contracts her vast design, By lanit, by waier, they renew the charge; And all her trimnphs shrink into a coin. They siop ihe chariot, and they board the barge, A narrow orb each crowded conquest keeps ; No place is sacred, not the Church is free, Bencath her palm here sad Judea weeps. Ern Sunday shines no Sabbath day to me: Now scantier limits the proud arch confine, Then from the Mint walks forth the man of And scarce are seen the prostrate Nile or Rhine; Happy! to catch me just at dinner time. (rhyme, And small Euphrates thro' the piece is roll'd, Is there a Parson, much beius d in beer, And little cagles wave their wings in gold. A maudlin Poetess, a rhyming Peer,

The Medal, faithfid in its charge of fame, A Clerk, foredoom'd his father's soul to cross, Thro'climes andages bears each forin and name; Who pens a Stanza when he should engross? Lii one short view subjected to our eye,

s there, who, lock'd fronı ink and paper, scrawls Gods, emp’iors, heroes, sages, beauties, lic. With desp’rate charcoal round his darken'd walls: With sharpen'd sight pale antiquaries pore, All fly to Twit'nam, and in humble strain Th'inscription value, but the rust adore. Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain. This the blue varnish, that the green endears, Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the laws, The sacral rust of twice ten hundred years. Imputes to me and my damn'd works the cause ; To gain Pescennius one employs his schemes ; Poor Cornus sees his frantie wife clope ; One grasps a Cecrops in ecstatic dreams. And curses Wit, and Poetry, and Pope. [long Poor Vadius, long with learned spleen devour'd, Friend to my Life! (which did not you proCan taste no pkasure since his shield was scour'd' The world had wanted many an idle song,



What Drops or Nostrum can this plague reniove, Destroy his fib or sophistry in vain,
Or which must end nie, a Fool's wrath or love! The creature's at his dirty work again,
A dire dilemma ! either way I'm sped; Thron’d on the centre of his thin designs,
If foes, they write; if friends, they read me dead. Proud of a vast extent of Aimsy lines !
Seis'd and tied down to judge, how wretched I! Whom have I hurt? has Poet yet, or Peer,
Who can't be silent, and who will not lie: Lost the arch'd eyebrow, or Parnassian sneer;
To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace; And has not Colley still his lord, and whore ?
And to be grave, exceeds all pow'r vi face : llis butchers Henly, his free. masons Moor?
I sit with sad civility, I read

Does not one table Bavius still admit?
With honest anguish, and an aching head; Still 10 onę Bishop Phillips seems a Wit?
And drop at last, but in unwilling cars, Still Sappho-A. Hold, for God's sake--you 'H
This saving counsel, keep your piece nine years.' ottend,

Nine years! cries he, who high in Drury-lane, No names--be calm-learn prudence of a friend: Lull'd by soft Zephyrs thro' the broken pane, I too could write, and I am twice as tall; [all. Rhynes ere he wakes, and prints before Term But focslike thesc—P.One Flatt'rer's worse than Oblig'd by hunger and request of friends ; [ends, Of all mad creatures, if the learn’d are right, The piece, you think, is incorrect? why takeit: It is the slaver kills, and not the bite. lain all submission, what you'd have itinake it. A fool quite angry is quite innocent : Three things another's niodest wishes bound, Alas! 'ois ten times worse when they repent. My Friendship, and a Prologue, and Teu Pound. One dedicates in high heroic prose,

Picholeon sends to me: you know his Grace: And ridicules beyond a hundred fues : I want a Patrou; ask him for a Place.' Qae from all Grub-street will iny fame defend, Pitholeon libell'd ine— but here's a letter (ter. And, more abusive, calls himself"ıny friend. * Informs you, Sir, 'twas when he knew no bet- This prints my Lettors, that expects a bribe,

Dare you refuse him? Curl invites to dine ; And úthers roar aloud, · Subscribe, subscribe,' ‘lle'll write a Journal, or he 'll turn Divine.' There are who to my person pay the court:

Bless me! a packet. - "Tis a stranger sues, I cough like llorace, and, tho' lean, I'm short. A Virgin Tragedy, an Orphan Muse.' Ammon's great son one shoulder had too high ; If I dislike it, • Furies, death, and rage!'

Such Ovid's nose ; and, ‘Sir! you have an Eye If I approve, Commend it to the stage.' [ends, Go on, obliging creatures, make me see There (thank my stars!) my whole commission all that disgrac'd iny Betters met in me. The players and I are, luckily, no friends. Say for my confort, kanguishing in bed, Fir'd that the house reject him, “ 'Sdeath, I'll Just so immortal Maro held his head; • print it,

(Lintot.' And when I die, be sure you let me know • And shame the fools - Your int'rest, Sir, with Great Flomer died three thousand years ago. Lintot, dull rogue! will think your price too Why did I write! what sin to me unknown *Not, Sir, if you revise it, and retouch. * [inuch: Dipp'd me in ink, my parent's, or my own? All iny den urs but double huis attacks ;

As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame, At lasi he whispers, ' Do; and we go snácks.' ! lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came. Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door: I left no calling for this idle trade, Sir, let me see your works and you no inore. No duty broke, no father disobey di (Wife, "Tis sung, when Midas' ears began to spring

The Muse but serv'd to ease some Friend, not (Midas, a sacred person and a king), To help me thro' this long disease, my Life; His very Minister who spicd thein first To second, Arbuthnot! thy Art and Care, (Some say his Queen) was forc'd to speak, or And teach the being you preserv’d to bear. And is not mine, my friend, a sorer case, (barst. But why then publish? 'Granville the polite, When ev'ry coxcomb perks them in any face? And knowing Walsh, would tell me I could write; A. Good friend, forbear! you deal in dang’rous Well-natur'd Garth, inflain'd with early praise, things,

And Congreve lov'd, and Swift endur'd ny lays; I'd never name Queens, Ministers, or Kings; The courtly Tallot, Somers, Sheffield read; Keep close to Ears, and those let Asses prick, Ev'n initred Rochester would nod the head ;

Tis nothing-P.Nothing, if they bite and kick? And St. John's self (great Dryden's friend heOut with it, Dunciad! let the secret pass, With open arms receiv'd one


more. (fore) That secret to each fool, that he's an Ass: [lie? Happy iny studies, when by these approva! The truth once told (and wherefore should we Happier their Author when by these belov'd ! The Queen of Midas slept, and so may !. From these the world will julge of men and You think this cruel? take it for a rule,

book:, No creature smarts so little as a fool.

Not from the Burnets, Oldmixons, and Cooks. Let peals of laughter, Codrus, round the break, Soft were my numliers, who could take offence Thou unconcern'd canst hear the mighty crack : While pure Description held the place of Sense! Pit, box, and gall’ry in convulsions hurl'd, Like gentle Fanny's was my flow'ry theme, Thou stand'st inshook amidst a bursting world. A painted mistress, or a purling stream. Who shamesa Scribbler? break one cobweb thro', Yet then did Gildon draw bis venal quill; He spins the slight self-pleasing thread anew : I wish'd the man a dinner, and sat still.


Yet then did Dennis rave in furious fret; What tho’ my name stood rubric on the walls, I never answer'd, I was not in debt.

Or plaster'd posts, with claps, in capitals ? If want provok’d, or mariness made them print, Or smoking forth, a hundred hawkers load, I wag'd no war with Bedlum or the Mini. On wings of winds came flying all abroad?

Did some more sober Critic come abroall; I sought no homage from the race that write: If wrong, I smil'd; if right, I kiss'il the rod. | kepe, like Asian monarchs, from their sight: Pains, reading, study, are their just pretence;

Poems I heeded (now be-rhym'd so long) And all they want is spirit, lasie, and sense. No more than thou,greatGeorge! a birth-davsong. Commas and points they set exactly right; I ne'er with wits or witlings pass'd my days, And 'twere a sin to rob them of their mite. To spread about the itch of verse and praise ; Yel near one sprig of laurel gracid these ribalds, Nor, like a puppy, dangled thro' the town, From slashing Bentley down to piddling Tilalds; To fetch and carry sing-song up and down; Each wiglit who reads not, anıi but cansandspells, Norat rehearsals sweat, and mouth'd, and cry'd, Each Word-catcher, that lives on syllables,

With handkerchief and orange at my side : Ev'n such small Critics some regard may claim, But sick of fops, and poetiv, and praie, Prescry'd in Milton's or in Shakspeare's panie. To Bufo left the whole (asialian state. Pretty! in amber to olsuave the fornis

Proud, as apollo on his forkad bill, Of hairs or straws, or dort, or grubs, or worms! Sat full-blown Bufo, puti'd by ev'ry quill ; The things we know are neither rich nor rare, Fed with soft dedication all day long, But wonder how the devil they got there.

llorare and he went hand in hand in song. Were others angry: I excus'd thewn too; His library (where busts of poets dead Well might they rige, I gave them but their due. And airie Pindar stood without a head) A man's true merit 'tis not liard to find; Receni'd of wits an undistingush'd race, But each man's secret standard in his mind, Who first his judgment ask'd, and then a place: That ca ting-weight pride adds 10.einpriness, Much they extoll'd his pictures, much his seal, This who can gratify? for who can guess ? And fia.ter'd a'ry day, and some days cat: The Bard whom pilferid Pastorals renown, Fill grown more frugal in his riper days, Who turns a Persian tale for half a crown, Hle paid some bards with port,andsomewithpraise; Just writes to make his barrenne sappear, To some a dry rehearsal was assign'd; And strains, from liard bound brains, eight lines Aud others (harler still) he paid in kind. a-rear;

Drydın alove (what wonder!) came not nigh; He, who still wanting, tho' he lives on theft, Dryden alone escap'd this judging eye: Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left : Bui suill the grout have kindness in reserve ; And He,whonow to sense, now nonsense leaning, Ile helpil to bury whom he help'd to starve. Means not, but blunders round about a meaning, May'some choice patron bless each grey goose And He, whose fustian 's so sublimely bad, Mayev'ry Bavius liave his Bufo still! (quill! It is not poetry, but prose run mad:

So when a statesman wants a day's defence, All these iny modest Satire isade translate, Or eury holds a whole week's war with sense: And own'd that nine such Poets made a Tate. Orsimole pride for flaii'ry makes demands, How did they fume, and stamp, and roar and May Dimce by Dunce be whistled off my hands! And swear, not Addison himself was safe. [chafe! | Blest be the great for tliose they take away, Peace to all such! but were there one whose and those they lefi me, for they left me Gay; fires

Lett me to see neglected Genius bloom, True Genius kindles, and fair Fame inspires; Neglected die, and tell it on his tomb: Blest with each talent and each art 10 please, Of all thy blameless life the sole return, And burn to write, converse, and live with ease: My Verse and Qucen-b'ry weeping o'er thy urn. Should such a man, too fond to rule alone, O let me live oir own, and die so too! Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne, (Tv live and die is all I have lo do): Vicw him with scornful, vet with jelous eyes,

Maintain a Poet's dignity and ease, And hate for arts that caus'd himself to rise ; And see what friends, and read what books Iplease. Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer, Abore a pairou, tho' I condescend And, without sneering, teach the rest to sneer ; Sometimes to call a minister my friend. Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike, I was not born for courts or great affairs : Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike;

I pay my dcbis, beliere, and say iny pray'rs; Alike reserv'd to blame, or to commend, Can sleep without a poem in


heail, A tia'rous foe, and a suspicious friend ; Nor know ií Drunis be alive or dead. Dreading er'n Fools, by Flatterers besiegd, Why am I ask'll what next shall see the light? And so obliging, that he ne'er oblig'd ; Heavens! was I born for nothing but to write! Like Cato, gives liis little Senate laws, Has life no joys for me? or (to be grave) And sit attentive to his own applau-e; Have I no friend to serve, no soul to save: (doubt While Wits and Templars er 'ry sentence raise, I found him close with Swift" — Indeed? no And wonder with a fooli h face of praise - (Cries prating Ball'us) something will come out. Who but must laugh, if such a man there be ? Tis all in vain, deny it as I willo; Who would not weep, if Atticus were he ? No, sach a Genjus never can lie still;',


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