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Return well travell'd, and transform'd to beasts;
Or for a titled punk, or foreign flame,

Renounce our country, and degrade our name?
If, after all, we must with Wilmot own
The cordial drop of life is love alone,
And Swift cry wisely, Vive la bagatelle!'

The man that loves and laughs must sure do well.
Adieu-if this advice appear the worst,

E'en take the counsel which I gave you first:
Or better precepts if you can impart,

Why do ; I'll follow them with all my heart.



"Tis true, my lord, I gave my word
I would be with you June the third;
Chang'd it to August, and (in short)
Have kept it—as you do at court.
You humour me when I am sick,
Why not when I am splenetic?
In town what objects could I meet?
The shops shut up in every street,
And funerals blackening all the doors,
And yet more melancholy whores:

5 Earl of Rochester.

And what a dust in every place!

And a thin court that wants your face,
And fevers raging up and down,
And W* and H** both in town!

'The dogdays are no more the case.' 'Tis true, but winter comes apace: Then southward let your bard retire, Hold out some months 'twixt sun and fire, And you shall see the first warm weather Me and the butterflies together.

My lord, your favours well I know;
'Tis with distinction you bestow,
And not to every one that comes,
Just as a Scotchman does his plums.
'Pray take them, sir-enough's a feast:
Eat some, and pocket up the rest :'
What, rob your boys? those pretty rogues!
'No, sir, you'll leave them to the hogs.'
Thus fools with compliments besiege ye,
Contriving never to oblige ye.
Scatter your favours on a fop,
Ingratitude's the certain crop;

And 'tis but just, I'll tell ye wherefore :
You give the things you never care for.
A wise man always is, or should,
Be mighty ready to do good,

But makes a difference in his thought
Betwixt a guinea and a groat.

Now this I'll say, you'll find in me
A safe companion, and a free;

But if you'd have me always near,
A word, pray, in your honour's ear:
I hope it is your resolution

To give me back my constitution,
The sprightly wit, the lively eye,
Th' engaging smile, the gayety

That laugh'd down many a summer sun,
And kept you up so oft till one;
And all that voluntary vein,
As when Belinda rais'd my strain.

A weasel once made shift to slink
In at a corn-loft through a chink,
But having amply stuff'd his skin,
Could not get out as he got in;
Which one belonging to the house
('Twas not a man, it was a mouse,)
Observing, cried, 'You 'scape not so;
Lean as you came, sir, you must go.'
Sir, you may spare your application;
I'm no such beast, nor his relation,
Nor one that temperance advance,
Cramm'd to the throat with ortolans;
Extremely ready to resign

All that may make me none of mine.
South-sea subscriptions take who please,
Leave me but liberty and ease:
"Twas what I said to Craggs and Child,
Who prais'd my modesty, and smil❜d.
'Give me, I cried (enough for me),
My bread and independency!'

So bought an annual rent or two,
And liv'd just as you see I do ;
Near fifty, and without a wife,
I trust that sinking fund, my life.
Can I retrench? Yes, mighty well,
Shrink back to my paternal cell,
A little house, with trees a row,
And, like its master, very low;
There died my father, no man's debtor,
And there I'll die, nor worse nor better.
To set this matter full before ye,
Our old friend Swift will tell his story.
'Harley, the nation's great support'-
But you may read it, I stop short.



The reflections of Horace, and the judgments passed in his epistle to Augustus, seemed so seasonable to the present times, that I could not help applying them to the use of my own country: The author thought them considerable enough to address them to his prince, whom he paints with all the great and good qualities of a monarch upon whom the Romans depended for the increase of an absolute empire; but to make the poem entirely English, I was willing to add one or two of those which contribute to the happiness of a free people, and are more consistent with the welfare of our neighbours.

This epistle will show the learned world to have fallen into two mistakes: one, that Augustus was a patron of poets in general; whereas he not only prohibited all but the best writers to name him, but recommended that care even to the civil magistrate; Admonebat prætores, ne paterentur nomen suum obsolefieri, &c.; the other, that this piece was only a general discourse of poetry; whereas it was an apology for the poets, in order to render Augustus more their patron. Horace here pleads the cause of his contemporaries; first, against the taste of the town, whose humour it was to magnify the authors of the preceding age; secondly, against the court and nobility, who encouraged only the writers for the theatre; and, lastly, against the emperor himself, who had conceived them of little use to the government. He shows (by a view of the progress of learning, and the change of taste among the Romans) that the introduction of the polite arts of Greece had given the writers of his time great advantages over their prede

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