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Has life no sourness, drawn so near its end ;

Can'st thou endure a foe, forgive a friend ?

Has age

but melted the rough parts away, As winter-fruits grow mild ere they decay ? Or will think,

friend, your you

business done,

my friend,

When, of a hundred thorns, you pull out one ?

321

b Learn to live well, or fairly make your

will;

Gill:

You've play'd, and lov'd, and

eat,
and drank

your Walk fober off; before a sprightlier age Comes tittring on, and shoves you from the stage :

Leave such to trifle with more grace and ease, 326 Whom Folly pleases, and whose Follies please.

N 2

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Quid vetat et nosmet Lucili fcripta legentes Quaerere, num illius, num rerum dura negârit Versiculos natura magis factos, & euntes Mollius?

HOR.

SATIRE II.

SIR;

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

Perfectly all this town; yet there's one state In all ill things, fo excellently bet, That hate towards them, breeds pity towards the rest. Though Poetry, indeed, be such a sin, 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 start'd out ; yet their state Is poor, difarm'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 faves his life) gives Idiot Actors means, (Starving himself) to live by's labour'd scenes. As in fome Organs, Puppits dance above And bellows pant below, which them do move. One would move love by rythmes; but witchcraft's

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

S A T I R E II.

ES; thank

my

stars! as early as I knew

10

Yet here, as ev'n in Hell, there must be still
One Giant-Vice, fo excellently ill,
That all beside, ane pities, not abhors ;

5 As who knows Sappho, 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.
Yet like the Papist's, is the Poet's state,
Poor and difarm'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, 15
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. Heay'd by the breath th' inspiring bellows blow, Th' inspiring bellows lie and pant below.

20 One fings the Fair ; but fongs no longer move; Ne rat is rhym'd to death, nor maid to love :

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