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More lov'd, more prais'd, more envy'd in his doom,
Than Caefar trampling on the rights of Rome. 46
The virtuous nothing fear, but life with fhame,
And death's a pleasant road that leads to fame.
On bones, and scraps of dogs let me be fed,
My limbs uncover'd, and expos'd my head
To bleakeft colds, a kennel be my

bed.

This, and all other martyrdom for thee,

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Seems glorious, all, thrice beauteous Honesty! Judge me, ye pow'rs! Let Fortune tempt or frown, I ftand prepar'd, my honour is my own.

Ye great diflurbers, who in endless noife, In blood and rapine feek unnatural joys; For what is all this buftle but to fhun

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Those thoughts with which you dare not be alone?
As men in mifery, oppreft with care,

Seek in the rage of wine to drown despair.
Let others fight, and eat their bread in blood,
Regardless if the cause be bad or good;
Or cringe in courts, depending on the nods

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Of ftrutting pygmies who would pafs for gods.

For me, unpractis'd in the courtiers fchool,

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Who loath a knave, and tremble at a fool;

Who honour gen'rous Wycherly oppreft,

Poffeft of little, worthy of the best,
Rich in himself, in virtue that outshines
All but the fame of his immortal lines;

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More than the wealthiest lord, who helps to drain
The famifh'd land, and rouls in impious gain;
What can I hope in courts? Or how fucceed?
Tygers and wolves fhall in the ocean breed,
The whale and dolphin fatten on the meed,
And every element exchange its kind,
Ere thriving honesty in courts we find.
Happy the man, of mortals happiest he,
Whofe quiet mind from vain defires is free;
Whom neither hopes deceive, nor fears torment,
But lives at peace, within himself content;
In thought or act, accountable to none,

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But to himself, and to the gods alone:
O fweetness of content! Seraphick joy!
Which nothing wants, and nothing can destroy.

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mind?

Where dwells this peace, this freedom of the

Where, but in fhades remote from human kind;

In flow'ry vales, where nymphs and fhepherds

meet,

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But never comes within the palace gate.
Farewell then cities, courts, and camps, farewell,

Welcome, ye groves, here let me ever dwell,
From cares, from business, and mankind remove,
All but the Muses, and inspiring Love:
How sweet the morn! how gentle is the night!

How calm the ev❜ning! and the day how bright!

From hence, as from a hill, I view below The crowded world, a mighty wood in show, Where feveral wand'rers travel day and night By different paths, and none are in the right.

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The faints would often leave their cells,

And ftrole about, but hide their quality,
To try good people's hofpitality.

It happen'd on a winter-night,

As authors of the legend write,
Two brother-hermits, faints by trade,
Taking their tour in masquerade,
Difguis'd in tatter'd habits went
To a small village down in Kent;
Where, in the ftrolers canting ftrain,
They beg'd from door to door in vain,

Born 1667; dyed 1745.

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Try'd every tone might pity win;
But not a foul would let them in.

Our wand'ring faints, in woful state,
Treated at this ungodly rate,
Having through all the village pass'd,
To a small cottage came at last,
Where dwelt a good old honest yeoman,
Call'd in the neigbourhood Philemon.
Who kindly did these faints invite
In his poor hut to pass the night:
And then the hofpitable fire

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Bid goody Baucis mend the fire;
While he from out the chimney took

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And faw it fairly twice go round;
Yet (what is wonderful) they found
'Twas ftill replenish'd to the top,
As if they not had toucht a drop.
The good old couple were amaz'd,

And often on each other gaz'd;

For both were frighten'd to the heart,
And just began to cry,-What art?
Then foftly turn'd afide to view
Whether the lights were burning blue.

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