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Strait for your two beft Wigs aloud you call,
This ftiff in Buckle, that not curl'd at all.
And where the Devil are the Spurs ? you cry,
And Pox! what Blockhead laid the Bufkins by?
On
your old batter'd Mare you'll needs be gone,
(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 King flon Gentry think you mad,
And all this furious Riding is to prove

Your high Respect, it feems, and eager Love:
And yet that mighty Honour to obtain,
Banks, Shaftsbury, Dodington. may fend in vain,
Before you go, we Curfe the Noite 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 stray 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 fhould bet
In you amufement but a Crime in me.

All

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 belt.
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, honest 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,

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

He fees the Darts of Envy glance afide;

And fixed like Atlas, while the Tempests blow,
Smiles at the idle Storms that roar below.

One

One fuch you know, a Layman to your Shame,
And yet the Honour of your Blood and line.
If you can fuch a Character maintain,
You are too free,and I'm your Slave again,
But when in Brun's feign'd Battles you delight
More than myself to fee two Drunkards fight,

Fool, Rogue, Sot, Blockhead, or fuch Names are mine.

Yours are a Connoiffeur, or deep Divine.

I'm chid for loving a luxurious Bit,

The facred Prize of Learning, worth, and Wit:

And yet
fome fell their Lands these Bits to buy i
Then play who fuffers moft from Luxury!

I'm chid, 'tis true; but then I

pawn no Plate,
I feal no Bonds, I mortgage no Eitate.
Besides high Living, Sir, muft wear you out
With Surfeits, Qualms, a Fever, or the Gout.
By fome new Pleasures are you ftill engrofs'd,
And when you fave an Hour you think it loft.
To Sports, Plays, Races, from your Books you run,
And like all Company except your own.

You hunt, drink, fleep, or (idler ftill) you rhyme:
Why?-but to banish Thought, and murder Time.
And yet that Thought which you discharge in vain,
Like a foul loaded Piece, recoils again.

Poet

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Poet. Tom, fetch a Cane, a Whip a Club, a Stone,

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Poct. A Sword, a Piftol, or a Gun.

I'll fhoot the Dog.

Serv. Lord who would be

a Wit?

He's in a mad, or in a rhyming Fit.

Peet. Fly, fly, you Rafcal, for your Spade and Fork For once I'll fet your lazy Bones to work.

Fly, or I'll fend you back without a Groat
To the bleak Mountains where you first were caught,

EPIGRAM.

On the Rev. Mr. Hanbury's PLANTATION, and MUSIC MEETING, at Church Langton, in Leicestershire.

So fweet Strain, for

O fweet thy Strain, so thick thy Shade,

The pleas'd Spectator fees

The Miracle once more display'd
Of Orpheus and his Trees.

THE

THE

LAW-STUDENT.

To George Colman, A. M. of Ch. Ch. Oxford.

Quid tibi cum Cirrha? quid cum Permessidos unda ?
Romanum propius divitiusque Forum eft.

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MARTIAL.

OW Chrift-Church left, and fixt at Lincoln's Inn, The important Studies of the Law begin. Now groan the Shelves beneath th' unusual Charge Of Records, Statutes, and Reports at large. Each claffic author feeks his peaceful Nook, And modest Virgil yields his Place to Coke, No more ye Bards, for vain Precedence hope, But even Jacob take the Lead of Pope !

While the pil'd Shelves fink down on one another, And each huge Folio has it's cumb'rous Brother, While arm'd with thefe, the Student views with Awe His Rooms become the Magazine of Law, Say whence fo few fucceed? where thousands aim, So few e'er reach the promis'd Goal of Fame? Say, why Cæcilius quits the gainful Trade For Regimentals, Sword, and fmart Cockade ? L

Of

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