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"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,
Or will you think, my friend, your business done, 320 When, of a hundred thorns, you pull out one?
Learn to live well, or fairly make your will;
You've play'd, and lov'd, and eat, and drank your fill:
Comes titt'ring on, and fhoves you from the stage: 325
Quid vetat et nosmet Lucili fcripta legentes
YES; thank my ftars! as early as I knew
This town, I had the fenfe to hate it too : Yet here, as ev'n in Hell, there must be ftill One giant-vice, so 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: Catch'd like the plague, or love, the Lord knows how, But that the cure is ftarving, all allow.
Yet like the Papift's, is the poet's state,
Poor and difarm'd, and hardly worth your hate!
SIR; though I (thank God for.it). I do hate
In all ill things, so 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 ftate
poor, difarm'd, like Papifts, not worth hate. One (like a wretch, which at barre judg'd as dead, Yet prompts him which ftands next, and connot read,
The thief condemn'd, in law already dead,
One fings the fair; but songs no longer move;
Wretched indeed! but far more wretched
Is he who makes his meal on others wit:
And faves his life) gives ideot actors means
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;
Piftolets are the best artillery.
And they who write to lords, rewards to get,
Are they not like fingers at doors for meat?
And they who write, because all write, have ftill
But he is worst, who beggarly doth chaw