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O. F



ST. JOHN, whofe love indulg'd my labours past,
Matures my present, and shall bound my last!
Why will you break the Sabbath of my days?
Now fick alike of Envy and of of Praisc.
Public too long, ah let me hide my Age!
See modeft Cibber now has left the Stage:
Our Gen'rals now, retir'd to their Estates,
Hang their old Trophies o'er the Garden gates,
In Life's cool Ev'ning fatiate of Applause,
Nor fond of bleeding, ev'n in BRUNSWICK's caufe,
A voice there is, that whispers in my ear,
'Tis Reason's voice, which sometimes one can hear)
"Friend Pope! be prudent, let your Mufe take breath
"And never gallop Pegasus to death;

"Left stiff, and stately, void of fire or force, "You limp, like Blackmore on a Lord Mayor's horse."

Farewell then Verfe, and Love, and ev'ry Toy,

The Rhymes and Rattles of the Man or Boy;
What right, what true, what fit we justly call,
Let this be all my care-for this is All:
To lay this harvest up, and hoard with hafte,
What ev'ry day will want, and most, the last.
But afk not, to what Doctors I apply?

Sworn to no Master, of no Sect am I:
As drives the ftorm, at any door I knock:
And house with Montagne now, or now with Locke,
Sometimes a Patriot, active in debate,

Mix with the World, and battle for the State,
Free as young Lyttleton, her caufe pursue,
Still true to Virtue, and as warm as true:
Sometimes with Ariffippus, or St. Paul,
Indulge my candor, and grow all to all;
Back to my native Moderation flide,
And win my way by yielding to the tide.

Long, as to him who works for debt, the day,
Long as the Night to her whofe Love's away,
Long as the Year's dull circle feems to run,
When the brisk Minor pants for twenty-one:
So flow th' unprofitable moments roll,
That lock up all the Functions of my foul;
That keep me from myself; and ftill delay
Life's inftant business to a future day:
That task, which as we follow, or defpife,
The eldest is a fool, the youngest wife:

Which done, the poorest can no wants endure;
And which not done, the richest must be poor.
Late as it is, I put myself to school,

And feel fome comfort, not to be a fool.
Weak tho' I am of limb, and fhort of sight,
Far from a Lynx, and not a Giant quite;
I'll do what Mead and Chefelden advise,
To keep these limbs, and to preferve these eyes.
Not to go back, is fomewhat to advance,
And men must walk at least before they dance.

Say, does thy blood rebel, thy bofom move
With wretched Av'rice, or as wretched Love!
Know, there are Words, and Spells, which can control
Between the Fits this Fever of the foul:

Know, there are Rhymes, which fresh and fresh apply'd
Will cure the arrant'st Puppy of his Pride.
Be furious, envious, flothful, mad, or drunk,
Slave to a Wife, or Vaffal to a Punk,

A Switz, a High-dutch, or a Low-dutch Bear;
All that we ask is but a patient Ear.

'Tis the first Virtue, Vices to abhor;

And the first Wisdom, to be Fool no more.
But to the world no bugbear is fo great,
As want of figure, and a fmall Estate.
To either India fee the Merchant fly,
Scar'd at the spectre of pale Poverty!
See him, with pains of body, pangs of foul,
Burn thro' the Tropic, freeze beneath the Pole!
Wilt thou do nothing for a nobler end,

Nothing, to make Philosophy thy friend?

To ftop thy foolish views, thy long defires,

And cafe thy heart of all that it admires ?
Here, Wifdom calls: "Seek Virtue firft, be bold!
"As Gold to Silver, Virtue is to Gold."

There, London's voice, "Get Money, Money still!
"And then let Virtue follow, if the will."
This, this the faving doctrine, preach'd to all,
From low St. James's up to high St. Paul;
From him whofe quill stands quiver'd at his ear,
To him who notches fticks at Weftminster.

Barnard in fpirit, fenfe, and truth abounds;
"Pray then, what wants he?" Fourfcore thoufand
A penfion, or fuch Harnefs for a flave [pounds;
As Bug now has, and Dorimant would have.
Barnard, thou art a Cit, with all thy worth;
But Bug and D-1, Their Honours, and fo forth.
Yet ev'ry child another fong will fing,

"Virtue, brave boys! 'tis Virtue makes a King."
True, confcious Honour is to feel no fin,

He's arm'd without that's innocent within;
Be this thy Screen, and this thy Wall of Brass;
Compar'd to this a Minister's an Afs.

And say, to which shall our applause belong,
This new Court-jargon, or the good old fong?
The modern language of corrupted Peers,
Or what was spoke at CRESSY and POITIERS?
Who councils beft? who whispers, "Be but great,
"With Praise or Infamy leave that to fate;
"Get Place and Wealth, if poffible, with grace;
"If not, by any means get Wealth and Place."

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