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h Learn to live will, or fairly make your You 've play'd, and lov'd, and eat, and drank Walk fober off; before a fprightlier age


Comes tittering on, and shoves you from the stage:
Leave fuch to trifle with more grace and ease,
Whom Folly pleases, and whose Follies please.

h Vivere fi recte nefcis, decede peritis.
Lufifti fatis, edifti fatis, atque bibisti:
Tempus abire tibi eft: ne potum largius aequo
Rideat, et pulfet lafciva decentius aetas.






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






ES; thank my stars! as early as I knew This Town, I had the fenfe to hate it Yet here, as ev'n in Hell, there must be ftill One Giant-Vice, fo excellently ill,

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' Excife 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 Papist's, is the Poet's state,
Poor and difarm'd, and hardly worth your hate!





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 rest.
Though Poetry, indeed, be fuch a fin,

As I think, that brings dearth and Spaniards in:
Though like the peftilence and old-fashion'd love,
Ridlingly it catch men, and doth remove

Never, till it be ftarv'd out; yet their state


poor, difarm'd, like Papifts, not worth 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: In love's, in nature's fpite, the fiege they hold, And scorn the flesh, the devil, and all but gold. These write to Lords, fome mean reward to get, 25 As needy beggars fing at doors for meat.


One (like a wretch, which at barre judg'd as dead, Yet prompts him which ftands next, and cannot read, And faves his life) gives Idiot Actors means (Starving himself) to live by 's labour'd fcenes. As in fome Organs Puppits dance above, And bellows pant below, which them do move.

One would move love by rhymes; but witchcraft's charms

Bring not now their old fears, nor their old harms;
Rams and flings now are filly battery,

Pistolets are the best artillery.

And they who write to Lords, rewards to get,
Are they not like fingers at doors for meat?
And they who write, because all write, have still
That 'fcufe for writing, and for writing ill.

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