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One, driv'n by ftrong benevolence of foul,
Shall fly, like Oglethorpe, from pole to pole;
Is known alone to that Directing Pow'r,
Who forms the genius in the natal hour;
That God of Nature, who, within us ftill,
Inclines our action, not constrains our will;
Various of temper, as of face or frame,
Each individual: His great end the fame.

(c) Yes, sir, how small foever be my heap,
A part I will enjoy, as well as keep.
My heir may figh, and think it want of grace
A man fo poor would live without a place :
But fure no ftatute in his favour fays,
How free, or frugal, I shall pass my days:



NATURÆ DEUS HUMANÆ, mortalis in unumQuodque caput, vultu mutabilis, albus, et ater: (c) Utar, et ex modico, quantum res pofcet,


Tollam: nec metuam, quid de me judicet beres, Quod non plura datis invenerit. et tamen idem Scire volam, quantum fimplex hilarisque nepoti Difcrepet, et quantum difcordet parcus avaro. Diftat enim, fpargas tua prodigus, an neque fum


Invitus facias, nec plura parare labores;
Ac potius, puer ut feftis quinquatribus olim,
Exiguo gratoque fruaris tempore raptim.


Ver. 277 fly, like Oglethorpe,] Employed in settling the colony of Georgia.

Ver. 288. But fure no ftatute,] Alluding to the ftatutes made in England and Ireland, to regulate the fucceffion of Papists, etc.

I, who at fome times fpend, at others fpare,
Divided between careleffness and care.
'Tis one thing madly to difperfe my stores
Another, not to head to treasure more;
Glad, like a boy, to fnatch the first good-day,
And pleas'd, if fordid want be far away.

(d) What is't to me (a paffenger God wot)
Whether my veffel be firft-rate or not?
The ship itself may make a better figure,
But I that fail, am neither less nor bigger.
I neither ftrut with ev'ry fav'ring breath,
Nor ftrive with all the tempest in my teeth.
In pow'r, wit, figure, virtue, fortune, plac'd
Behind the foremost, and before the last.




(e) "But why all this of av'rice? I have none. I wish you joy, Sir, of a tyrant gone;

But does no other lord it at this hour,

As wild and mad? the avarice of pow'r?


(d) Pauperies immunda domus procul abfit: ego,


Nave ferar magna ar parva; ferar unns et idem.
Non agimur tumidis velis Aquilone fecundo :
Non tamen adverfis ætatem ducimus Auftris.
Viribus, ingenio, fpecie, virtute, loco, re,
Extremi primorum, extremis ufque priores.
(e) Non es avarus: abi. quid? cætera jam fimul


Cum vitio fugere? caret tibi pectus inani Ambitione caret mortis formidine et ira? Somnia, terrores magicos, miracula, fagas, Nocturnos lemures, portentaque Theffala rides? Natales grate numeras? ignofcis amicis?


Does neither rage inflame, nor fear appall?

Not the black fear of Death, that faddens all?
With terrors round, can Reason hold her throne,
Defpife the known, nor tremble at th' unknown?
Survey both worlds, intrepid aud intire,
In fpite 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?
Has life no fourness, drawn so near its end;
Can't thou endure a foe, forgive a friend?
Has age but melted the rough parts away,
As winter-fruits grow mild ere their decay; 319
Or will you think, my friend, your business done,
When, of an hundred thorns you pull out one?

(f) Learn to live well, or fairly make your will; You've play'd, and lov'd, and ate, and drank your fill:

Walk fober off, before a fprightlier age

Comes titt'ring on, and fhoves you from the ftage: Leave fuch to trile with more grace and ease, 326 Whom folly pleases, and whofe follies please.

Lenior et melior fis accedente fenecta?
Quid te exempta levat fpinis de pluribus una?
(f) Vivere fi recte nefcis, decede peritis.
Lufifti fatis, edifti fatis, atque bibisti:
Tempus abire tibi eft: ne potum largius æque
Rideat, et pulfet lafciva decentius tas.

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Dean of St PAUL'S, verfified.

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




ES; thank my ftars! as early as I knew This town, I had the fense to hate it too: Yet here, as even in Hell, there must be still One giant-vice, so excellently ill,


IR, though (I thank God for it) I do hate
Perfectly all this town; yet there's one state

In all ill things fo excellently beft,

That hate towards them, breeds pity towards the Though Poetry, indeed, be fuch a fin,


As I think, that brings dearth and Spaniards in:


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That all befide, one pities, not abhors;

As who knows Sappho, fmiles 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 ftarving, all allow.



Yet like the Papift'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,
So prompts, and faves a rogue who cannot read.
Thus as the pipes of fome carv'd organ move,
The gilded puppets dance and mount above.
Heav'd by the breath th' infpiring bellows blow:
Th' infpiring bellows lie and pant below.


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

Tho' like the peftilence and old fashion'd love,
Ridlingly it catch men, and doth remove
Never, till it be starv'd out; yet their state
Is poor, difarm'd, like Papists, not worth hate,
One (like a wretch, which at barre judg'd as

Yet prompts him which stands next, and cannot
And faves his life) gives idiot-actors means,
(Starving himself) to live by's labour'd fcenes,
As in fome organs, puppets dance above,
And bellows pant below which them do move.
One would move love by rhymes; but witchcraft's

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

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