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I can advance the Sum, -'tis beft for both,
But henceforth cut your Coat to match

your

Cloth.

A Minister, in mere Revenge and Sport,
Shall give his Foe a paultry Place at Court.
The Dupe for ev'ry royal Birth-day buys
New Horses, Coaches, Cloaths, and Liveries
Plies at the Levee, and distinguish'd there
Lives on the Royal Whisper for a Year;
His Wenches fhine in Bruffels and Brocade ;
And now the Wretch, ridiculously mad,
Draws on his Banker, mortgages and fails,
Then to the Country runs away, from Jails:
There ruin'd by the Court he fells a Vote
To the next Burgess, as of old he bought;
Rubs down the Steeds which once his Chariot bore,
Or fweeps the Town, which once he ferv'd before.

But, by this roving Meteor led, I tend Beyond my Theme, forgetful of my Friend. Then take Advice; I preach not out of Time, When good Lord Middlesex is bent on Rhyme.

Their Humour check'd, or Inclination croft, Sometimes the Friendship of the Great is loft. Unless call'd out to wench, be sure comply, Hunt when he hunts, and lay the Fathers by:

For

For

your Reward you gain his Love, and dine On the best Ven'fon and the beft French Wine:

Nor to Lord *** ** make the Observation,
How the twelve Peers have answer'd their Creation,
Nor in your Wine or Wrath betray your Truft,
Be filent ftill, and obftinately just:

Explore no Secrets, draw no Characters,
For Echo will repeat, and Walls have Ears:
Nor let a bufy Fool a Secret know,

A Secret gripes him till he lets it go:

Words are like Bullets, and we wish in vain,
When once difcharg'd to call them back again,

Defend, dear Spence, the honeft and the civil,
But to cry up a Rascal- -that's the Devil.
Who guards a good Man's Character, 'tis known,
At the fame Time protects and guards his own.
For as with Houfes, 'tis with Peoples Names,
A Shed may fet a Palace all on Flames;
The Fire neglected on the Cottage preys,
But mounts at laft into a general Blaze.

'Tis a fine Thing, fome think, a Lord to know I wish his Tradesmen could but think fo too.

He

He gives his Word-then all your Hopes are gone ;
He gives his Honour-then you're quite undone,
His and fome Women's Love the fame are found,
You rafhly board a Firefhip and are drown'd.

Moft Folks fo partial to themselves are grown,
They hate a Temper diff'ring from their own.
The grave abhor the
gay, the

gay the fad,
And Formalifts pronounce the witty mad:
The Sot, who drinks fix Bottles in a Place,
Swears at the Flinchers who refuse their Glafs,
Would you not pass for an ill-natur'd Man,
Comply with ev'ry Humour that you can.

Pope will inftruct you how to pafs away
Your Time like him, and never lofe a Day;
From Hopes or Fears your Quiet to defend,
To all Mankind as to yourself a Friend,
And facred from the World, retir'd, unknown,
To lead a Life with Morals like his own.

When to delicious Pimperne I retire, What greater Blifs, my Spence, can I defire ? Contented there my eafy Hours I fpend

With Maps, Globes, Books, my Bottle and a Friend.

There can I live upon my Income ftill,

E'en though the House should pass the Quakers Bill:

Yet

Yet to my Share should some good Prebend fall,
I think myself of Size to fill a Stall.

For Life or Wealth let Heav'n my Lot affign,
A firm and even Soul shall still be mine.

MORNING. An O D E.

The Author confined to College.

Scribimus inclufi.

PERS. Sat. 1. V. 13.

Ο

NCE more the vernal Sun's ambrofial Beams

The Fields, as with a purple Robe, adorn: Charwell, thy fedgy Banks, and glift'ring Streams All laugh and fing at mild Approach of Morn; Thro' the deep Groves I hear the chaunting Birds And thro' the clover'd Vale the various-lowing Herds

Up mounts the Mower from his lowly Thatch, Well pleas'd the Progress of the Spring to mark The fragrant Breath of Breezes pure to catch, And ftartle from her Couch the early Lark; More genuine Pleasure fooths his tranquil Breaft, Than high-thron'd Kings can boaft, in eastern Glory

dreft.

The

The penfive Poet through the Green-wood fteals, Or treads the willow'd Marge of murm'ring Brook Or climbs the steep Afcent of airy Hills;

There fits him down beneath a branching Oak. Whence various Scenes, and Profpects wide below, Still teach his mufing Mind with Fancies high to glow.

But I nor with the Day awake to Bliss, (Inelegant to me fair Nature's Face, A Blank the Beauty of the Morning is,

And Grief and Darkness all for Light and Grace; } Nor bright the Sun, nor green the Meads appear, Nor Colour charms mine Eye, nor Melody mine Ear.

Me, void of Elegance and Manners mild,
With leaden Rod, ftern Difcipline restrains;
Stiff Pedantry, of learned Pride the Child,
My roving Genius binds in Gothic Chains;
Nor can the cloyfter'd Mufe expand her Wing,
Nor bid thefe twilight Roofs with her gay carols ring.

OR

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