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He now with pleafure views the gasping prize
Gnath his fharp teeth, and roll his blood-fhot eyes;
Then draws him to the fhore with artful care,
And lifts his noftrils in the fick'ning air:
Upon the burthen'd ftream he floating lies,
Stretches his quiv'ring fins, and gafping dies.

Would you preferve a num'rous finny race,
Let your fierce dogs the rav'nous otter chafe
(Th' amphibious monfter ranges all the shores,
Darts thro' the waves, and ev'ry haunt explores):
Or let the gin his roving steps betray,
And fave from hoftile jaws the fcaly prey.

I never wander where the bord'ring reeds
O'erlook the muddy ftream, whose tangling weeds
Perplex the fisher; I nor choose to bear
The thievith nightly net, nor barbed fpear;
Nor drain I ponds, the golden carp to take;
Nor trowle for pikes, difpeoplers of the lake;
Around the steel no tortur'd worm fhall twine,
No blood of living infect ftain my line.
Let me, lefs cruel, caft the feather'd hook,
With pliant rod, athwart the pebbled brook,
Silent along the mazy margin ftray,

And with the fur-wrought fly delude the prey.

CANTO 11.

Wand'ring in plenty, danger he forgets,
Nor dreads the flav'ry of entangling nets.
The fubtle dog fcours with fagacious nofe
Along the field, and fnuffs each breeze that blows;
Against the wind he takes his prudent way,
While the ftrong gale directs him to the prey.
Now the warm fcent affures the covey near;
He treads with caution, and he points with fear;
Then (left fome fentry-fowl the fraud defcry,
And bid his fellows from the danger fly)
Clofe to the ground in expectation lies,
Till in the fnare the flutt'ring covey rife.
Soon as the blushing light begins to fpread,
And glancing Phoebus gilds the mountain's head,
His early flight th' ill-fated partridge takes,
And quits the friendly shelter of the brakes.
Or, when the fun cafts a declining ray,
And drives his chariot down the western way,
Let your obfequious ranger fearch around,
Where yellow ftubble withers on the ground:
Nor will the roving spy direct in vain,
But num'rous coveys gratify thy pain.
When the meridian fun contracts the fhade,
And frifking heifers feck the cooling glade;
Or when the country floats with fudden rains,
Or driving mifts deface the moiften'd plains;
In vain his toils th' unfkilful fowler tries,
While in thick woods the feeding partridge lies.
Nor muft the fporting verfe the gun forbear,

NOW, fporting Mufe, draw in the flowing reins,
Leave the clear ftreams awhile for funny plains.
Should you the various arms and toils rehearse,But what's the Fowler's be the Mufe's care.

And all the fisherman adorn thy verfe;
Should you the wide encircling net difplay,
And in its fpacious arch inclofe the fea;
Then haul the plunging load upon the land,
And with the foal and turbot hide the fand
It would extend the growing theme too long,
And tire the reader with the wat'ry fong.

Let the keen hunter from the chace refrain,
Nor render all the ploughman's labour vain,
When Ceres pours out plenty from her horn,
And clothes the fields with golden ears of corn.
Now, now, ye reapers, to your task repair,
Hafte! fave the product of the bounteous year:
To the wide-gathering hook long furrows yield,
And rifing fheaves extend through all the field.
Yet, if for fylvan fports thy bofom glow,
Let thy fleet greyhound urge his flying foe.
With what delight the rapid courfe 1 view!
How does my eye the circling race purfue!
He fnaps deceitful air with empty jaws;
The fubtle hare darts fwift beneath his paws;
She flies, he stretches; now with nimble bound
Eager he preffes on, but overfhoots his ground;
She turns; he winds, and foon regains the way.
Then tears with goary mouth the fcreaming prey.
What various sport does rural life afford
What unbought dainties heap the wholefome
board!

Nor lefs the fpaniel, skilful to betray,
Rewards the fowler with the feather'd prey.
Soon as the labouring horfe, with fwelling veins,
Has fafely hous'd the farmer's doubtful gains,
To fweet repaft th' unwary partridge flies,
With joy amid the scatter'd harvest lics;

See how the weil-taught pointer leads the way:
The scent grows warm; he stops; he springs the

prey;

The flutt'ring coveys from the ftubble rise,
And on fwift wing divide the founding fkies;
The fcatt'ring lead purfues the certain fight,
And death in thunder overtakes their flight
Cool breathes the morning air, and Winter's hand
Spreads wide her hoary mantle o'er the land;
Now to the copfe thy leffer fpaniel take,
Teach him to range the ditch, and force the brake;
Not cioteft coverts can protect the game:
Hark! the dog opens; take thy certain aim.
The woodcock flutters; how he wav'ring flies!
The wood refounds: he wheels, he drops, he
dies.

The tow'ring hawk let future poets fing,
Who terror bears upon his foaring wing:
Let them on high the frighted hern furvey,
And lofty numbers paint their airy fray.
Nor fhall the mountain lack the Mufe detain,
That greets the morning with his early ftrain;
When, 'midst his fong, the twinkling glass
betrays,

While from each angle flash te glancing rays,
And in the fun the tranfient olours blaze,
Pride lures the little warbler from the skies:
The light-enamour'd bird deluded dies.

But ftill the chace, a pleafing task, remains;
The hound muft open in these rural strains.
Soon as Aurora drives away the night,
And edges eastern clouds with rofy light,
The healthy huntfman, with the cheerful horn,
Summons the degs, and greets the dappled morn;
The

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The jocund thunder wakes th' enliven'd hounds,
They roufe from fleep,andanfwer founds for founds;
Vide thro' the furzy field their route they take;
Their bleeding bofoms force the thorny brake:
The flying game their fmoking noftrils trace,
No bounding hedge obftructs their cager pace;
The diftant mountains echo from afar,
And hanging woods refound the flying war:
The tuneful noife the fprightly courfer hears,
Paws the green turf, and pricks his trembling cars;
The flacken'd rein now gives him all his peed,
Back flies the rapid ground beneath the fteed;
Hills, dales, and foreits, far behind remain, [train.
While the warm fcent draws on the deep-mouth'd
Where thall the trembling hare a shelter find?
Hark! death advances in each guft of wind!
New ftratagems and doubling wiles the tries;
Now circling turns, and now at large the flics;
Till, spent at laft, the pants, and heaves for breath,
Then lays her down, and waits devouring death.

But ftay, advent'rous Mufe! haft thou the force
To wind the twisted horn, to guide the horse?
To keep thy feat uninov'd, hait thou the skill,
O'er the high gate, and down the headlong hill:
Canft thou the ftag's laborious chace direct,
Or the strong fox thro' all his arts detect?
The theme demands a more experienc'd lay :
Ye mighty hunters! fpare this weak effay.

O happy plains, remote from war's alarms,
And all the ravages of hoftile arms!
And happy fhepherds, who, fecure from fear,
On open downs preferve your fleecy care!
Whofe fpacious barns groan with increating ftore,
And whirling flails disjoint the cracking floor!
No barbarous foldier, bent on cruel fpoil,
Spreads defolation o'er your fertile foil;
No trampling feed lays wafte the ripen'd grain,
Nor crackling fires devour the promis'd gain:
No flaming beacons caft their blaze afar,
The dreadful fignal of invasive war:
No trumpet's clangor wounds the mother's ear,
Ad calls the lover from his fwooning fair."

What happiness the rural maid attends,
In cheerful Tabour while each day the fpends!
She gratefully receives what Heaven has fent,
And, rich in poverty, enjoys content
(Such happiness, and fuch unblemith'd fame,
No er glad the bofom of the courtly dame):
She never feels the fpleen's imagin'd pains,
Nor melancholy ftagnates in her veins;
She never lofes life in thoughtlets eafe,
Nor on the velvet couch invites difcafe;
Her home-fpun drefs in fimple neatnefs lies,
And for no glaring equipage the fighs:
Her reputation, which is all her boaft,
In a malicious vifit ne'er was loft;
No midnight mafquerade her beauty wears,
And health, not paint, the fading bloom repairs.
If love's foft paffion in her bof m reign,
An equal paffion warms her happy fwain:
No home-bred jars her quiet ftate controul,
Nor watchful jealousy torments her foul;
With fcret joy the fees her little race

Lang on her breast, and her finall cottage grace;

The fleecy ball their buty fingers cull,
Or from the ipindle draw the length'ning wool:
Thus flow her hours with conftant peace of mind,
Till age the lateft thread of life unwind.

Ye happy fields, unknown to noife and ftrife,
The kind rewarders of induftrious life;
Ye fhady woods, where once i us'd to rove,
Alike indulgent to the Mufe and Love;
Ye murm'ring ftreams that in meanders roll,
The fweet compofers of the petfive foul;
Farewell!-the city calls me from your bow'rs:
Farewell, amusing thoughts, and peaceful hours!

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MY verfe is Satire; Dorfet, lead your car,
And patronize a Mufe you car.not fear;
To Pocts facred is a Doriet's name,
Their wonted pailport thro' the gates of fame;
It bribes the partial reader into praife,
And throws a glory round the thelter'd lays;
The dazzled judgmicut fewer faults can fee,
And gives applaufe to Be, or to me.
But you decline the miftrefs we purfue;
Others are fond of Fame, but Fame of you.

Intructive Satire, true to virtue's caufe,
Thou shining fupplement of public laws!
When Hatter'd crimes of a licentious age
Reproach our ilence, and demand our rage;
When purchas'd folies from each diftant land,
Like arts, unprove in Britain's fkilful hand;
When the law thews her teeth, but dares not bitt,
And South-Sca treafures are not brought to hig t
When church.men fcripture for the callics qui,
Polite apoftates from God's grace to wit;
When men grow great from their revenue fpent,
And fly from bailiffs into parliament;
When dying finners, to blot out the fcore,
Bequeath the church the leavings of a whore-
To chafe our pleen when themes like thefe in-
create,

Shall panegyric reign, and cenfure cease?

Shall pocfy, like law, turn wrong to right,
And dedications wath an Athiop white,
Set up each ferfclefs wretch for nature's boaft,
On whom praife thines as trophies on a post?
Shall funeral cloquence her colours spread,
And featter rofes on the wealthy dead?
Shall authors funile on fuch illuftrious days,
And fatirize with ucthing--but their prarfe
Whylumbers Pope, who leads the tunefuiftras,
Nor hears that virtue which he loves, complain
Donne, Dorset, Dryden, Rochefter are dead,
And guilt's chief foe in Addifon is filed;
Congreve, who, crown'd with laurels fairly woe,
Sits fimiling at the goal while others run,
He will not write; and (more provoking fiil')
Ye gods! he will not write, and Mævius will.

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Doubly diftreft, what author fhall we find Difcreetly daring and feverely kind, The courtly Roman's thining path to tread, And fharply fmile prevailing foily dead › Will no fuperior genius fnatch the quill, And fave me, on the brink, from writing ill? Tho' vain the ftrife, I'll ftrive my voice to raife: What will not men attempt for facred praife?

The love of praise, howe'er conceal'd by art, Reigns, more or lefs, and glows in every heart: The proud, to gain it, toils on toils endure; The modeft fhun it but to make it fure. O'er globes and fceptres now on thrones it fwells, Now trims the midnight lamp in college cells. 'Tis Tory, Whig; it plots, prays, preaches, pleads; Harangues in fenates, fqueaks in masquerades: Here, to Se's humour makes a bold pretence; There, bolder aims at Pult'ney's eloquence: It aids the dancer's heel, the writer's head, And heaps the plain with mountains of the dead. Nor ends with life; but nods in fable plumes, Adorns our hearfe, and flatters on our tombs.

Who is not proud the pimp is proud to see So many like himtelf in high degree: The whore is proud her beautics are the dread Of peevish virtue, and the marriage bed; And the brib'd cuckold, like crown'd victims born To flaughter, glories in his gilded horn.

Some go to church, proud humbly to repent, And come back much more guilty than they went: One way they look, another way they fteer; Pray to the gods, but would have mortals hear; And when their fins they fet fincerely down, They'll find that their religion has been one.

Others with wifhful eyes on glory look, When they have got their picture towards a book; Or pompous title, like a gaudy fign Meant to betray dull fots to wretched wine.

If at his title T had dropt his quill, Tmight have pafs'd for a great genius ftill; But T, alas! (excufe him, if you can) Is now a fcribbler, who was once a man. Imperious fome a claffic fame demand, For heaping up with a laborious hand A waggon-load of meanings for one word, While A's depos'd, and B with pomp reftor'd.

Some for renown on fcraps of learning deat, And think they grow immortal as they quote. To patchwork learn'd quotations are allied; Both ftrive to make our poverty our pride. On glafs how witty is a noble Peer! Did ever diamond cot a man fo dear?

Polite difeafes make fome idiots vain, Which, if unfortunately well, they feign. On death-beds fome in confcious glory lie, Since of the doctor in the mode they die; Whose wondrous skill is, headfman-like, to know For better pay to give a furer blow.

Of folly, vice, disease, men proud we see : And (ftranger ftill) of blockheads flattery, Whofe praife defames; as if a fool fhould mean By fpitting on your face to make it clean!

Nor is 't enough all hearts are fwoln with pride Her pow'r is mighty, as her realm is wide. What can the nor perform? The love of fame Made bold Alphonfus his Creator blame, Empedocles hurl'd down the burning fteep, And (ftronger ftill!) made Alexander weep. Nay it hold Delia from a fecond bed, [dead. Tho' her lov'd lord has four half months been This paffion with a pimple have I feen Retard a caufe, and give a judge the spleen. By this infpir'd (oh ne'er to be forgot!) Some lords have learn'd to fpell, and fome to knot. It makes Globofe a speaker in the house; He hems-and is deliver'd of his moufe. It makes dear felf on well-bred tongues prevail, And I the little hero of each tale

Sick with the love of fame,what throngs pourin, Unpeople court, and leave the fenate thin! My growing fubject seems but just begun, And, chariot-like, I kindie as I run. Aid me, great Homer! with thy epic rules, To take a catalogue of British fools. Satire! had I thy Dorfet's force divine, A knave or fool fhould perifh in each line; Tho' for the first all Westminster fhould plead; And for the laft all Grefham intercede.

Begin--who firft the catalogue fhall grace? To quality belongs the highest place. My lord comes forward; forward let him come! Ye vulgar, at your peril give him room! He ftands for fame on his forefathers' feet, By heraldry prov'd valiant or difcreet. With what a decent pride he throws his eyes Above the man by three defcents lefs wife! If virtues at his noble hand you crave, You bid him raife his fathers from the grave. Men fhouldprefs forward in fame's glorious chace; Nobles look backward, and fo lofe the race.

Let high birth triumph! what can be more great! Nothing-but merit in a low eftate. To Virtue's humbleft fon let none prefer Vice, tho' defcended from the Conqueror. Shall men, like figures, pafs for high or base, Slight or important, only by their place? Titles are marks of honeft men and wife; The fool or knave that wears a title, lies.

They that on glorious ancestors enlarge, Produce their debt inftead of their discharge. Dorfet, let thofe who proudly boast their line, Like thee, in worth hereditary fhine.

Vain as falfe greatnefs is, the Mufe must own We want not fools to buy that B iftol stone. Mean fons of Earth, who on a South-Sea tide Of full fuccefs fiam into wealth and pride, Knock with a purfe of gold at Anftis' gate, And beg to be defcended from the great.

When men of infamy to grandeur foar, They light a torch to fhew their fhame the more. Thofe gove vernments which curb not evils, caufe; And a rich knave's a libel on our laws.

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Belus with folid glory will be crown'd; He buys n phantom, no vain empty found, • Horace.

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But

But builds himself a name; and, to be great,
Sinks in a quarry an immenfe eitate;
In coft and grandeur Chandos he'll outdo;
And, Burlington, thy tafte is not so true.
The pile is finifl'd, ev'ry toil is past,
And full perfection is arriv'd at laft;
When, lo! my Lord to fome fmall corner runs,
And leaves ftate-rooms to ftrangers and to duns.
The man who builds, and wants wherewith to
Provides a home from which to run away. [pay,
In Britain what is many a lordly feat,
But a difcharge in full for an eftate?

In fmaller compass lies Pygmalion's fame;
Not domes, but antique ftatues, are his flame.
Not F-t-n's felf more Parian charms has known,
Nor is good Pembroke more in love with ftone.
The bailiffs come (rude men, profanely bold')
And bid him turn his Venus into gold.
"No, firs," he cries; "I'll fooner rot in jail'
"Shall Grecian arts be truck'd for English bail"
Such heads might make their very buttos laugh.
His daughter ftarves, but Cleopatra's fafe.

Men overloaded with a large eftate May fpill their treafure in a nice conceit; The rich may be polite; but, oh! 'tis fad To fay you 're curious, when we fwear you're mad. By your revenue measure your expence, And to your funds and acres join your fenfe: No man is bleft by accident or gucls, True wifdom is the price of happiness: Yet few without long difcipline are fage; And our youth only lays up fighs for age.

But how, my Mufe, canft thou refule fo long The bright temptation of the courtly throng Thy moft inviting theme? The court affords Much food for fatire; it abounds in lords. "What lords are those faluting with a grin ?” One is just out, and one is lately in. "How comes it then to pafs we fee prefide "On both their brows an equal fhare of pride" Pride, that impartial paffion, reigns thro' all; Attends our glory, nor deferts our fall: As in its home, it triumphs in high place, And frowns a haughty exile in difgrace. Some lords it bids admire their wands fo white, Which bloom, like Aaron's, to their ravish'd fight: Some lords it bids refign, and turns their wands, Like Mofes', into ferpents in their hands. Thefe fink, as divers, for renown! and boaft With pride inverted of their honours loft. But against reafon fure 'tis equal fin To loaft of merely being out or in.

What numbers here, thro' odd ambition, ftrive To feem the most tranfported things alive! As if by joy defert was understood, And all the fortunate were wife or good. Hence aching bofoms wear a visage gay, And ftifled groans frequent the ball and play. Completely drefs'd by + Monteuel, and grimace, They take their birth-day fuit, and public face; Their fimiles are only part of what they wear, Put off at night with lady B's hair.

* A famous ftatue.

What bodily fatigue is half fo bad?
With anxious care they labour to be glad.
What numbers here would into fame advance,
Confcious of merit in the coxcomb's dance!
The tavern, paik, affembly, mask, and play,
Thofe dear deftroyers of the tedious day!
That wheel of fops! that faunter of the town!
Call it diverfion, and the pill gees down:
Fools grin on fools; and Stoic-like fupport,
Without one figh, the pleasures of a court.
Courts can give nothing to the wife and good,
But fcorn of pomp, and love of folitude.
High ftations tumult, but not blifs, create :
None think the great unhappy, but the great.
Fools gaze and envy; envy darts a fting,
Which makes a fwain as wretched as a king.

I envy none their pageantry and fhow ;
I envy none the gilding of their woe.
Give me, indulgent gods! with mind ferene,
And guiltless heart, to range the fylvan fcene.
No fplendid poverty, no fmiling care,
No well-bred hate, or fervile grandeur there;
There pleafing objects ufeful thoughts fuggeft,
The fenfe is ravifh'd, and the foul is bleft;
On ev'ry thorn delightful wifdom grows,
In ev'ry rill a fweet inftruction flows:
But fome untaught o'erhear the whisp'ring rill,
In fpite of facred leifure blockheads ftill;
Nor fhoots up folly to a nobler bloom
In her own native foil, the drawing-room.

The 'fquire is proud to fee his courfer ftrain, Or well-breath'd beagles fweep along the plain. Say, dear Hippolitus (whofe drink is ale, Whofe erudition is a Christmas-tale, Whofe miftrefs is faluted with a smack, And friend receiv'd with thumps upon the back), When thy fleek gelding nimbly leaps the mount, And Ringwood opens on the tainted ground, Is that thy praife? Let Ringwood's fame alune, Juft Ringwood leaves each animal his own; Nor envies when a gypfy you commit, And fhake the clumly bench with country wit; When you the dulleft of dull things have faid, And then afk pardon for the jeft you made.

Here breathe,my Mufe! and then thy task renew, Ten thousand fools unfung are still in view. Fewer lay atheifts made by church-debates; Fewer great beggars fam'd for large cftates; Ladies, whole love is conftant as the wind; Cits, who prefer a guinea to mankind; Fewer grave lords to Scroope difcreetly bend; And fewer flocks a ftatefman gives his friend. Is there a man of an eternal vein, Who lulls the town in winter with his ftrain, At Bath in fummer chants the reigning lats, And fweetly whistles as the waters país? Is there a tongue, like Delia's o'er her cup, That runs for ages without winding up? Is there whom his tenth Epic mounts to fame ? Such, and fuch only, might exhaust my theme. Nor would these heroes of the task be glad; For who can write fo fast as men run mad?

A famous taylor.

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With what, O Codrus! is thy fancy fmit? The flow'r of learning, and the bloom of wit.

To the Right Honourable the Earl of Scarborough. Thy gaudy fhelves with crimfon bindings glow,
And Epictetus is a perfect beau.
How fit for thee bound up in crimson too,

Tanto major Famae fitis eft, quam

Virtutis,

JUV. SAT, 10.

MY Mufe, proceed, and reach thy deftin'd end, Gilt, and like them devoted to the view!

Tho' toil and danger the bold task attend,
Heroes and gods make other poems fine,
Plain Satire calls for fenfe in ev'ry line:
Then, to what fwarms thy faults I dare expofe!
All friends to vice and folly are thy foes;
When fuch the foe, a war eternal wage,
'Tis most ill-nature to reprefs thy rage;
And if thefe ftrains fome nobler Mute excite,
I'll glory in the verfe I did not write.

;

;

So weak are human kind by nature made, Or to fuch weaknefs by their vice betray'd, Almighty Vanity! to thee they owe Their zeft of pleasure, and their balm of woe. Thou, like the fun, all colours doft contain, Varying like rays of light on drops of rain For ev'ry foul finds reatons to be proud, Tho' hits'd and hooted by the pointing crowd. Warm in parfuit of foxes and renown, Hippolitus demands the fylvan crown But Florio's fame, the product of a show'r, Grows in his garden, an illustrious flow'r! Why teems the earth? why melt the vernal skies Why fhines the fun? To make Paul Diack † rise. From morn to night has Florio gazing stood, And wonder'd how the gods could be fo good. What shape! what hue ! was ever nymph to fair? He doats! he dies! he too is rooted there. O folid blifs! which nothing can destroy Except a cat, bird, fnail, or idle boy. In fame's full bloom lies Florio down at night, And wakes next day a most inglorious wight; The tulip's dead! See thy fair filter's fate, OC! and be kind ere 'tis too late.

Nor are thofe enemies I mention'd all; Beware, O Florist, thy ambition's fall. A friend of mind indulg'd this noble flame; A quaker ferv'd him, Adam was his name. To one lov'd tulip oft the mafter went, Hung o'er it, and whole days in rapture spent ; But came and mifs'd it one ill-fated hour. He rag'd! he roar'd-What dæmon cropp'd my "flow'r?"

Serene quoth Adam, Lo! 'twas crufh'd by me ; Fallen is the Baal to which thou bow 'dit thy

'knee.'

"Butall men want amufement, and what crime "In fuch a Paradife to fool their time? None; but why proud of this? To Fame they foar. We grant they're idle, if they 'll afk no more.

We fmile at Florists; we defpife their joy, And think their hearts enamour'd of a toy; But are those wifer whom we most adinire, Survey with envy, and purfue with fire? What's he who fighs for wealth,or fame, or pow'r? Another Florio doting on a flow'r! A fhort-liv'd flow'r, and which has often fprung From fordid arts, as Florio's out of dung. This refers to the firft Satire.

Thy books are furniture. Methinks 'tis hard That fcience fhould be purchas'd by the yard; And Tonfon, turn'd upholsterer, fend home The gilded leather to fit up thy room.

If not to fome peculiar end aflign'd,
Study 's the fpecious trifling of the mind;
Or is at beft a fecondary aim,

A chace for fport alone, and not for game:
If fo, fure they who the mere volume prize,
But love the thicket where the quarry lies.

On buying books Lorenzo long was bent,
But found at length that it reduc'd his rent.
His farms were flown; when, lo! a fale comes on,
A choice collection! What is to be done?
He fells his laft, for he the whole will buy;
Sells c'en his houfe, nay wants whereon to lie;
So high the gen'rous ardour of the man
For Romans, Greeks, and Orientals ran.
To make the purchafe, he gives all his store,
Except one darling diamond that he wore :
For what a miftrefs gave, 'tis death to pawn.
Yet when the terms were fix'd, and writings
drawn,

The fight fo ravifh'd him, he gave the clerk
Love's facred pledge, and fign'd them with his
Unlearned men of books affume the care, [mark.
As eunuchs are the guardians of the fair.
Not in his authors' liveries alone

Is Codrus' erudite ambition fhewn.
Editions various, at high prices bought,
Inform the world what Codrus would be thought;
And to this coft another muft fucceed,
To pay a fage who fays that he can read, .
Who titles knows, and indexes has feen,
But leaves to
what lies between ;
Of pompous books who fhuns the proud expence,
And humbly is contented with their sense.

O Lumley, whofe accomplishments make good
The promife of a long illuftrious blood;
In arts and manners eminently grac'd,
The ftricteft honour, and the fiueft tafte!
Accept this verfe; if Satire can agree
With fo confummate an humanity.
But know, my Lord, if you refent the wrong,
That on your candour l'obtrude my fong;
'Tis Satire's juft revenge on that fair name,
Which all their malice cannot make her theme.
By your example would Hilario mend,
How would it grace the talents of my friend,
Who, with the charms of his own genius fmit,
Conceives all virtues are compriz'd in wit 1
But time his fervent petulance may cool;
For, though he is a wit, he is no fool.
In time he'll learn to use, not wafte, his sense;
Nor make a frailty of an excellence.
His briik attack on block heads we should prize,
Were not his jeft as flippant with the wife.
+ The name of a tulip.

pd 3

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