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Each drinks at Will the Toaft, and pays alone
The Homage of a Bumper to his own.

No Cares of Pelf, to mar the Scene of Joy,
Nor blund'ring Politics our Thoughts employ ;
We leave, contented, to the courtly Rout,
When IN, to triumph, and complain, when

OUT.

Far better Converfe fills our circling Time,
Where Knowledge fhines, and Ignorance is a
Crime;

If fplendid Wealth, or Goodness, can impart
A purer Transport to the feeling Heart;
If Fashion wifely guide the worldly Breast,
To chufe for Friends the richest as the best;
From Virtue's Source if conscious Rapture flow,
Or Pleasure form our Happiness below.

While thus we chat, the Vicar of the Place
Unbends our grave Philofophy of Face;
Fond of his Jeft, and fearlefs of the Great,
He paints the Bleffings of the Chaplain's State.
A Country Vicar in his homely House,
Pleas'd with his Lot, and happy in his Spouse,
With fimple Diet, at his frugal Board,
Once entertain'd the Chaplain of a Lord :
He gave him (all he could) a little Fish,
With Sauce of Oysters, in no Silver Dish;
And, for the craving Stomach's fure Relief,
The Glory of old England, rare Roaft-Beef,

Horfe

Horfe-radish, and Potatoes, Ireland's Pride;
A Pudding too the prudent Dame supply'd :
Their cheering Beverage was a Pint of Port,
(Though small the Quantum) of the better Sort;
But Plenty of good Beer, both small and ftout,
With Wine of Elder, to prevent the Gout.
The Vicar hop'd, by fuch a various Treat,
To tempt his Scarf-embellish'd Friend to eat ;
With niceft Bits provok'd his Gueft to dine,
He carv'd the Haddock, and he ferv'd the Wine;
Content his own fharp Stomach to regale
With plain fubftantial Roaft-Meat and mild Ale.
Our courtly Chaplain, you may well suppose,
At fuch old-fashion'd Commons curl'd his Nose;
He try'd in vain to piddle, and, in brief,
Pish'd at the Pudding, and declin'd the Beef.
At length, their homely Dinner finish'd quite,
Thus to the Vicar spoke the Priest polite :

'How can my Brother, in this paltry Town, • Live undistinguish'd, to the World unknown? And not exalt his towering Genius higher, Than here to herd with Country Clown- or Squire ?

Stunn'd with the Discord of hoarfe cawing
Rooks,

• The Roar of Winds, the Diffonance of Brooks,
• Which discontented through the Valley ftray,
• Plaintive and murmuring at their long Delay.

'Come,

* Come, come with Me, nor longer here abide • You've Friends in Town, and I will be your Guide:

* Soon to your Share fome Dignity will fall, • At least a Sine-Cure, perhaps a Stall.'

These weightyReasons sway'd theVicar's Mind, To Town he hied, but left his Wife behind : Next Levee-Day he waited on his Grace, With hundreds more, who bow'd to get a Place; Shov'd in the Crowd, he ftood amaz'd to fee Lords who to Baäl bent the supple Knee, And Doctors fage he could not but admire, Who ftoop'd profoundly low-to rise the higher : Such Ermine, Lace, Beaux, Bifhops, young and

old,

'Twas like a Cloud of Sable edg'd with Gold.
By Turns his Grace the fervile Train addrefs'd,
Charm'd with a Smile, or in a Whisper blefs'd.
Sick of the Scene, the Vicar fought the Door,
Determin'd never to fee London more;
But, as his Friend had pleas'd the Hour to fix,
First went to Dinner in Soho at Six.

He knock'd-was ufher'd to the Room of State,
(My Lord abroad) and Dinner ferv'd in Plate;
Which, though it seem'd but common Soup and
Was real Callipee and Callipash,

(The Relicks of the gaudy Day before,) What Indians eat, and Englishmen adore.

[Hash,

With bright Champaign the Courtier crown'd

the Feaft,

Sooth'd his own Pride, and gratify'd his Guest.
All this confpir'd our Stoic to controul,
And warp'd the fteady Purpose of his Soul:
But fond of early Hours, though light of Heart,
When the firft Watchman warn'd him to depart,
His careful Hoft would fee him cross the Square,
Safe from the Coach, the Flambeau, and the Chair,
As here, it seems, while meaner Mortals flept,
At Riot-Houfe were Midnight Revels kept.
They clear'd the Coaches, and the Kennel cross'd;
When, with their Poles, against a filthy Post
Two Chair-men, Irish-born, our Vicar threw,
Tore his beft Cloaths, and bruis'd him black and
blue;

Aghaft he rofe, firft view'd his tatter'd Veft, Then rubb'd his Shin, and thus his Friend addrefs'd:

Adieu-be Turtle, Routs, and Grandeur thine; • Beef, a good Coat, and a whole Skin, be mine!' 1765.

SATIRE

SATIRE VII.

A Dialogue between the POET and his SLAVE.. By Mr. J. DUNCOMBE

That every Man is a Slave, who is under the Controul of his Paffions.

DAVUS.

To you I long have lent a listening Ear, Wifhing to speak, but, as your Slave, forbear. HORACE.

Say, who is there? What, 1 Davus, is it you?
DAVUS.

The fame, Sir; ever to my Mafter true:
Though wife enough, yet not fo wife that 2 Death
In early Youth should ftop my vital Breath.

HORACE.

The Freedom granted by our Sires of old
On 3 Saturn's Feafts enjoy; speak uncontroul'd.
DAVUS.

Some, by their Paffions blindly led away,
Thro' the fmooth Paths of lawless Pleasure ftray:
Some to and fro with Course unsteady swim,
And practife Vice or Virtue for a Whim.

Three Rings at Morn on Prifcus' 4 left Hand fhone,
But the fame Hand at Night difplay'd not one.
A various Dress he Hour would wear:
every
From a proud Palace he would ftrait repair

To

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