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Be call'd to Court to plan fome work divine,
As once for Louis, Boileau and Racine.

Yet think, great Sir! (fo many Virtues shown)
Ah think, what Poet best may make them known;
Or chufe at least some Minister of Grace,
Fit to bestow the Laureat's weighty place.
Charles, to late times to be tranfmitted fair,
Affign'd his figure to Bernini's care;

And great Naffau to Kneller's hand decreed
To fix him graceful on the bounding Steed;
So well in paint and stone they judg'd of merit:
But Kings in Wit may want difcerning Spirit.
The Hero William, and the Martyr Charles,
One knighted Blackmore, and one penfion'd Quarles;
Which made old Ben, and furly Dennis fwear,
"No Lord's anointed, but a Ruffian bear."
Not with fuch majesty, such bold relief,
The Forms august, of King, or conqu'ring Chief,
E'er fwell'd on marble; as in verfe have fhin'd
(In polish'd verfe) the Manners and the Mind.
Oh! could I mount on the Maeonian wing,
Your Arms, your Actions, your Repose to fing!
What seas you travers'd, and what fields you fought!
Your Country's Peace, how oft, how dearly bought!
How barb'rous rage fubfided at your word,
And Nations wonder'd while they dropt the fword!
How, when you nodded, o'er the land and deep,
Peace ftole her wing, and wrapt the world in fleep;
"Till earth's extremes your mediation own,
And Afia's Tyrants tremble at your throne-

But Verfe, alas! your Majesty disdains;
And I'm not us'd to Panegyric strains:
The Zeal of fools offends at any time,

But most of all, the Zeal of Fools in rhyme.
Besides, a fate attends on all I write,

That when I aim at praise, they say I bite.
A vile Encomium doubly ridicules:

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There's nothing blackens like the ink of fools.
If true, a woful likeness; and if lyes,
"Praise underferv'd is scandal in disguise
Well may he blush, who gives it, or receives;
And when I flatter, let my dirty leaves
(Like Journals, Odes, and fuch forgotten things
As Eufden, Philips, Settle, write of Kings)
Clothe fpice, line trunks, or flutt'ring in a row,
Befringe the rails of Bedlam and Soho.

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You love a Verfe, take fuch as I can fend.

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A Frenchman comes, prefents you with his Boy, Bows and begins- This Lad, Sir, is of Blois : "Obferve his shape how clean! his locks how curl'd! "My only fon, I'd have him fee the world:

His French is pure; his Voice too-you fhall hear. Sir he's your flave, for twenty pounds a year. "Mere wax as yet, you fashion him with ease, "Your Barber, Cook, Upholft'rer, what you please: "A perfect genius at an Op'ra song

"To fay too much, might do my honour wrong. "Take him with all his virtues, on my word:

"His whole ambition was to ferve a Lord:

"But, Sir, to you, with what would I not part?
"Tho' faith I fear, 'twill break his mother's heart.
"Once (and but once) I caught him in a lye,
"And then, unwhipp'd, he had the grace to cry;
"The fault he has I fairly shall reveal,
"(Could you o'erlook but that) it is, to steal."
If, after this, you took the graceless lad,
Could you complain, my friend, he prov'd fo bad?
Faith, in fuch cafe, if you should prosecute,
I think Sir Godfrey should decide the fuit;
Who fent the Thief that stole the cash, away,
And punish'd him that put it in his way.

Confider then, and judge me in this light;
I told you when I went, I could not write;
You faid the fame; and are you discontent
With laws, to which you gave your own affent?
Nay worfe, to ask for verse at fuch a time!
D'ye think me good for nothing but to rhyme?

In ANNA'S Wars, a Soldier, poor and old,
Had dearly carn'd a little purfe of gold,
Tir'd with a tedious march, one luckless night,
He flept, poor dog! and loft it to a doit.
This put the man in such a desp'rate mind,
Between revenge, and grief, and hunger join'd,
Against the foe himfelf, and all mankind,
He leap'd the trenches, fcal'd a Castle wall,
Tore down a Standard, took the Fort and all.
"Prodigious well;" his great Commander cry'd,
Gave him much praife, and fome reward befide.
Next pleas'd his Excellence a town to batter;
(Its name I know not, and it's no great matter)

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