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Thefe as good works, tis true, we all allow
But oh! these works are not in fashion now:
Like rich old wardrobes, things extremely rare,
Extremely fine, but what no man will wear.
Thus much I've faid, I truft without offence?
Let no Court Sycophant pervert my sense,
Nor fly Informer watch these words to draw
Within the reach of Treason, or the Law.

Equally I hate, Mean's bleft. In rich men's homes I bid kill fome beasts, but no hecatombs;

None ftarve, none furfeit fo.

But (oh) we allow Good works as good, but out of fashion now,

Like old rich wardrobes. But my words none draws Within the vast reach of th' huge statutes jaws.

VOL. III.

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WELL, if it be my time to quit the ftage,

Adieu to all the follies of the age!

I die in charity with fool and knave,
Secure of peace at least beyond the grave.
I've had my Purgatory here betimes,
And paid for all my fatires, all my rhymes.
The Poet's hell, its tortures, fiends, and flames,
To this were trifles, toys, and empty names.

With foolish pride my heart was never fir'd,
Nor the vain itch t'admire, or be admir'd;
I hop'd for no commiffion from his Grace;
I bought no benefice, I begg'd no place;
Had no new verses, nor new fuit to show;
Yet went to Court!-the Dev'l would have it fo.

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SATIRE

I

IV.

WELL; may now receive, and die. My fin

Indeed is great, but yet I have been in

A Purgatory, fuch as fear'd Hell is

A recreation, and scant map of this.

My mind, neither with pride's itch, nor had been Poyfon'd with love to fee or to be seen,

I had no fuit there, nor new fuit to show,
Yet went to Court; but as Glare which did go

But, as the fool that in reforming days

Would go to Mass in jeft (as story says
Could not but think to pay his fine was odd,
Since 'twas no form'd defign of ferving God;
So was I punifh'd, as if full as proud,

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Who live at Court, for going once that way!
Scarce was I enter'd, when, behold there came
A thing which Adam had been pos'd to name;
Noah had refus'd it lodging in his Ark,
Where all the Race of Reptiles might embark;
A verier monfter, than on Africk's fhore
The fun e'er got, or flimy Nilus bore,

To mafs in jeft catch'd, was fain to disburfe
Two hundred markes, which is the ftatutes curfe,
Before he fcap'd: fo it pleas'd my destiny
(Guilty of my fin of going) to think nre
As prone to all ill, and of good as forget-
full, as proud, luftfull, as much in debt,
As vain, as witlefs, and as falfe, as they
Which dwell in Court, for once going that way.

Therefore I fuffer'd this; towards me did run
A thing more ftrange, than on Nile's flime the fun
E'er bred, or all which into Noah's Ark came:
A thing which would have pos'd Adam to name;
Stranger than feven Antiquaries ftudies,

Than Africk monsters, Guianaes ranties,

Or Sloane or wood ward's wond'rous fhelves contain,
Nay all that lying Travellers can feign.

The watch would hardly let him pafs at noon,
At night would fwear him dropt out of the moon.
One, whom the mob, when next we find or make
A popish plot, shall for a Jefuit take,

And the wife justice starting from his chair

Cry, by your Priesthood tell me what you are?
Such was the wight: Th' apparel on his back,
'Tho' coarse, was rev'rend, and though bare, was black:
The fuit, if by the fashion one might guess,
Was velvet in the youth of good Queen Befs,
But mere tuff-taffety what now remain'd;

So Time, that changes all things, had ordain'd!
Our fons fhall fee it leifurely decay,

First turn plain rash, then vanish quite away.

Stranger than strangers: one who for a Dane,
In the Danes Maffacre had fure been slain,
If he had liv'd then; and without help dies,
When next the Prentices 'gainst strangers rise;
One whom the watch at noon lets fcarce go by;
One, to whom the examining Juftice fure would cry,
Sir, by your priesthood tell me what you are?

His cloaths were ftrange, tho' coarfe, and black, tho' bare,

Sleeveless his jerkin was, and it had been
Velvet, but 'was now (fo much ground was feen)
Become Tufftaffaty: and our children fhall
See it plain rash a while, then nought at all.

This thing has travel'd, fpeaks each language too,
And knows what's fit for every state to do;
Of whose best phrase and courtly action join'd,
He forms one tongue, exotic and refin'd.
Talkers I've learn'd to bear; Motteux I knew,
Henley himself I've heard, and Budgel too.
The Doctor's wormwood style, the Hash of tongues
A Pedant makes the ftorm of Godfon's lungs,
The whole Artill'ry of the terms of War,
And all (those plagues in one) the bawling bar::
Thefe I could bear; but not a rogue fo civil,
Whose tongue will compliment you to the devil.
A tongue, that can cheat Widows, cancel fcores,,
Make Scots speak treason, cozen subtlest whores,,

The thing hath travail'd,and, faith, speaks all tongues
And only knoweth what to all States belongs,
Made of th' accents, and beft phrafe of all thefe,
He speaks one language. If strange meats difpleafe,,
You would leave loneness. I faid, not alone.
Art can deceive, or hungar force my taft;
But pedants motly tongue, foldiers bumbaft,
Mountebanks drug-tongue, nor the terms of law,,
Are strong enough preparatives to draw.

Me to hear this, yet I must be content
With his tongue, in his tongue call'd Complement :
In which he can win Widows, and pay scores,
Make men fpeak treason, cozen fubtleft whores,,

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