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h Learn to live will, or fairly make your You 've play'd, and lov'd, and eat, and drank Walk fober off; before a fprightlier age
Comes tittering on, and shoves you from the stage:
h Vivere fi recte nefcis, decede peritis.
"Quid vetat et nofmet Lucili fcripta legentes
ES; thank my stars! as early as I knew This Town, I had the fenfe to hate it 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 Sappho, fmiles at other whores.
It brought (no doubt) th' Excife and Army in:
Yet like the Papist's, is the Poet's state,
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 rest.
As I think, that brings dearth and Spaniards in:
Never, till it be ftarv'd out; yet their state
poor, difarm'd, like Papifts, not worth hate.
Here a lean Bard, whose wit could never give
So prompts, and faves a rogue who cannot read.
One fings the Fair: but fongs no longer move; No rat is rhym'd to death, nor maid to love: In love's, in nature's fpite, the fiege they hold, And scorn the flesh, the devil, and all but gold. These write to Lords, fome mean reward to get, 25 As needy beggars fing at doors for meat.
One (like a wretch, which at barre judg'd as dead, Yet prompts him which ftands next, and cannot read, And faves his life) gives Idiot Actors means (Starving himself) to live by 's labour'd fcenes. As in fome Organs Puppits dance above, And bellows pant below, which them do move.
One would move love by rhymes; but witchcraft's charms
Bring not now their old fears, nor their old harms;
Pistolets are the best artillery.
And they who write to Lords, rewards to get,