Works: In English Verse, Volume 3

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Page 121 - Hear this, and tremble! you, who 'scape the laws. Yes, while I live, no rich or noble knave Shall walk the world, in credit, to his grave. To Virtue only and her friends a friend, The world beside may murmur, or commend.
Page 119 - My head and heart thus flowing through my quill, Verse-man or prose-man, term me which you will, Papist or protestant, or both between, Like good Erasmus in an honest mean, In moderation placing all my glory, While tories call me whig, and whigs a tory.
Page 83 - Thus having said, the gallant chiefs alight, Their hands they join, their mutual faith they plight ; Brave Glaucus then each narrow thought resign'd, (Jove warm'd his bosom, and enlarged his mind,) For Diomed's brass arms, of mean device, For which nine oxen paid, (a vulgar price,) He gave his own, of gold divinely wrought," A hundred beeves the shining purchase bought.
Page 118 - In me what spots (for spots I have) appear, Will prove at least the medium must be clear. In this impartial glass, my muse intends Fair to expose myself, my foes, my friends; Publish the present age; but where my text Is vice too high, reserve it for the next: My foes shall wish my life a longer date, And every friend the less lament my fate.
Page 120 - What? arm'd for virtue when I point the pen, Brand the bold front of shameless guilty men; Dash the proud gamester in his gilded car ; Bare the mean heart that lurks beneath a star ; Can there be wanting, to defend her cause, Lights of the Church, or guardians of the laws ? no Could pension'd Boileau lash in honest strain Flatt'rers and bigots ev'n in Louis
Page 121 - There my retreat the best companions grace, Chiefs out of war, and statesmen out of place: There St. John mingles with my friendly bowl The feast of reason and the flow of soul...
Page 226 - tis ftrange, dear fir, that this fhould be In you amufement, but a fault in me. All this is bare refining on a name, To make a difference where the fault's the fame. My father fold me to your fervice here, For this fine livery, and four pounds a year.
Page 119 - But touch me, and no Minister so sore. Whoe'er offends, at some unlucky time Slides into verse, and hitches in a rhyme, Sacred to Ridicule his whole life long, And the sad burthen of some merry song.
Page 119 - Its proper power to hurt each creature feels; Bulls aim their horns, and asses lift their heels ; Tis a bear's talent not to kick, but hug; And no man wonders he's not stung by pug.
Page 227 - And while that world turns round, entire and whole, He keeps the facred tenor of his foul ; In every turn of fortune ftill the fame, As gold unchang'd, or brighter from the flame : Collefted in himfelf, with godlike pride, He fees the darts of envy glance afide ; And, fix'd like Atlas, while the tempefts blow, Smiles at the idle ftorms that roar below.

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