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Cold is that breast which warm'd the world before, And those love-darting eyes must roll no more. Thus, if Eternal justice rules the ball,
35 Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall : On all the line a sudden vengeance waits, And frequent herfes fhall befiege your gates; There paffengers shall stand, and pointing fay, (While the long fun'rals blacken all the way) 40 Lo! these were they, whose fouls the Furies steel'd, And curs'd with hearts unknowing how to yield. Thus unlamented pass the proud away, The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day! So perish all, whose breast ne'er learn'd to glow For others good, or melt at others woe.
What can atone (oh ever-injur'd shade !)
To midnight dances, and the public show?
What though no facred earth allow thee room,
So, peaceful refts, without a stone, a name,
Poets themselves must fall, like those they sung, Deaf the prais'd ear, and mute the tuneful tongue. Ev'n he, whose foul now melts in mournful lays, Shall shortly want the gen'rous tear he pays; Then from his clofing eyes thy form shall part, And the last pang fhall tear thee from his heart, Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er, 81 The Muse forgot, and thou belov'd no more!
THE FIRST SATIRE OF THE SECOND BOOK
OF HORACE, IMITATED.
BY THE SAME.
TO MR. FORTESCUE.
THERE are (I scarce can think it, but am told)
And fomething faid of Chartres much too rough.
You'll give me, like a friend, both fage and free Advice; and (as you use) without a Fee.
F. I'd write do more.
P. Not write? but then I think, And for my foul I cannot fleep a wink; I nod in company, I wake at night, Fools rush into my head, and fo I write,
F. You could not do a worse thing for your life. Why, if the nights feem tedious-take a wife: Or rather truly, if your point be reft, Lettuce and cowflip-wine; Probatum eft.
But talk with Celfus, Celfus will advise
P. What? like Sir Richard, rumbling, rough, and fierce,
With ARMS, and GEORGE, and BRUNSWICK crowd the verse,
Rend with tremendous found your ears asunder, With Gun, Drum, Trumpet, Blunderbufs, and
Or nobly wild, with Budgell's fire and force,
P. Alas! few verses touch their nicer ear; They scarce can bear their Laureate twice a year; And justly CESAR fcorns the Poet's lays, 35 It is to Hiftory he trusts for Praise.
F. Better be Cibber, I'll maintain it ftill, Than ridicule all Tafte, blafpheme Quadrille, Abuse the City's best good men in metre, And laugh at Peers that put their truft in Peter. Ev'n those you touch not, hate you.
P. What fhould ail them? F. A hundred smart in Timon and in Balaam:
The fewer still you name, you wound the more; Bond is but one, but Harpax is a score.
P. Each mortal has his pleasure: none deny 45 Scarfdale his bottle, Darty his ham-pye; Ridotta fips and dances, till fhe fee The doubling Luftres dance as fast as she : F-loves the Senate, Hockley-hole his brother, Like in all else as one egg to another.
I love to pour out all myself, as plain
The Soul food forth, nor kept a thought within;
Like good Erafmus in an honest mean,
Satire's my weapon, but I'm too discreet
To run a muck, and tilt at all I meet;