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So monftrous-like the portrait's found,
All know it, and the laugh goes round.
Like him I draw from gen'ral nature:
Is't I or you then fix the satire?

So, fir, I beg you, spare your pains
In making comments on my

All private flander I detest,

ftrains.

I judge not of my neighbour's breaft:
Party and prejudice I hate,

And write no libels on the state.

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Is 't I apply, or self-conviction?

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Brutes are my theme. Am I to blame,

If men in morals the fame ?

I no man call or ape or ass;

"Tis his own conscience holds the glass.
Thus void of all offence I write :
Who claims the fable, knows his right.
A fhepherd's Dog, unfkill'd in sports,
Pick'd up acquaintance. of all forts;
Among the reft a Fox he knew;

By frequent chat their friendship grew.

Says Renard, 'tis a cruel case, That man should stigmatize our race,

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No doubt, among us rogues you find,
As among dogs and human kind;
And yet (unknown to me and you)
There may be honest men and true.
Thus flander tries whate'er it can
To put us on the foot with man.
Let my own actions recommend ;
No prejudice can blind a friend:
You know me free from all disguise;
My honour as my life I prize.

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By talk like this, from all mistrust The Dog was cur'd, and thought him juft. As on a time the Fox held forth On confcience, honefty, and worth, Sudden he stopp'd; he cock'd his ear; Low dropt his brushy tail with fear.

Bless us! the hunters are abroad:

What's all that clatter on the road!

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Hold, fays the Dog, we're free from harm: 'Twas nothing but a false alarm. At yonder town 'tis market-day; Some farmer's wife is on the way : 'Tis fo, (I know her pyebald mare) Dame Dobbins with her poultry-ware. Renard grew huff. Says he, This fneer

From you I little thought to hear;

Your meaning in your looks 1 fee.

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Pray, what's Dame Dobbins, friend, to me?

Did I e'er make her poultry thinner?
Prove that I owe the dame a dinner.

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Friend, quoth the Cur, I meant no harm ; Then why fo captious? why fo warm? My words, in common acceptation, Could never give this provocation. No lamb (for ought I ever knew) May be more innocent than you." At this, gall'd Renard winc'd, and swore Such language ne'er was giv'n before.

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What's lamb to me? This faucy hint Shows me, base knave, which way you squint. If t' other night your master loft

Three lambs, am I to pay the cost?

Your vile reflections would imply

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That I'm the thief. You dog, you lye.

Thou knave, thou fool, (the Dog reply'd) The name is juft, take either fide; Thy guilt these applications speak: Sirrah, 'tis confcience makes you squeak. 110 So faying, on the Fox he flies: The felf-convicted felon dies.

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WHY, Grubbinol, doft thou fo wiftful feem
There's forrow in thy look, if right I deem.
'Tis true, yon oaks with yellow tops appear,
And chilly blasts begin to nip the year;
From the tall elm a fhow'r of leaves is born,
And their loft beauty riven beeches mourn.
Yet ev❜n this season pleasance blithe affords,
Now the squeez'd press foams with our apple hoards.
Come, let us hye, and quaff a cheery bowl,
Let cyder new wash forrow from thy foul.

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Dirge, or Dyrge, a mournful ditty, or fong of lamentation, over the dead; not a contraction of the Latin Dirige in the Popish hymn, Dirige gressus meos, as fome pretend. But from the Teutonick Dyrke, laudare, to praise and extol. Whence it is poffible their Dyrke, and our Dirge, was a laudatory fong to commemorate and applaud the dead.Cowell's Interpreter.

GRUBBINOL.

Ah, Bumkinet! fince thou from hence wert gone, From these fad plains all merriment is flown; Should I reveal my grief 'twould spoil thy chear, And make thine eye o'erflow with many a tear.

BUMKINET.

Hang forrow! Let's to yonder hutt repair, 15 And with trim fonnets caft away our care. Gillian of Croydon well thy pipe can play ; Thou fing'st most sweet, O'er hills and far away. Of Patient Griffel I devise to fing,

And catches quaint shall make the vallies ring. 20 Come, Grubbinol, beneath this fhelter, come; From hence we view our flocks fecurely roam.

GRUBBINOL.

Yes, blithefome lad, a tale I mean to fing, But with my woe fhall diftant valleys ring. The tale shall make our kidlings drcop their head, For woe is me!-our Blouzelind is dead.

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BUMKINET.

Is Blouzelinda dead? farewell my glee! No happiness is now reserv'd for me.

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15. Incipe, Mopfe, prior fi quos aut Phyllidis ignes Aut Alconis habes laudes, aut jurgia Codri.

27. Glee, joy; from the Dutch, gleoren, to recreate.

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