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I neither ftrut with ev'ry fav'ring breath,
Nor ftrive with all the tempeft in my teeth.
In pow'r, wit, figure, virtue, fortune, plac'd
Behind the foremost, and before the last.



"But why all this of Av'rice? I have none."
I wish you joy, Sir, of a Tyrant gone;
But does no other lord it at this hour,
As wild and mad? the Avarice of pow'r?
Does neither Rage inflame, nor Fear appall?
Not the black fear of death, that faddens all?
With terrors round, can Reafon hold her throne, 310
Despise the known, nor tremble at th' unknown?
Survey both worlds, intrepid and entire,

In fpight: of witches, devils, dreams, and fire?
Pleas'd to look forward, pleas'd to look behind,
And count each birth-day with a grateful mind? 315
Has life no fournefs, drawn so near its end?
Can't thou endure a foe, forgive a friend?
Has age but melted the rough parts away,
As winter-fruits grow mild e'er they decay?
Or will you think, my friend, your business done, 320
When, of a hundred thorns, you pull out one?

h` Learn to live well, or fairly make your will; You've play'd, and lov'd, and eat, and drank your fill: Walk fober off; before a fprightlier age

Comes titt'ring on, and fhoves you from the stage: Leave fuch to trifle with more grace and eafe, 326 Whom Folly pleases, and whofe Follies please.


Imitator is only for removing the falfe terrors from the world of fpirits, fuch as the diablerie of witchcraft and purgatory.





Dean of ST. PAUL's,


Quid vetat et nofmet Lucili fcripta legentes
Quaerere, num illius, num rerum dura negarit
Verficulos natura magis factos, et euntes


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IR; though (I thank God for it) I do hate
Perfectly all this town; yet there's one state

In all ill things fo excellently beft,

That hate towards them, breeds pity towards the reft. Though Poetry, indeed, be such a fin,

As, I think, that brings dearth and Spaniards in: Though like the peftilence, and old-fashion'd love, Ridlingly it catch men, and doth remove

Never, till it be ftarv'd out; yet their state

Is poor, difarm'd, like Papists, not worth hate.

One (like a wretch, which at barre judg❜d as dead, Yet prompts him which stands next, and cannot read, And faves his life) gives Idiot Actors means, (Starving himself) to live by's labour'd scenes. As in fome Organs, Puppits dance above

And bellows pant bellow, which them do move.

One would move love by rythmes; but witchcraft's


Bring not now their old fears, nor their old harms;



ES; thank my ftars! as early as I knew

This Town, I had the sense to hate it too:

Yet here, as ev'n in Hell, there must be ftill
One Giant-Vice, fo excellently ill,

That all befide, one pities, not abhors;

As who knows Sapho, fmiles at other whores.
I grant that Poetry's a crying fin;


It brought (no doubt) th' Excise and Army in: Catch'd like the Plague, or Love, the Lord knows


But that the cure is ftarving, all allow.

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Yet like the Papift's, is the Poet's ftate,

Poor and difarm'd, and hardly worth your hate!
Here a lean Bard, whofe wit could never give
Himfelf a dinner, makes an Actor live:
The Thief condemn'd, in law already dead,
So prompts, and faves a rogue who cannot read.
Thus as the pipes of fome carv'd Organ move,
The gilded puppets dance and mount above.
Heav'd by the breath th' inspiring bellows blow:
Th' infpiring bellows lie and pant below.

One fings the Fair; but fongs no longer move; No rat is rhym'd to death, nor maid to love: * O

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