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Not that eradicion's parts are useless here : Consulted soberly his private good ;
When gen'ral, old, disinterested, clear:

And far'd himself as chicap as e'er he could.
That ancient fathers thus expound the page, 'Tis true, my friend, and far be Hatt'ry hence,
Gives truth the reverend inajesty of age: This good had full as bad a consequence :
Confirms its force by 'biding ev'ry telt; The book thus put in tv'ry vulgar hand
For best authorities, next rules, are beli. Which cach prelum'd he best could understand,
And still the nearer to the spring we go, The common rule was made the common preyos
More limpid, more unfoil'd, the waters flow. And at the mercy of the rabble lay.
Thus first traditions were a proof alone; The tender page with horny fitts was gall’d;
Could we be certain, such they were, fo known; And he was gifted most that loudest baul'd:
But since fome Haws in long decent may be, The spirit gave the doctoral degree:
They inake not truth, but probability.

And ev'ry member of a company Ev'n Arius and Pelagius durt provoke

Was of his trade, and of the Bible free. To what the centuries preceding tpoke ; Plain truths enough for needful use they found ; Such diff'rence is there in an oft-told tale : But men would still be itching to expound: But truth by its own finews will prevail. Each was ambitious of th’obscurest place, Tradition written therefore more commends No measure ta’en from knowledge, all from Authority, than what from voice descends.

grace. And this, as perfect as its kind can be,

Study and pains were now no more their care ; Rolls down to us the sacred history :

Texis were explained by fasting and by pray’r: Which, from the universal church receir'd, This was the fruit the private fpirit brought ; la try'd, and after, for itself believ'd.

Occasion’d by great zeal and little thought.
The partial Papists would infer from hence, While crowds unlearn'd, with rude devotion
Their church, in last resort, Thould judge the sente. About the sacred viands buz and swarm. [varm,
But firft they would assume with wond'rous art, The fly-blown text creates a crawling brood,
Themselves to be the whole, who are but part And turns to maggots what was meant for food.
Of that vatt frame the church; yet grant they were A thousand daily fects rise up and die;
The handers-down, can they from thence inter A thousand more the perish'd race fupply:

A right t’interpret? or would they alone, So all we make of Hcar'n's discover'd will,
Who brought the present, claim it for their own? Is not to have it, or to use it ill.
The book's a common largels to mankind; The danger's much the samc; on fev'ral shelves
Not more for them than ev'ry man delign’d: If others wreck us, or we wreck ourselves.
The welcome news is in the letter found;

What then remains, but, waving each extreme,
The carrier's not commiflion'd to expound. The tides of ignorance and pride to ftem ?
It speaks itself, and what it does contain, Neither so rich a treasure to forego;
In all things needful to be known is plain. Nor proudly seek beyond our pow'r to know:

In times o'ergrown with rust and ignorance, Faith is not huilt on disquisitions vain ; A gainful trade their clergy did advance: The things we must beliere are few and plain; When want of learning kept the laymen low, But since men will believe more than they need, And none but priests were authoriz'd to know : | And ev'ry man will make himself a creed, When what small knowledge was, in them did In doubtful questions 'tis the safest way, dwell;

To learn what untuspected ancients say: And he a god who could but rcad and spell; For 'tis not likely we should higher foar Then niother church did mightily prevail ; In 1carch of heav'n than all the church before ; She parcel'd out the Bible by retail:

Nor can we be deceiv'd, unless,we fee But still expounded what she fold or gave; The fcripture and the fathers disagree. To keep it in her power to damn and lave. If after all, they stand fuspected still Scripture was scarce, and, as the market went, (For no inan's faith depends upon his will) Poor laymen took salvation on content;

Tis fome relief, that points not clearly knowe As needy men take money, good or bad: Without much hazard, may be let alone : God's word they had not, but the priest 's they had. And, after hearing what our church can fay, Yet whate'er false conveyances they made, If Itill our reason runs another way, The lawyer ftill was certain to be paid. That private reason 'tis more just to curb, In thofe dark times they learn'd their knack fo Than by disputes the public peace disturb ; That by long use they grew infallible (well, For points obscure are of small ule ro learn; At last a knowing age began t'enquire

But common quier is mankind's concern. If they the book, or that did them inspire: Thus have I made my own opinions clear: And inaking narrower searchthey found, thoʻlate, Yet neither praise expcét, nor censure fear : That what they thought the priest's, was their And this unpolith'd rugged verse I chole, estate :

As fittest for discourse, and nearest prose : Taught by the will produc'd, the written word, For while from facred truth I do not swerve, How long they had been cheated on record. Tom Sternhold's or Tom Shadweil's rhymes Then ev'ry man who saw the title fair,

will ferve. Claim'd a child's part, and put in for a thare;

* Mec Fleckroe. $ 29. Mac Flecknoe. DRYDEN. Close to the walls which fair Augufta bind

(The fair Augufta, much to fears inclin'd) ALL human things are fubject to decay; Cobey: An ancient fabric, rais’d t’inform the fight;

And, when Fate fummons, monarchs must There ftood of yore, and Barbican its height:
This Flecknoe found, who, like Auguftus, young A watch-tow's once; but now, fo fate ordains,
Was calld to empire, and had govern'd long; Of all the pile an empty name remains:
In prose and verse was own'd, without dispute, From its old ruins brothel-houses rise,
Thro’all the realms of Nonsense, absolute. Scenes of lewd loves, and of polluted joys,
This aged prince, now Aourishing in peace, Where their vast courts the mother-strumpets
And bless'd with issue of a large increase,

keep,
Wom out with bus'ness, did at length debate

And, undisturb'd by watch, in silence feep.
To settle the succeffion of the stare;

Near thefe a nursery erects its head,
And pond'ring which, of all his fons, was fit

Where queens are form’d, and future heroes bred;
To reign, and wage immortal war with Wit, Where un fledg'd actors learn to laugh and cry,
Cry'd, 'Tis resolv'd; for Nature pleads, that he Where infant punks their tender voices try,
Should only rule who most resembles me. And little Maximins the gods defy.
Sh-, alone, my perfect image bears, Great Fletcher never treads in buskins here,
Mature in dulnels from his tender years : Nor greater Junson dares in focks appear ;
Sh-, alone, of all my sons, was he,

But gentle Simkin just reception finds Who ftands confirm'd in full stupidity.

Amidst this monument of vanish d minds : The rest, to some faint meaning make pretence ; Pure clinches the suburbian muse affords, But Sh- never deviates into sense.

And Panton waging harmless war with words, Some beams of wit on other souls may fall, Here Fleck noe, as a place to fame well known, Strike thro', and make a lucid interval; But She's genuine night admits no ray;

Ambitiously design’d his She's throne :

For ancient Decker prophecy’d, long since, His rising fogs prevail upon the day.

That in this pile should reign a mighty prince, Besides, his goodly fabric fills the eye,

Born for a scourge of Wit, and Aail of sense ; And seems design'd for thoughtless majesty : Towhom true dulness should fome Psychesowe; Thoughtless as monarch oaks,that shade the plain, But worlds of Misers from his

pen

should flow And, spread in solemn state, supinely reign. Humorists and Hypocrites it thould produce ; Heywood and Shirley were but types of thee, Whole Raymond families, and tribes of Bruce. Thou last great prophet of Tautology.

Now empress Fame had publish'd the renown Evin I, a dunce of more renown than they, Of Sh's coronation thro' the town. Was fént before but to prepare thy way ; Rouz'd by report of Faine, the nations meet, And, coarsely clad in Norwich drugget, came From near Bun-hill, and distant Watling-streets To teach the nations in thy greater name. No Persian carpets spread th'imperial way; My warbling lute, the lute I whilom ftrung, But scatter'd limbs of mangled poets lay: When to king John of Portugal I sung, From dufty shops neglected authors come, Was but the prelude to that glorious day, Martyrs of

pyes, ană reliques of the bum. When thou on silver Thaines didît cut thy way, Much Heywood, Shirley, Ogleby, there lay : With well-tim'd oars, before the royal barge, But loads of Shalmoft choak'd the way. Swellid with the pride of thy celestial charge; Bilk'd stationers for yeomen stood prepar'd, And, big with hymn, commander of an host, And H-n was captain of the guard. The like was ne'er in Epsom blankets tost. The hoary prince in majesty appear’d, Methinks I see the new Arion fail,

High on a throne of his own labours rear'd. The lute still trembling underneath thy nail. At his right hand our young Ascanius sat, At thy well-sharpen'd thumb, from shore to shore, Rome's other hope, and pillar of the state ; The trebles squeak for fear, the bases roar : His brows thick fogs, instead of glories, grace, Echoes from Piffing-Alley Sh-call, And lambent Dulneis play'd around his face. And Sh-they resound from Aston-Hall. As Hannibal did to the altars come, About thy boat the little fishes throng,

Sworn by his fire a mortal foe to Rome, As at the morning toast that floats along. So Sh Twore, nor should his vow be vain, Sometimes, as prince of thy harmonious band, That he, till death, true dulnets would maintaia; Thou wield'ft thy papers in thy threshing hand. And, in his father's right, and realm's defence, St. Andre's feet nc'er kept more equal time, Ne'er to have peace with wit, nor truce with sente. Not e'en the feet of thine own Psyche's rhyme : The king himself the sacred unction made, Though they in number as in sense excel;

As king by office, and as priest by trade. So just, fo like Tautology they fell,

In his linister hand, instead of ball,
| That, pale with envy, Singleton forsworo He plac'd a mighty mug of potent ale;

The lute and sword, which he in triumph bore, Love's kingdom to his right he did convey,
And vow'd he ne'er would act Villerius more. Atonce his sceptre, and his rule of sway; (young,

Here itopt the good old fire, and wept for joy, Whose righteous lore the prince had practis d In filent raptures of the hopeful boy.

And froin whose loins recorded Psyche Iprung: All arguments, but most his plays, persuade, His temples laft, with poppies were o'erspread, That for anointed dulaess he was made.

That, nodding, secm'd to consecratc his head.

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heard ;

Just at the point of tiine, if rame not lye, Nor let thy mountain-belly make pretence
On his left hand twelve rev'rend owls did Ay. Of likenels; thine's a tympany of sense.
So Romulus, 'tis fung, by Tiber's brook, A tun of man in thy large bulk is writ;
Pretage of fi ay from twice fix vultures took. But fure thou'rt but a kilderkin of wit.
Th'admiring throng loud acclamations make, Like ininc, thy gentle nurnbers feebly creep ;
And omens of his future empire takc.

Thy trayic mufe gives smiles, thy comic, llcep.
The fire then thook the honors of his head, With whate'er gall thou fet'st thyself to write,
And from his brow's damps of oblivion Thed | Thy inoffensive fatires never bite.
Full on the filial dulnefs ; long he stood, 1

In thy felonious heart though venom lies, Repelling from his breast the raging god ; It does but touch thy Irish pen, and dies. At length burst out in this prophetic mood : Thy genius calls thee not to purchase fame

• Heav'ns bless my fon, from Ireland let him In keen Tambics, but mild Anagram. To far Barbadocs on the western main ; [reign Leave writing plays, and chuse for thy command Of his dominion may no end be known, Some peaceful province in Acrostic land. And greater than his father's be his throne ; There thou may'st wings display, and altars raise, Beyond Love's kingdom let him ftretch his pen!' And torture one poor word a thousand ways. He paus'd, and all the people cry'd, Amen. Or if thou would'st thy diff'rent talents suit, Then thus continu'd hc : My lon, advance Set thy own songs, and fing them to thy lute. Still in new impudence, new ignorance.

He said ; but his last words were scarcely Succets let others teach, learn thou, from me, Paugs without birth, and fruitless industry. For Bruce and Longvil had a trap prepar'd; Let Virtuofos in five years be writ ;

And down they sent the yet declaining bard. Yet not one thought accuse thy toil of wit. Sinking, he left his drugged robe behind, Let gentle George in triumph tread the stage, Borne upwards by a subterranean wind. Makc Dorimant betray, and Loveit rage ; The mantle fell to the young prophet's part, Lct Cully, Cockwood, Fopling, charm the pit, With double portion of his father's art, And, in their folly, Thew the writer's wit. Yet still thy Fools Mall stand in thy defence, And justify their author's want of sense.

§ 30. An Elay upon Satire. Let 'em be all by thy own model made

DRYDEN and BUCKINGHAM. Of dulness, and defire no foreign aid; That they to future ages may be known, HOW dull, and how insensible a beast Not copies drawn, but illuc of thy own.

Is man, who yet would lord it o'er the rest? Nay, let thy men of wit 100 be the same; Philofophers and pocts vainly strove Als full of thee, and diff’ring but in namc. In ev'ry age the lumpish mass to move : But let no alien S-21-y interpose,

But those were pedants, when compar'd with these, To lard with wit thy hungry Iipfom prose. Who know not only to instruct but please.

And, when falfe How’rs of Rhetoric thou would'nt Poets alone found the deliglitful way,
Truf Nature, do not labour to be dull; [cull, Mysterious morals gently to convey
But write thy best, and top; and, in each line, In charming numbers ; so that as men grew
Sir Formal's oratory will be thine :

Pleas'd with their poems, they grew wifer too
Sir Formal, though unsought, attends thy quill, Satire has always shonc among the rest,
And does thy Northern Dedications fill. And is the boldeft way, if not the best,
Nor let false friends feduce thy mind to fame, To tell men freely of their foulest faults ;
By arrogating Jonson's hostile name.

Tolaugh at their vain deeds, and rainer thoughts. Lét father Fleck noc fire thy mind with praise,

In satire too, the wife took diff'rent ways; And uncle Ogleby thy envy raise.

To cach dcferving its peculiar praisc. Thou art my blood, where Jonton has no part : Somc did all folly with just tharpnefs blame, What Mare have we in nature or in art ? Whilst others laugh'd, and fcorn'd them into Where did his wit on Learning fix a brand, But of these two, the last fucceeded belt, [Thame, And rail at arts he did not understand ?

As men aim righteft when they shoot in jeft. Where made hc love in Prince Nicander's vein, Yet, if we may prefume to blame our guides, Or fivept the dust in Pluche's humble itrain ? And censure those who censure all befides; Wherefold he bargains, whip-stitch, kiss my arse; In other things they justly are preferrd : Promis'd a play, and dwindl’d to a farce? In this alone meihinks the ancients err'd ; When did his mufe froun Fletcher scenes purloin, Against the groffost follics they declaim ; Asthou whole Etheridge dost transfule to thine ? Hard they pursue, but hunt ignoble game. But fo transfus’d, as oil and waters flor; Nothing is easier than fich blots to hit, His alienys Avats above, thine sinks below. And 'tis the talent of cach vulgar wit : This is thy province, this thy wond'rous way, Bcfides, 'tis labour loft ; for who would preach New humours to invent for each new play: Morals to Armstrong, or dull Alton tcach ? This is that boasted bias of thy mind,

'Tis being devout at play, wife at a ball, By which, one ivay, to důlncfé 'tis inclin'd; Or bringing wit and friendship to Whitehall. Which makes thy writings lean on one side ftill, But with sharp eyes those nicer faults to find, And, in all changes, that way bends thy will, Which lie obscurely in the wifeít mind;

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That lit:le speck which all the rest does spoil,

But soon the lady had hiin in her eye, To waih off that would be a noble toil; And, froin her friend did just as oddly fiy. Beyond the loose-writ libels of this age,

Reaching above our nature does no good; Or the forc'd scenes of our declining stage ;

We muli fall back to our old Aeth and blood; Above all censure too, cach little wit

As by our little Machiavel, we find Will be so glad to see the greater hit;

That nimblcft creature of the busy kind, Who judging better, though concern’d the moft, His limbs are crippled, and his body shakes ; Of such correction will have cause to boaft. Yet his hard mind, which allthis bustle inakes, In such a satire all would icek a share,

No pity of its poor companion takes. And ev'ry fool will fancy he is there.

What gravity can hold from laughing out, Old story-tellers too mult pine and die,

To Ice him drag his feeble legs about, To see their antiquated wit laid by ;

Like hounds ill-coupl'd ? Jowler lugs him ftill Like her, who mils'd her name in a lampoon, Thro' hedges, ditches, and thro' all that's ill. And griev'd to find herself decay'd to 10on. "Twere crime in any man but hiin alone, No common coxcomb must be mention'd here : To use a body so, tho' 'cis one's own : Nor the dull train of dancing sparks appear ;

Yet this falle comfort nevergives him o'er, [soar : Nor flutt'ring officers who never fight;

That whilft he creeps his vig'rous thoughts can Of such a wretched rabble who would write! Alas! that soaring, to those few that know, Much less half-wits: that's more against our Is but a busy grov'ling here below. For they are fops; the other are but fools. [rules; So men in rapture think they mount ihe iky; Who would not be as filly as Dunbar ? Whilft on the groundth’ıntrancedirek nies lie: As dull as Monmouth, rather than Sir Carr? So inodern fops have fancy'd wey cou' Av. The cunning courtier ihould be lighted too,

As the new earl with parts deterving praise, Who with duli knav'ry makes so inuch ado;

And wit enough to laugh at his own ways; Till the fhrewd fool, by thriving too, tuo fast,

Yet loses all foft days and sensual nights, Like Æsop's fox, becomes a prey at last, Kind nature checks, and kinder fortune itighes; Nor shall the royal inistrelles be nam'd; Striving against his quict all he can, . Too ugly, or too caly to be blam'd; (pother, For the fine notion of a busy man. With whom each rhymning fool keeps such a And what is that at best, but one, whose mind They are as common that way as the other : Is made to tire himself and all mankind ? Yet faunt'ring Charles, between his bcastly

For Ireland he would go; faith, let iam reign; brace,

For if some odd fantastic lord would fain. Meets with dissembling fiili in cither place, Carry in trunks, and all inv drudgry do, Affected humour, or a painted face.

I'll not only pay him, but admire him too.
In loyal libeis we have often told him,

Rut is there any other beast that lives,
How one has jilted him, the other fold him : Who his own harm fo wittingly contrives?
How that affects to laugh, how this to weep;

Will any dog, that has his tecth and stones,
But who can rail so long as he can sleep? Refin’dly leave his bitches and his bones
Was ever prince by tro at once milled, To turn a wheel: and bark to be employ'd,
False, foolish, old, ill-natur’d, and ill-bred ? While Venus is by rival dogs enjoy'd ?
Earncly and Aylesbury, with all that race Yet this fond man, to get a statesinan's name,
Of busy blockheads, shall have here no place ; Forfeits his friends, his freedom, and his fame.
At council set as foils on Dorfet's score,

Though fatire nicely writ no humour stings To make that great falfe jewel shine the more ; But those who merit praise in other things; Who all that while was thought cxceeding wisc,

Yet we must needs this one exception make, Only for taking pains and telling lics.

And break our rules for folly Tropos fake; But there's no ineddling with tuch nauseous men! Who was too much despis'd to be accus'd, Their very names have tir'd any lazy pen :

And therefore scarce deterves to be abus'd ; 'Tis time to quit their company, and choose Rais'd only by his mercenary tongue, Some fitter subject for a sharper Muse. For railing smoothly, and for reas’ning wrong,

First, let's bchold the merrictt man alive As boys on holydays, let loose to play, Against his careless genius vainly itrive; Lay waggish traps for girls that pass that way ; Quit his dear cafe, some deep design to lay, Then shout to see in dirt and deep distress 'Gainst a fer time, and then forget the day : Some filly cit in her fow'r'd foolish dress; Yet he will laugh at his best friends, and be So have I mighty satisfaction found, Just as good company as Nokes and Lee. To fec his tiniel reason on the ground; But when he aims at reason, or at rule,

To see the forid fool defpis’d, and know it, He turns himself the best to ridicule.

By fome who scarce have words enough to fhowit : Let him at bus'ness ne'er so earrest sit,

For sense sits filent, and condemns for weaker Shew him but mirth, and bait that inirth with wit; The finner, nay, fonetimes the wittiest 1pcaker: That shadow of a jcft shall be enjoy’dl,

But ’ris prodigious so much eloquence
Though he left all mankind to be ciestroyd. Should be acquired by such little sense !
So cat, tranform’d, fat gravely and demure,

For words and wit did anciently agree ;.
Till moule appear'), and thought himself fecure; And Tully was no fool, though this man be.

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At bar abusive, on the bench unable,

Then o'er his cups this night-bird chirping fitsi Knave on the woollack, fop at council-table. Till he takes Hewet and Jack Hall for wics. These are the grievances of such fools as would Rochester I detpile for want of wit, Be rather wile than honeft, great than good. Though thought to have a tail and cloven foot ;

Some other kind of wits inust be made known, For while he mischief means to all mankind, Whose hariniels errors burt themselves alone ; Himself alone the ill effects does find : Excess of luxury they think can please, And so like witches juftly suffers shame, And laziness call loving of their cafe ;

Whose harmless malice is so much the same. To live diilolv'd in pleatures Itill they feign, Falle are his words, affected is his wit ; Though their whole life's but intermitting pain: So often he does aim, so feldoın hit ; So much of surfeits, head-aches, claps, are seen, To ev'ry face he cringes while he speaks, We scarce perceive the little time between ; But when the back is turn'd, the head he breaks; Well-meaning men who make this grofs mistake, Mean in cach action, lewd in ev'ry limb, And pleasure lose only for pleasure's fake ; Manners themselves are mischievous in him : Each pleasure has its price, and when we pay A proof that chance alone makes ev'ry creature Too much of pain, wc squander life away. A very Killigrew, without good-nature.

Thus Dorfet, purring like a thoughtful cat, For what a Bessus has he always liv'd, Marry'd; but wifer puss ne'er thought of that ; And his own kickings notably contriv'd! And first he worry'd her with railing rhime, For, there's the folly that's still mixt with fear, Like Pembroke's manives at his kindeft time; Cowards more blows than any hero bear ; Then for one night fold all his llavish life, Of fighting Iparks some may their pleasures says A teeming widow, but a barren wife ;

But 'tis a bolder thing to run away:
Swellid by contact of such a fulsome toad, The world may well forgive him all his ill,
He lugg'd about the matrimonial load; For ev'ry fault docs prove his penance ftill a
Till fortune, blindly kind as well as he, Falsely he falls into fome dang’rous noose,
Has ill reftor'd him to his liberty !

And then as meanly labours to get loose;
Which he would use in his old Incaking way, A life so infamous is better quitting,
Drinking all night, and dozing all the day; Spent in bale injury and low submitting,
Dull as Ned Howard, whom his brikker times I'd like to have left out his poctry ;
Had fam'd for dulness in malicious rhymes. Forgot by all almost as well as me.

Mulgrave had much ado to 'scape the snare, Sometimes he has some humour, never witi
Tho' learn’d in all those arts that cheat the fair ; And if it rarely, very rarely, hit,
For after all his vulgar marriage-mocks, 'Tis under so much nafty rubbish laid,
With beauty dazzl’d, Numps was in the stocks; To find it out's the cinderwoman's trade
Deluded parents dry'd their weeping eyes, Who for the wretched remnants of a fire,

To fee him catch his tartar for his prize ; Must toil all day in alhes and in mire.
Th'impatient town waited the wilh'd-for change, So lewdly dull his idol works appear;
And cuckolds smil'd in hopes of 1weet revenge ; The wretched texts deserve no comments here ;
Till Perworth plot made us with forrow see, Where one poor thought sometimes, left all alonc,
As his estate, his person too was free :

For a whole page of dulness must atone.
Hiin no soft thoughts, no gratitude could move ; How vain a thing is man, and how unwise;
To gold he fled from beauty and from love ; Ev'n he, who would himself the most despise !
Yet failing there, he keeps his freedom still, I, who so wife and humble leem to be,
Forc'd to live happily against his will :

Now my own vanity and pride can't see. 'Tis not his fault, if too much wealth and pow'r While the world's nonsense is so tharply shewn, Break not his boasted quiet ev'ry hour. We pull down others but to raise our own : And little Sid. for fiinile renown'd,

That we may angels leem, we paint them elves, Pleasure has always fought, but never found : And are but satiies to set up ourselves.

Though all his thoughts on wine and women fall, I (who have all this while been finding fault, His arc fɔ bad, lure he ne'er thinks at a!l.

Ev'n with my master, who first satire taught, The Aeth he lives upon is rank and strong; And did by that describe the talk so hard, His meat and mistresses are kept too long. It seeins ftupendous, and above reward) But sure we all mistake this pious man,

Now labour with unequal force to climb Who inortifies his person all he can :

That lofty hill, unreach'd by former time; What we uncharitably take for sin,

'Tis jus that I should to the bottom fall, Are only rules of this odd capuchin;

Learn to write well, or not to write at all.
For never hermit, under grave pretence,
Has liv'd more contrary to common sense ;
And 'tis a miracle we may suppose,

31. Cymon and Iphigenia. DRYDEN. No nattinefs offends his skilful nose;

Pocta Loquitur. Which from all stink can, with peculiar art, OLD

LD as I am, for ladies love unfit, Extra perfume and eflence froin a f-t:

The pow'r of beauty I remember, yet ; Expecting supper is his great delight;

Which once in fam’d my soul, and still inspires He coils all day but to be drunk at night :

my wit.

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