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Nature made every fop to plagne his brother, You grow correct, that once with rapture writ, Just as one beauty mortifies another.

And are, besides, too moral for a wit. But here's the captain that will plague them both, Decay of parts, alas! we all must feel Whose air cries arın! whose very look's an oath : Why now, this moment, don't I see you steal ? The captain's honest, sirs, and that's enough, 'Tis all from Horace ; Horace long before ye 'Though his soul's bullet, and his body buff. Said, “ Tories call'd him Whig, and Whigs a Tory *** He spits fore-right; his haughty chest before, And taught his Romans, in much better metre, Like battering rams, beats open every door: “ To laugh at fools who put their trust in Peter." And with a face as red, and as awry,

But Horace, sir, was delicate, was nice; As Herod's lian dogs in old tapestry,

Bubo observes, he lash'd no sort of vice : Scarecrow to boys, the breeding woman's curse, Horace would say, sir Billy serv'd the crown, Has yet a strange anbition to look worse : Blunt could do business, Higgins knew the town ; Confounds the civil, keeps the rude in awe, In Sappho touch the failings of the sex, Jests like a licens'd fool, coinmands like law. In reverend bishops note soine small neglects,

Frighted, I quit the room, but leave it so And own the Spaniard did a waggish thing, As men from jails to execution go;

Who cropt our ears, and sent them to the king. For hung with deadly sins I see the wall,

His sly, polite, insinuating style And lin'd with giants deadlier than them all : Could please at court, and make Augustus smile: Each man an Askapart, of strength to toss An artful manager, that crept between For quoits, both Temple-bar and Charing-cross. His friend and shame, and was a kind of screen. Scard at the grizly forins, I sweat, I fly,

But ’faith your very friends will soon be sore; And shake all o'er, like a discover'd spy.

Patriots there are, who wish you'd jest no inore Courts are too much for wits so weak as mine : And where's the glory? 'twill be only thought Charge them with Heaven's artillery, bold divine ! The great man never offer'd you a groat. From such alone the great rebukes endure, Go see sir Robert Whose satire's sacred, and whose rage secure :

P. See sir Robert !--hum'Tis mine to wash a few light stains; but theirs And never laugh--for all my life to come ? To deluge sin, and drown a court in tears.

Seen him I have, but in his happier hour Howe'er, what's now Apocrypha, my wit,

Of social pleasure, ill-exchang'd for power ;
In time to come, may pass for holy writ.

Seen him, uncumber'd with a venal tribe,
Smile without art, and win without a bribe.
Would he oblige me! let me only find,

He does not think me what he thinks mankind.
EPILOGUE TO THE SATİRES. Come, come, at all I laugh he laughs, no doubt ;

The only difference is, I dare laugh out.
F. Why yes: with scripture still you may be

A horse-langh, if you please, at honesty;

A joke on Jekyll, or some odd old whig,
Fr. Nor twice a twelvemonth you appear in print, who never chang'd his principle, or wig;
And when it comes, the court see nothing in't.

A patriot is a fool in every age,

Whom all lord chamberlains allow the stage : For saying our lady's Psalter. But 'tis fit These nothing hurts; they keep their fashion still, That they each other plague, they merit it. And wear their strange old virtue as they will. But here comes Glorious that will plague 'em both, If any ask you, “Who's the man, so near Who in the other extremne only doth

His prince, that writes in verse, and has his ear?” Call a roigh carelesness good fashion :

Why answer Lyttelton; and I'll engage Whose cloak his spurs tear, or whom he spits on,

The worthy youth shall ne'er be in a rage : He cares not, he. His ill words do no harm But were his verses vile, his whisper base, To him; he rushes in, as if arm, arm,

You'd quickly find hiin in lord Fanny's case. He meant to cry; and though his face be as ill Sejanus, Wolscy, hurt not honest Fleury, As theirs which in old bangings whip Christ, still

But well may put some statesman in a fury. He strives to look worse ; he keeps ail in awe; Laugh then at any, but at fools or foes ; Jests like a licens'd fool, commands like law. These you but anger, and you mend not those. Tir'd, now, I leave this place, and but pleas'd so

Laugh at your friends, and, if your friends are sore, As men from gaols to execution go,

So much the better, you may laugh the more Go, through the great chamber (why is it hung,

To vice and folly to contine the jest, With these seven deadly sins ?) being among

Sets half the world, God knows, against the rest ;
Those Askaparts, men big enough to throw
Charing-cross, for a bar, men that do know

No token of worth, but queens man, and fine After ver. 2, in the MS.
Living ; barrels of beef, flaggons of wine.

You don't, I hope, pretend to quit the trade, 'I shook like a spied spiePreachers which are Because you think your reputation made : Seas of wit and arts, you can, then dare,

Like good sir Paul, of whom so much was said, Drown the sins of this place, but as for me

That when his name was up, he lay a-bed. Which am but a scant brook, enough shall be Come, come, refresh us with a livelier song, To wash the stains away: Although I yet

Or, like sir Paul, you'll lie a-bed too long. (With Maccabees modesty) the known merit P. Sir, what I write, should be correctly writ. Of my work lessen, yet some wise men shall, F. Correct ! 'Tis what no genius can admit. I hope, esteem my writs canonical.

Besides, you grow too moral for a wit.




Did not the sneer of more impartial men

But shall a printer, weary of his life, At sense and virtue balance all again.

Learn, from their books, to hang himself and wife? Judicious wits spread wide the ridicule,

This, this, my friend, I cannot, must not bear; And charitably comfort knave and fool.

Vice thus abus'd, demands a nation's care : P. Dear sir, forgive the prejudice of youth: This calls the church to deprecate our sin, Adieu distinction, satire, warmth, and truth ! And hurls the thunder of the laws on gin. Come, harmless characters that no one hit;

Let modest Foster, if he will, excell Come, Henley's oratory, Osborn's wit!

Ten Metropolitans in preaching well; The honey dropping from Favonio's tongue, A simple quaker, or a quaker's wife, The powers of Bubo, and the flow of Young! Outdo Landaffe in doctrine,-yea in life: The gracious dew of pulpit eloquence,

Let humble Allen, with an aukward shame, And all the well-whipp'd cream of courtly sense, Do good by stealth, and blush to find it faine; That first was H-vy's, F-'s next, and then, Virtue may choose the high or low degree, The S-te's, and then H-vy's once agen.

'Tis just alike to Virtue, and to me; O come, that easy Ciceronian style,

Dwell in a monk, or light upon a king, So Latin, yet so English all the while,

She's still the same belor'd, contented thing. As, though the pride of Middleton and Bland, Vice is undone, if she forgets her birth, All boys may read, and girls may understand! And stoops from angels to the dregs of earth : Then might I sing, without the least offence, But 'tis the fall degrades her to a whore ;' And all I sung should be the nation's sense ; Let greatness own her, and she's mean no more, Or teach the melancholy Muse to mourn,

Her birth, her beauty, crowds and courts coufess, Hang the sad verse on Carolina's urn,

Chaste matrons praise her, and grave bishops bless; And hail her passage to the realms of rest, In golden chains the willing world 'she draws, All parts perform'd, and all her children blest! And hers the gospel is and hers the laws; So-Satire is no more I feel it die

Mounts the tribunal, lifts her scarlet head, No gazetteer more innocent than I

And sees pale Virtue carted in her stead. And let, a God's name, every fool and knave Lo! at the wheels of her triumphal car, Be grac'd through life, and flatter'd in his grave." Old England's genius, rough with many a scar,

F. Why so ? if Satire knows its time and place, Dragg'd in the dust! his arms.hang idly round, You still may lash the greatest-in disgrace: His flag inverted trails along the ground ! For merit will by turns forsake them all;

Our youth, all livery'd o'er with foreign gold, Would you know when? exactly when they fall. Before her dance: behind her, crawl the old ! But let all satire in all changes spare

See thronging millions to the pagod run, Immortal S-k, and grave De-re.

And offer country, parent, wife, or son! Silent and soft, as saints remov'd to Heaven, Hear her black truinpet through the land proclaim, All ties dissolv'd, and every sin forgiven,

That not to be corrupted is the shame. These may some gentle ministerial wing

In soldier, churchman, patriot, man in power, Receive, and place for ever near a king ;

'Tis avarice all, ambition is no more ! There, where no passion, pride, or shame transport, Sce, all our nobles begging to be slaves ! Lull’d with the sweet nepenthe of a court; See, all our fools aspiring to be knaves ! There, where no father's, brother's, friend's disgrace The wit of cheats, the courage of a whore, Once break their rest, or stir them from their place: Are what ti-n thousand envy and adore : But past the sense of human miseries,

All, all look up, with reverential awe, All tears are wip'd for ever from all eyes ;

At crimes that 'scape, or triumph o'er the law : No cheek is kuown to blush, no heart to throb, While truth, worth, wislom, daily they decry Save when they lose a question, or a job. (glory, “Nothing is sacred now but villainy."

P. Good Heaven forbid, that I should blast their Yet may this verse (if such a verse remain)
Who know how like Whig ministers to Tory, Show there was one who held it in disdain.
And when three sovereigns dy'd could scarce te vext,
Considering what a gracious prince was next.
Have I, in silent wonder, seen such things
As pride in slaves, and avarice in kings;

And at a peer, or peeress, shall I fret,
Who starves a sister, or forswears a debt ? 112

Fr. 'Tis all a libel-Paxton (sir) will say,
Virtue, I grant you, is an empty boast;

P. Not yet, my friend! tomorrow 'faith it may 3 But shall the dignity of vice be lost?

And for that very cause I print to-day. Ye gods ! shall Cibber's son, without rebuke, How should I fret to mangle every line, Swear like a lord, or Rich outwhore a duke? In reverence to the sins of thirty-nine ! A favourite's porter with his master vie,

Vice with such giant-strides coines on amain,
Be brib'd as often, and as often lie?

Invention strives to be before in vain;
Shall Ward draw contracts with a statesman's skill? | Peign what I will, and paint it e'er so strong,
Or Japhet pocket, like his grace, a will ?

Some rising genius sins up to my song.
Is it for Bond, or Peter, (paltry things)

F. Yet none but you by name the guilty lash; To pay their debts, or keep their faith, like kings? Even Guthry saves half Newgate by a dash. If Blunt dispatch'd himself, he play'd the man ; Spare then the person, and expose the vice. And so mayst thou, illustrious Pasgeran!

P. How, sir! not damn the sharper, but the dice!

Come on then, Satire! general, uncontin'd,

Spread thy broad wing, and souse on all the kind. Ver. 112, in some editions:

Ye statesmen, priests, of one religion all!
Who starves a mother

Ye tradesmen, vile, in army, court, or ball!

Tell me,

Ye reverend atheists. F. Scandal! name them, , How pleasing Atterbury's softer hour! who?

How shin’d the soul unconquerd in the Tower ! P. Why that's the thing you bid me not to do. How can I Pulteney, Chesterfield forget, Who starv'd a sister, who forswore a debt, While Roman spirit charms, and Attic wit: I never nam'd; the town's enquiring yet.

Argyll, the state's whole thunder born to wield, The poisoning dame-F. You mean-P. I don't And shake alike the senate and the field: F. You do.

Or Wyndham, just to freedom and the throne, P. See, now I keep the secret, and not you ! The master of our passions, and his own? The bribing statesman-F. Hold, too high you go. Names, which I long have lov'd, nor lov'd in vain, P. The brib'd elector-F. There you stoop too Rank'd with their friends, not number'd with their low.

And if yet higher the proud list should end, (train ; P. I fain would please you, if I knew with what; Still let me say, No follower, but a friend.

which knave is lawful game, which nut? Yet think not, friendship only prompts my lays: Must great offenders, once escap'd the crown, I follow Virtue ; where she shines, I praise ; Like royal barts, be never more run down? Points she to priest or elder, Whig or Tory, Admit your law to spare the knight requires, Or round a Quaker's beaver cast a glory. As beasts of nature may we hunt the squires ? I never (to my sorrow I declare) Suppose I censure--you know what I mean-- Din'd with the man of Ross, or my Lord Mayor. To save a bishop, inay I name a dean?

Some, in their choice of friends (nay, look not grave) F. A dean, sir? no; his fortune is not made, Have still a secret bias to a knave : You hurt a man that's rising in the trade.

To find an honest man, I beat about; P. If not the tradesman who set up to day, And love him, court him, praise him, in or out. Much less the prentice who tomorrow may.

F. Then why so few commended ? Down, down, proud Satire! though a realm be

P. Not so fierce; Spoil'd,

Find you the virtue, and I'll find the verse. Arraign no mightier thief than wretched Wild; But random praise--the task can ne'er be done : Or, if a court or country's made a job,

Fach inother asks it for her booby son, Go drench a pickpocket, and join the mob. Each widow asks it for the best of men,

But, sir, I beg you, (for the love of Vice !) For him she weeps, for him she weds again. The matter's weighty, pray consider twice; Praise cannot stoop, like Satire, to the ground : Have you less pity for the needy cheat,

The number may be hang'd, but not be crown'd. T'he poor and friendless villain, than the great ? Enough for half the greatest of these days, Alas! the small discredit of a bribe

To 'scape my censure, not expect my praise. Scarce hurts the lawyer, but undoes the scribe. Are they not rich? what inore can they pretend? Then better sure it Charity becomes

Dare they to hope a poet for their friend? To tax directors, who (thank God) have plums; What Richelieu wanted, Louis scarce could gain, Still better, ministers; or, if the thing

And what young Ammon wish'd, but wish'd in vain. May pinch ev’n there--why lay it on a king. No power the Muse's friendship can command; F. Stop! stop!

No power, when Virtue claims it, can withstand: P. Must Satire, then, nor rise nor fall ? To Cato, Virgil paid one honest line ; Speak out, and bid me blame no rogues at all. V let my country's friends iilumine mine! (no sin,

F. Yes, strike that Wild, I'll justify the blow. -What are you thinkiny? F. Faith the thought's P. Strike? why the man was hang'd ten years I think your friends are out, and would be in. ago :

P. If merely to come in, sir, they go out, Who now that obsolete example fears?

The way they take is strangely round about. Ev'n Peter trembles only for his ears.

F. They too may be corrupted, you'll allow? F. What, always Peter Peter thinks you mad, P. I only call those knaves who are so now. You make men desperate, if they once are bad. Is that too little? Come then, I'll complyElse might he take to virtue some years hence- Spirit of Arnall! aid me while I lie.

P. As S-k, if he lives, will love the prince. Cobham's a coward, Polwarth is a slave,
F. Strange spleen to S-k!

And I.yttelton a dark, designing knave;
P. Do I wrong the man? St. John has ever been a mighty fool-
God knows, I praise a courtier where I can. But let me add, sir Robert's mighty dull,
When I confess, there is who feels for fame, Has never made a friend in private life,
And melts to goodness, need I Scarborow name? And was, besides, a tyrant to his wife,
Pleas'd let me own, in Esher's peaceful grove But pray, when others praise him, do I blame?
(Where Kent and Nature vie for Pelham's love) Call Verres, Wolsey, any odious name?
The scene, the master, opening to my view, Why rail they then, if but a wreath of mine,
I sit and dream I see my Craggs anew!

O all-accomplish'd St. John' deck thy shrine ? Evin in a bishop I can spy desert.

What? shall each spur-galld hackney of the day, Secker is decent ; Rundel has a heart;

When Paxton gives bien double pots and pay, Manners with candour are to Benson given; Or each new-pension’d sycophant, pretend To Berkley erery virtue under Heaven.

To break my windows if I triat a friend; But does the court a worthy man remove? Then wisely plead, to me they meant no hurt, That instant, I declare, he has my love :

But 'twas my guest at whom they threw the dirt ? I shun his zenith, court his inild decline;

Sure, if I spare the minister, no rules
Thus Sommers once, and Halifax, were mine. Of honour bini me, not tu maul his tools;
Oft, in the clear, still nurrour of retreat,

Sure, if they cannot cut, it may be said
I study'd Shrewsbury, the wise and great; His saws are toothless, and his hatchets lead.
Carleton's calm sense, and Stanhope's noble flame, It anger'd Turenne, once upon a day,
Cunipar'd, and knew their generous end the same: To see a footman kick’d, that took his pay:

But when he heard th' affront the fellow gave,

To all but heaven-directed hands deny'd,' Knew one a man of honour, one a knave;

The Muse may give thee, but the gols must guide: The prudent general turn'd it to a jest,

Reverent I touch thee! but with honest zeal; And begg'd, he'd take the pains to kick the rest : To rouse the watchinen of the public weal, Which not at present having time to dom (you? To Virtue's work provoke the tardy hall, F. Hold, sir! for God's sake, where's th' affront to And goad the prelate slumbering in his stall. Against your worship when had Sk writ?

Ye tinsel insects! whom a couri inaintajus, Or Page pour'd forth the torrent of his wit ? That counts your beauties only by your stains, Or grant the bard whose distich all commend Spin all your cobwebs o'er the eye of day! [In power a servant, out of power a friend)

The Muse's wing shall brush you all away: To W-le guilty of some venial siu;

All his grace preaches, all his lordship sings, What's that to you who ne'er was out nor in?

All that makes saints of queens, and gods of kings. The priest whose flattery bedropt the crown,

All, all but truth, drops dead-born from the press, How hurt he you, he only stain'd the gown.

Like the last gazette, or the last address. 227 And how did, pray, the florid youth offend,

When black ambition stains a public cause, Whose speech you took, and gave it to a friend?

A monarch's sword when inad vain-glory draws, P. Faith, it imports not inuch from whom it came;

Not Waller's wreath can hide the nation's scar, Whoever borrow'd, could not be to blame,

Not Boileau turn the feather to a star. Since the whole house did afterwards the same.

Not so, when, diadem'd with rays divine, Let courtly wits to wits afford supply,

Touch'd with the flame that breaks from Virtue's As hog to hog in huts of Westphaly ;

Her priestess Muse forbids the good to die, (shrine, If one, through Nature's bounty or his lord's, And opes the temple of eternity. Has what the frugal, dirty soil affords,

There, other trophies deck the truly brave, From him the next receives it, thick ur thin,

Than such as Anstis cast into the grave; As pure a mess almost as it came in ;

Par other stars than * and * *

wear, The blessed benefit, not there confin'd,

And may descend to Mordington from Stair; Drops to the third, who puzzles close behind; (Such as on Hough's unsully'd mitre shine, From tail to mouth, they feed and they carouse:

Or beam, good Digby, from a heart like thine) The last full fairly gives it to the house.

Let Envy howl, while Heaven's whole chorus sings, F. This tilthy sjinile, this beastly line

And bark at honour not conferr'd by kings; Quite turns my stomach

let Flattery sickening see the incense rise, P. So does flattery inine : Sweet to the world, and grateful to the skies : And all your courtly civet-cats can veut,

Truth guards the poet, sanctifies the line, Pertume to you, to me is excrement.

And makes inmortal, verse as mean as mine. But hear me farther-Japhet, 'tis agreed, 185 Yes, the last pen for Freidom let me draw, Writ mot, and Chartres scarce could write or read,

When Truth stands treinbling on the edge of law; In all the courts of Pindus guiltless quite;

Here, last of Britons ! let your names be read; But pens can forge, my friend, that cannot write; Are none, none living? let me praise the dead, And must no egg in Japhet's tice be thrown,

Aud for that cause which made your fathers shine, Because the deed he forg'd was ni my own?

Fall by the votes of their degenirate line. Must never patriot then declaim at gin,

F. Alas, alas! pray end what you began, l'nless, good man! he has been fairly in?

And write next winter mure Essays on Maa.
No zealous pastor blame a failing spouse,
Without a staring reason on his brows?
And each blasphemer quite escape the rod,
Because the insult's not on man, but God?

Ask you what provocation I have bad ?
The strong arripathy vi gour to had.
When Truth or Virtue an affront enduris,

'Th' affront is mine, my friend, and should be yours. | "Tis true, my lord, I gave my word,
Mine, as a toe profest to false pretence,
Who thinks a coxcomb's honour like his sense;

I would be with you June the third,
Mine, as a friend to every worthy mint;

Chang'il it to August, and (in short) And mine as inan, who feel for all inankind.

Have kept it--as you do at court. F. You're strangely proud.

P. Su prond, Tan nu slave: So impudent, I own invseit no kunye:

After ver. 927, in the NS. So odd, my country's ruin makes me grave.

Where's now the star tirat lighted Charles to rise? Yes, I am proud : I must be proud to see

With that which follow'd Julius to the hics. Men not afraid of God, atrail of ne:

Angels that watch'd the royal oak so well, Safe from the bar, the pulit. and the throne,

How chane'd ye nd, when luckless Sorei fell? Yet touch'd anıl sbalu'd ur ridicule alone.

Hence, lying miracles! reriuc'd so low O sacred wapon ! left for Truth's detenie,

As to the regal touch and papal toe; Sule dread of folly, vice, and insulence!

Heuce baughty takar's title to the rain,

britain s to France, and thine to India, Spain ! VARIATION.

Quisque dies tibi pollicitus me rure futurum, Ver. 195, in the MS.

Sextilein totun iren ax desideror. atqui, I grant it, sir ; and further 'tis agreed,

nimne viiere vis sauuin rreteqne valenten; Japhet writ mi, and Chartres sarcu could read.

Quilli mili vas agru, Jabis rutare timenti, VOL. XIL




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You humour me when I am sick,

And all that voluntary vein, Why not when I am splenetic?

As when Belinda rais'd my strain. In town, what objects could I meet?

A weazel once made shift to slink The shops shut up in every street,

In at a corn-loft through a chink; And funerals blackening all the doors,

But having amply stuff'd his skin, And yet more melancholy whores :

Could not get out as he got in ; And what a dust in every place!

Which one belonging to the house And a thin court that wants your face,

('Twas not a man, it was a mouse) And fevers raging up and down,

Observing, cry'd, “You 'scape not so, And W* and H** both in town!

Lean as you came, sir, you must go.” “ The dog-days are no more the case."

Sir, you may spare your application, 'Tis true, but Winter comes apace :

I'm no such beast, nor his relation; Then southward let your hard retire,

Nor one that temperance advance,
Hold out some months 'twixt sun and fire,

Cramm'd to the throat with ortolans :
And you shall see, the first warm weather, Extremely ready to resign
Me and the butterflies together.

All that may make me none of mine.
My lord, your favours well I know;

South-sea subscriptions take who please, 'Tis with distinction you bestow;

Leave me but liberty and ease. And not to every one that comes,

'Twas what I said to Craggs and Child, Just as a Scotsman does his plums.

Who prais’d my modesty, and smild. Pray take them, sir---enough's a feast :

“Give me," I cry'd (enough for me) Eat some, and pocket up the rest”

My bread, and independency !” What, rob your boy's ? those pretty rogues ! So bought an annual-rent or two, "No, sir, you'll leave them to the hogs.”

And liv'd just as you see I do ; Thus fools with compliments besiege ye,

Near fifty, and without a wife, Contriving never to oblige ye.

I trust that sinking fund, my life. Scatter your favours on a fop,

Can I retrench? yes, mighty well, Ingratitude's the certain crop;

Shrink back to my paternal cell, And 'tis but just, I'll tell you wherefore,

A little house, with trees a-row, You give the things you never care for.

And, like its master, very low. A wise man always is or should

There dy'd my father, no man's debtor, Be mighty ready to do good ;

And there I'll die, nor worse nor better. But makes a difference in his thought

To set this matter full before ye, Betwixt a guinea and a groat.

Our old friend Swift will tell his story." Now this I'll say, you'll find in me

“ Harley, the nation's great support-" A safe companion and a free;

But you may read it, I stop short.
But if you'd have me always near
A word, pray, in your honour's ear.

I hope it is your resolution

O charming noons ! and nights divinc ! To give me back my constitution !

Or when I sup, or when I dine, The sprightly wit, the lively eye,

My friends above, my folks below, Th’ engaging smile, the gaiety,

Chatting and laughing all-a-row, That laugh'd down many a summer sun,

The beans and bacon set before 'em, And kept you up so oft till one :

The grace-cup serv'd with all decorum :

Fach willing to be pleas'd, and please, Mæcenas, veniam : dum ficus prima calorque

And even the very dogs at ease! Designatorum decorat lictoribus atris :

Here no man prates of idle things,
Dum pueris omnis pater, et niatercula pallet;

How this or that Italian sings,
Officiosaque sedulitas, et opella forensis
Adducit febres, et testamenta resignat

Repserat in cumeram frumenti : pastaque, rursus Quod si bruma nives Albanis illinet agris ;

Tre foras pleno tendebat corpore frustra, Ad mare descendet vates tuus, et sibi parcet, Cui mustela procul, si vis, ait, effugere istinc, Contractusque leget; te, dulcis amice, reviset Macra cavuni repetes areenm, quem macra subisti. Cuin Zephyris, si concedes, et hirundine priina. Hac ego si compellar imagine, cuncta resigno;

Non, quo more pyris visci Calaber jubet bospes, Nec somnum plebis laudo fatur altilium, nec Tu me fecisti locupletem. Vescere soles.

O cia dividis Arabum liberrima muto. Jam satis est. At tu qnantumvis tolle. Benigne. Siepe verecundum laudasti : Rexque, paterque Non invisa feres pueris inunuscula parvis.

Auclisti coram, nec verbo parcins absens : Tam teneor dono, quam si dimittar onustus. Inspice, si possum donatur reponere lætus. l't libet: hæc porcis hodie comedenda relinques. Prodigus et stultus donat quæ speruit et odit: Hæc segos ingrates tulit et ferct oninibus annis. Parvum parra decent. mihi jam non regia Roma, Vir bonus et sapiens, dignis ait esse paratum ! Sed vacuum Tibur placet, aut imbelle Tarentum. Nec tamen ignorat, quid distent æra lupinis ? Strenuus et fortis, causisque Philippus agendis Dignum pristabo me, etiam pro laude merentis ? Claris, &c. Quod si me noles usquam discedere; reddes Forte latus, nigros angusta fronte capillos : O noctes cænæque Deûm ! quibus ipse mcique, Reddes dulce loqui: reddes ridere decorum, et Ante larem proprium vescor, vernasque procaces Inter vina fugam Cynaræ mærere proterva). Pasco libatis dapibus : cum, ut cuique libido est 'Forte per angustam tenuis vulpecula rinuam Siccat inæquales calices conviva. solutus

: See the lirst part in Swift's poenise


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