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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,
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,
Despise the known, nor tremble at th' unknown?
Survey both worlds, intrepid and entire,
In fpite 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?
Has life no fournefs, drawn fo near its end;
Can'ft thou endure a foe, forgive a friend?
Has age but melted the rough parts away,
As winter-fruits grow mild ere they decay?




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:
Walk fober off; before a fprightlier age

Comes titt'ring on, and fhoves you from the stage: 325
Leave fuch to trifle with more grace and ease,
Whom folly pleases, and whofe follies please.


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







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;

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

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!
Here a lean bard, whofe wit could never give
Himself a dinner, makes an actor live :

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SIR; though I (thank God I do hate
Perfectly all this town; yet there's one state

In all ill things, so excellently beft,

That hate towards them, breeds pity towards the rest,
Though poetry, indeed, be fuch 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 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,
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' infpiring bellows blow:
Th' infpiring bellows lie and pant below.

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One fings the fair; but songs 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 fcorn the flesh, the dev'l, and all but gold.
Thefe write to lords, fome mean reward to get,
As needy beggars fing at doors for meat.
Those write because all write, and fo have ftill
Excufe for writing, and for writing ill.

Wretched indeed! but far more wretched





Is he who makes his meal on others wit:
'Tis chang'd, no doubt, from what it was before,
His rank digeftion makes it wit no more:



And faves his life) gives ideot actors means
(Starving himself) to live by's labour'd scenes.
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;
Rams and flings now are filly battery,

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
That 'fcufe for writing, and for writing ill.

But he is worst, who beggarly doth chaw
Others wits fruits, and in his ravenous maw
Rankly digefted, doth these things outspue,
As his own things: and they're his own, 'tis true,


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