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By rufty Coins old Kings he'd trace,
And know their Air and Mien:

King Alfred he knew well by Face,
Tho' George he ne'er had seen.

This Wight th' outfide of Churches lov'd,
Almost unto a Sin;

Spires Gothick of more use he prov'd
Than Pulpits are within.

Of ufe, no doubt, when high in Air,
A wand'ring Bird they'll reft,
Or with a Bramin's holy Care,
Make Lodgments for its reft.

Ye Jackdaws, that are us'd to talk,
Like us of human Race,

When nigh you fee Brown Willis walk,
Loud chatter forth his Praise.

Whene'er the fatal Day fhall come,
For come, alas! it muft,

When this good 'Squire must stay at home,
And turn to antique Duft;

The folemn Dirge, ye Owls, prepare,
Ye Bats, more hoarfly fcreak;
Croak, all ye Ravens, round the Bier,

And all ye Church-mice, fqueak!

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DIALOGUE

BETWEEN

The POET and his SERVANT.

In Imitation of HORACE, Sat. ix. Book ii.

By the late Mr. CHRISTOPHER PITT.

Serv. SIRVO

IR,—I've long waited in my turn, to have
AWord with you-but I'm your humble Slave.

Poet. What Knave is that? My Rasca!!

Servant. Sir, 'tis I, No Knave, nor Rafcal, but your trufty Guy.

Poet. Well, as your Wages ftill are due, I'll bear Your damn'd Impertinence, this Time of Year.

Serv. Some Folks are drunk one Day, and fome for ever,

And fome, like W*****, but twelve Years together.
Old Evremond renown'd for Wit and Dirt,

Would change his Living oft'ner than his Shirt;
Roar with the Rakes of State a Month, and come
To ftarve another in his Hole at Home.
So rov'd wild Buckingham, the publick Jeft,
Now fome Inn-holder's, now a Monarch's Gueft;

His Life and Politicks of ev'ry Shape,
This Hour a Roman, and the next an Ape.
The Gout in ev'ry Limb from ev'ry Vice,
Poor N***** hir'd a Boy to throw the Dice.
Some wench forever;-and their Sins in those
By Custom fit as eafy as their Clothes.
Some fly like Pendulums from good to evil,
And in that Point are madder than the Devil:
For they-

Poet. To what will thefe wife Maxims tend? And where, fweet Sir, will your Reflections end? Servant. In you.

Poet. In me, you Knave? make out your Charge. Serv. You praise low living, but you live at large. Perhaps you scarce believe the Rules you teach, Or find it hard to practife what you preach. Scarce have you paid one idle Journey down, But without Business you're again in Town. If none invite you, Sir, abroad to roam, Then-Lord, what Pleafure 'tis to read at home! And fip your two Half-pints with great Delight Of Beer at Noon, and muddled Port at Night. From Encombe, John comes thund'ring at the Door, With-Sir, my Mafter begs you to come o'er, To pafs thefe tedious Hours, thefe Winter Nights; Not that he dreads Invasions, Rogues, or Sprites.

Strait

Strait for your two beft Wigs aloud you call,
This ftiff in Buckle, that not cur'ld at all.
And where the Devil are the Spurs ? you cry,
And Pox! what Blockhead laid the Buskins by?
On old batter'd Mare you'll needs be gone,

your

(No matter whether on four Legs or none)

Splash, plunge, and ftumble, as you fcour the Heath,
All fwear at Morden 'tis on Life and Death:
As fierce thro' Wareham Streets you fcamper on,
Raife all the Dogs and Voters in the Town ;
Then fly for fix long dirty Miles as bad,
That Corfe and Kingston Gentry think you mad.
And all this furious Riding is to prove
Your high Respect, it seems, and eager Love:
And yet that mighty Honour to obtain,

Banks, Shaftsbury, Dodington, may fend in vain.
Before you go, we curfe the Noise you make,
And bless the Moment that you turn your Back.
Meantime your Flock depriv'd of heav'nly Food,
As we of carnal, ftarve and ftray abroad:
Left to your Care by Providence in vain,
You leave them all to Providence again.

As for myself, I own it to your Face,

I love good Eating,--and I take my Glafs:
But fure 'tis ftrange, dear Sir, that one should be

In you Amusement, but a Crime în me.

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All this is bare refining on a Name,

To make a Difference where the Fault's the fame.
My Father fold me to your Service here,

For this fine Livery and four Pounds a Year.
A Livery you should wear as well as I,
And this I'll prove,-but lay your Cudgel by.
You ferve
your Paffions. Thus without a Jeft
Both are but Fellow-Servants at the best.
Yourself, good Sir, are play'd by your Defires,
A meer tall Puppet dancing on the Wires.
Poet. Who at this Rate of talking can be free?
Serv. The brave, wife, honeft Man, and only he:
All elfe are Slaves alike, the World around,
Kings on the Throne, and Beggars on the Ground.
He, Sir, is Proof to Grandeur, Pride, or Pelf,
And (greater ftill) is Master of himself:
Not to and fro' by Fears and Factions hurl❜d,
But loofe to all the Interefts of the World:

And while the World turns round, entire and whole
He keeps the facred Tenour of his Soul;

In every Turn of Fortune ftill the fame,

As Gold unchang'd, or brighter from the Flame:
Collected in himself, with godlike Pride,

He fees the Darts of Envy glance afide;
And fix'd like Atlas, while the Tempests blow,
Smiles at the idle Storms that roar below.

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