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Not that tradition's parts are useless here : Consulted soberly his private good ;
When gen’rul, old, disinterested, clear:

And fav’d himself as chicap as e'er he could.
That ancient fathers thus expound the page, 'Tis truc, my friend, and far be fatt'ry hence,
Gives truth the reverend inajesty of age: This good had full as bad a consequence :
Confirms its force by 'biding ev'ry telt; The book thus put in tv'ry vulgar hand
For best authorities, next rules, are bett: Which cach presum'd he best could understand,
And still the nearer to the spring we go, The common rule was made the common preys
More limpid, more unfoil'd, the waters flow. And at the mercy of the rabble lay.
Thus first traditions were a proof alone; The tender page with horny fitts was gall’d;
Could we be certain, such they were, fo known; And he was gifted molt that loudest baul'd:
But since fome Aaws in long detcent may be, The spirit gave the doctoral degree:
They inake not truth, but probability.

And ev'ry member of a company Ev'n Arius and Pelagius durft provoke Was of his trade, and of the Bible free. To what the centuries preceding tpoke ; Plain truths enough for needful use they found ; Such diff'rence is there in an oft-told tale : But men would still be itching to expound: But truth by its own finews will prevail. Each was ambitious of th’obscurest place, Tradition written therefore more commends No measure ta’en from knowledge, all from Authority, than what from voice descends.

grace. And this, as perfect as its kind can be,

Study and pains were now no more their care ; Rolls down to us the sacred history :

Texis were explained by fafting and by pray’r: Which, from the universal church receir'd, This was the fruit the private fpirit brought ; Ia try'd, and after, for itself believ'd.

Occasion'd by great zeal and little thought. The partial Papists would infer from hence, While crowds unlearn'd, with rude devotion Their church, in last resort, should judge the sente. About the sacred viands buz and swarm. [warm, But first they would affume with wond'rous art, The fly-blown text creates a crawling brood, Themselves to be the whole, who are but part And turns to maggots what was meant for food. Of that vart frame the church; yet grant they were A thousand daily fects rise up and dic; The handers-down, can they from thence infer A thousand more the perish'd race supply: A righe t'interpret? or would they alone, So all we make of Hear'n's discover'd will, Who brought the present, claim it for their own? Is not to have it, or to use it ill. The book's a common largeis to mankind; The danger's much the same; on fev'ral shelves Not more for them than ev'ry man design'd: If others wreck us, or we wreck ourselves. The welcome news is in the letter found ; What then remains, but, waving each extreme, The carrier's not commiflion'd to expound. The tides of ignorance and pride to ftem ? It speaks itself, and what it does contain, Neither so rich a treasure to forego ; In all things needful to be known is plain. Nor proudly seek beyond our pow'r to know:

In times o'ergrown with ruft and ignorance, Faith is not huilt on disquisitions vain ; A gainful trade their clergy did advance: The things we must beliere are few and plain; When want of learning kept the laymen low, But since men will believe more than they need, And none but priests were authoriz'd to know : And ev'ry man will make himself a creed, When what small knowledge was, in them did In doubtful questions 'tis the safest way, dwell;

To learn what untuspected ancients say: And he a god who could but rcad and spell ; For 'tis not likely we should higher foar Then mother church did mightily prevail ; In Icarch of heav'n than all the church before ; She parcel'd out the Bible by retail:

Nor can we be deceiv'd, unless,we fee But itill expounded what the fold or gave; The fcripture and the fathers disagree. To keep it in her power to damn and lave. If after all, they stand suspected still Scripture was scarce, and, as the market went, (For no man's faith depends upon his will) Poor laymen took salvation on content; 'Tis fome relief, that points not clearly known As needy men take money, good or bad: Without much hazard, may be let alone : God's word they had not, but the priest s they had. And, after hearing what our church can say, Yet whate'er false conveyances they made,

If still our reason runs another way, The lawyer ftill was certain to be paid. That private reason 'tis more just to curb, In thofe dark times they learn’d their knack fo | Than by disputes the public peace disturb ; That by long use they grew infallible, (well, For points obscure are of fmall use to learn; At last a knowing age began t'enquire

But common quier is mankind's concern. If they the book, or that did them inspire: Thus have I made my own opinions clear: And inaking narrower tearchthey found, thoʻlate, Yet neither praise expect, nor censure fear : That what they thought the priest's, was their And this unpolith'd rugged verse I chole, eftate :

As fittest for discourse, and nearest prose : Taught by the will produc'd, the written word, For while from facred truth I do not swerve, How long they had been cheated on record. Tom Sternhold's or Tom Shadweil's rhymes Then ev'ry man who saw the title fair,

will serve Claim'd' a child's part, and put in for a thare;

" Mac Flockroe.


§ 29. Mac Flecknoe. DRYDEN. Close to the walls which fair Augufta bind

(The fair Augufta, much to fears inclin'd) A LL human things are fubject to decay; [obey: An ancient fabric, rais'd t'inform the fight,

And, when Fate summons, monarchs must There stood of yore, and Barbican its height: This Flecknoe found, who, like Augustus, young A watch-tow's once; but now, fo fate ordains, Was call’d to empire, and had govern'd long;

Of all the pile an empty name remains: In prose and verse was own'd, without dispute, From its old ruins brothel-houses rise, Thro' all the realms of Nonsense, absolute. Scenes of lewd loves, and of polluted joys, This aged prince, now flourishing in peace, Where their vast courts the mother-Itrumpets And bless'd with issue of a large increase,

keep, Worn out with bus'ness, did at length debate

And, undisturb'd by watch, in silence sleep. To settle the fucceffion of the stare;

Near these a nursery erects its head, And pond'ring which, of all his fons, was fit

Where queens are form’d, and future heroes bred, To reign, and wage immortal war with Wit,

Where un fledgid actors learn to laugh and cry, Cry'd, 'Tis resolv’d; for Nature pleads, that he Where infant punks their tender voices try, Should only rule who most resembles me. And little Maximins the gods defy. Sh-alone, my perfect image bears, Great Fletcher never treads in bufkins here, Mature in dulnels from his tender years : Nor greater Jonson dares in focks appear ; Sh, alone, of all my sons, was re,

But gentle Simkin just reception finds Who ftands confirm'd in full stupidity.

Amidst this monument of vanish'd minds : Theʼreft, to some faint meaning make pretence ; Pure clinches the suburbian muse affords, But Sh never deviates into sense.

And Panton waging harmless war with words, Some beams of wit on other souls may fall, Here Flecknoe, as a place to fame well known, Strike thro', and make a lucid interval;

Ambitiously design'd his She's throne : But She's genuine night admits no ray; For ancient Decker prophecy'd, long lince, His rising foys prevail upon the day.

That in this pile should reign a mighty prince, Besides, his goodly fabric fills the eye,

Born for a fcourge of Wit, and Mail of sense ; And seems design'd for thoughtless majesty : To whom true dulness should fome Psychesowe; Thoughtless as monarch oaks,that shade the plain, But worlds of Misers from his pen should flow; And, spread in folemn state, supinely reign. Humorists and Hypocrites it lould produce ; Heywood and Shirley were but types of thee, Whole Raymond families, and tribes of Bruce. Thou last great prophet of Tautology.

Now empress Fame had publish'd the renowa Ev'n I, a dunce of more renown than they, Of Shm's coronation thro' the town. Was fént before but to prepare thy way ; Rouz'd by report of Fame, the nations meet, And, coarsely clad in Norwich drugget, came

From near Bun-hill, and distant Watling-streets To teach the nations in thy greater name. No Persian carpets spread th’imperial way, My warbling lute, the lute I whilom strung, But scatter'd limbs of mangled poets lay: When to king John of Portugal I sung, From dusty thops negleEtcd authors come, Was but the prelude to that glorious day, Martyrs of pyes, and reliques of the bum. When thou on silver Thaines didst cut thy way, Much Heywood, Shirley, Ogleby, there lay i With well-tim'd oars, before the royal barge, But loads of Sh almoft choak'd the way.. Swell’d with the pride of thy celestial charge; Bilk'd stationers for yeomen ftood preparid, And, big with hymn, commander of an host, And Hấn was captain of the guard. The like was ne'er in Epsom blankets tost. The hoary prince in majesty appear'd, Methinks I see the new Arion fail,

High on a throne of his own labours rear’d. The lute still trembling underneath thy nail. At his right hand our young Ascanius sat, At thy well-sharpen'd thumb, from shore to shore, Rome's other hope, and pillar of the state ; The trebles squeak for fear, the bases roar : His brows thick fogs, instead of glories, grace, Echoes from Billing-Alley Sh-call, And lambent Dulness play'd around his face, And Sh they resound from Aston-Hall. As Hannibal did to the altars come, About thy boat the little fishes throng, Sworn by his fire a mortal foe to Rome, As at the morning toast that floats along, So Sh-swore, nor should his vow be vain, Sometimes, as prince of thy harmonious band, That he, till death, true dulnets would maintains Thou wield'At thy papers in thy threshing hand. And, in his father's right, and realm's defence, St. Andre's feet ne'er kept more equal time, Ne'er to have peace with wit, nortruce with senie. Not e'en the feet of thine own Psyche's rhyme: The king himself the sacred unction made,

Though they in number as in sense excel; So juft, fo like Tautology they fell,

As king by office, and as priest by trade.

In his linister hand, instead of ball, That

, pale with envy, Singleton forsworo He plac'd a mighty mug of potent ale ; The lute and sword, which he in triumph bore, Love's kingdom to his right he did convey, And vow'd be ne'er would act Villerius more. Atonce his fceptre, and his rule of swav; (young,

Here stopt the good old fire, and wept for joy, Whose righteous lore the prince had practis’a In filent raptures of the hopeful boy.

And from whose loins recorded Psyche sprung:
All arguments, but moft his plays, persuade,
That for anointed dulaols he was made.

His temples last, with poppies were o'erspread,
That, nodding, seem'd to consecrate his head.


heard ;

Just at the point of time, if rame not lye, Nor let thy mountain-belly make pretence
On his left hand twelve rev'rend owls did Ay. Of likenels ; thine's a tympany of sense.
So Romulus, 'ois fung, by Tiber's brook, A tun of man in thy large bulk is writ;
Pretage of fivay from twice lix vultures took. But sure thou’rt but a kilderkin of wit.
Th'admiring throng loud acclamations inake, Like mine, ehy gentle numbers feebly creep;
And omens of his future empire takc.

Thy travic mufe gives finiles, thy comic, llcep. The fire then shook the honors of his head, With whate'er gall thou set'st thyself to write, And from his brow's damps of oblivion Thed Thy inoffensive

fatircs never bite. Full on the filial dulness; long he ftood,


In thy felonious heart though venom lies, Repelling from his brcast the raging god; It does but touch thy Irish pen, and dies. At length burst out in this prophetic mood : Thy genius calls thee not to purchase fame

• Heav'ns bless my son, from Ireland let him In keen lambics, but mild Anagram. To far Barbadocs on the western main ; [reign Leave writing plays, and chufe for thy command Of his dominion may no end be known, Some peaceful province in Acrostic land. And greater than his father's be his throne ; There thou may’It wings display, and altars raise, Beyond Love's kingdom let him fretch his pen!' And torture one poor word a thousand ways. He paus'd, and all the people cry'd, Amen. Or if thou would'st thy diff'rent talents fuit, Then thus continu'd hc : ‘My fon, advance Set thy own songs, and sing them to thy lute. Still in new impudence, new ignorance.

He said ; but his last words were scarcely Succets let others teach, learn thou, from me, Paogs without birth, and fruitless industry. For Bruce and Longvil had a trap prepar'd ; Let Virtuofos in five years be writ ;

And down they fent the yet declaining bard. Yet not one thought accuse thy toil of wit. Sinking, he left his drugged robe behind, Let gentle George in triumph tread the stage, Borne upwards by a subterranean wind. Makc Dorimant betray, and Loveit rage ; The mandle fell to the

young prophct's part, Lct Cully, Cockwood, Fopling, charm the pit, With double portion of his father's art. And, in their folly, Thew the writer's wit. Yet itill thy Fools Mall stand in thy defence, And justify their author's want of sense.

§ 30. An Elay upon Satire. Let 'em be all by thy own model made

DRYDÉN and BUCKINGHAM. Of dulness, and defire no forcign aid; That they to future ages may

be known,

HOW dull, and how insensible a beast Not copies drawn, but illuc of thy own.

Is man, who yet would lord it o'er the rest! Nay, let thy men of wit too be the same; Philofophers and pocts vainly ftrove All full of thee, and diff'ring but in namc. In ev'ry age the lumpish mass to move : But let no alien S-dl--y interpose,

But those were pedants, when compard with these, To lard with wit thy hungry Lipfom profe. Who know not only to infruct but please. And, when falle How'ss of Rhetoric thou would's Poets alone found the deliglitful way, Truf Nature, do not labour to be dull; [cull, Mysterious morals gently to convey But write thy best, and top; and, in each line, In charming numbers ; so that as men grew Sir Formal's oratory will be thine :

Pleas'd with their poems, they grew witer too Sir Formal, though unsought, attends thy quill, Satire has always thone among the rest, And does thy Northern Dedications fill.

And is the boldeft wav, if not the best, Nor let false friends fcduce thy mind to fame, To tell men frecly of their fouleft faults ; By arrogating Jonson's hostile name.

Tolaugh at their vain deeds, and vainer thoughts. Lét father Fleck noc fire thy mind with praise,

In fatire too, the wife took diff'rent ways; And uncle Ogleby thy envy raise.

To cach dcferving its peculiar praise. Thou art my blood, where Jonton has no part : Some did all folly with just sharpnefs blame, What Haare have we in nature or in art ?

Whilst others laugh’d, and corn'd them into Where did his wit on Learning fix a brand, But of these two, the last fucceeded beft, (Thame, And rail at arts he did not undertiand ?

As men aim rightest when they shoot in jeft. Where made hc love in Prince Nicander's vein, Yet, if we may prefume to blame our guides, Or fivept the dust in Pivche's humble it rain And censure thote who censure all befidcs; Wherefold he bargains, ivhip-stitch, kiss my arse; In other things they justly are preferrd: Promis'd a play, and dwindld to a farce?

In this alone mcthinks the ancients err'd ; When did his mufe from Fletcher scenes purloin, Against the grollert follics they declaim; Asthou whulc Eth'ridge doft transtule to thine > Hard they pursue, but hunt ignoble game. But to transfus’d, as oil and waters flow; Nothing is easier than fuch blots to hit, Vis alieau's Boats above, thine sinks below. And 'tis the talent of cach vulgar wit : This is the province, this thy wond'rous way, Besides, 'tis labour loft ; for who would preach New humours to invent for each new play: Morals to Armstrong, or dull Alton teach? This is that boasted bias of thy mind,

'Tis being devout at play, wife at a ball, By which, onc ivay, to důlncíš 'tis inclin'd; Or bringing wit and frienuthip to Whitehall. Which makes thy writings lean on one side ftill, But with sharp eyes those nicer faults to find, And, in all changes, that way bends thy will, Which lie obscurely in the wifeít mind;




That little speck which all the rest does spoil,

But soon the lady had hin in her eve,
To wash off that would be a noble toil ;

And from her friend did just as oddly Ay. Beyond the loose-writ libels of this age, Reaching above our nature does no gcod; Or the forc'd scenes of our declining stage ;

W'e muli fall back to our old fleth and blood; Above all censure too, cach little wit

As by our little Machiavel, we find Will be so glad to see the greater hit ;

That nimblest creature of the buty kind, Who judging better, though concern’d the most, His limbs are crippled, and his body shakes ; Of such correction will have caure to boast. Yet his hard mind, which allthis bustle inakes, In sus a satire all would icek a share,

No pity of its poor companion takes. And ev'ry fool will fancy he is there.

What gravity can hold from laughing out, Old Itory-tellers too mult pine and die, To lee him drag his feeble legs about, To see their antiquated wit laid by ;

Like hounds ill-couplid ? Jowler lugs him ftill Like her, who miss'd her name in a lampoon, Thro' hedges, ditches, and thro' all that's ill. And griev'd to find herself decay'd fo toon. "Twere crime in any man but hiin alone, No common coxcomb must be mention'd here : To use a body so, tho' 'tis one's own : Nor the dull train of dancing sparks appear ;

Yet this falle comfoit nevergives him o'er, [foar : Nor flutt'ring officers who never fight;

That whilst he creeps his vig'rous thougłts can Of such a wretched rabble who would write? Alas! that soaring, to those few that know, Much less half-wits ; that's more against our Is but a busy grov’ling here below. For they are fops ; the other are but fools. [rules; So men in rapture think they mount ihe iky; Who would not be as filly as Dunbar? Whilft on the groundihitianced's t'es neslie: As dull as Monmouth, rather than Sir Carr? So inodern fops have fancy'durer could Av. The cunning courtier ihould be Nighted too, As the new earl with parts delerving pr...le, Who with duli knav'ry makes so much ado;

And it enough to laugh at his own ways; Till the shrewd fool, by thriving too, tuo faft,

Yet loses all loft days and sensual nichts, Like Æfop's fox, becomes a prey at last, Kind nature checks, and kinder fortune ilights; Nor Mall the royal mistrellus be namid; Striving against his quict all he can, . Too ugly, or too caly to be blam'd; (pother, For the tine notion of a busy man. With whom each rhyining fuvol keeps such a And what is that at beft, but one, whose mind They are as cominon that way as the other : Is made to tire himself and all mankind ? Yet faunt’ring Charles, between his beastly

For Ireland he would go ; faith, ler iim reign; brace,

För if some odd fantastic lord would fain. Mects with disembling fiili in cither place, Carry in trunks, and all iny drudy'ry do, Alected humour, or a painted face.

I'll not only pay him, but admire him too. In loyal libels we have often told hiin,

But is there any other beast that lives, How one has jilted him, the oth-r fold him : Who his own harm so wittingly contrives ? How that affcêts to laugh, how this to weep;

Will any dog, that has his tecth and stones, But who can rail so long as he can scep? Refin’dly leave his bitches and his bones Was ever prince by tro at oncc milled,

To turn a wheel : and bark to be employ'd, False, foolish, old, ill-natur'd, and ill-bred ? While Venus is by rival dogs enjoy’d? Earnely and Aylesbury, with all that race Yet this fond man, to get a statesinan's name, Of buty blockheads, shall have here no place ;

Forfeits his friends, his frecdom, and his fame. At council set as foils on Dorfet's score,

Though fatiro nicely writ no humour itings To make that great false jewel shine the more ;

But those who merit praise in other things ; Who all that while was thought exceeding wise,

Yet we must needs this one exception make, Only for taking pains and telling lics.

And break our rules for folly Tropos fake; But there's no ineddling with such nauseous men! Who was too much depuis’d to be accus'd, Their very naincs have tir'd iny lazy pen :

And therefore scarce deterves to be abus'd ; 'Tis time to quit their company, and choose Rais'd only by his mercenary tongue, Some fitter subject for a sharper Mufc. For railing fmoothly, and for reas’ning wrong,

First, let's behold the merriett man alive As boys on holydavs, let loose to play, Against his careless genius vainly itrive; Lay waggish traps for girls that pass that way ; Quit his dear cafi, lome deep design to lay, Then shout to see in dirt and deep diftress Gainst a fer time, and then forget the day : Some filly cit in her Row'r'd foolith dress; Yet he will laugh at his best friends, and be So have I mighty satisfaction found, Just as good company as Nokes and Lee. To see his tiniel reason on the ground; But when he aims at reason, or at rule,

To fce the forid fool despis’d, and know it, He turns himself the best to ridicule.

By fome who scarce have words enough to fhowit : Let him at bus'ness pe'er so earrcft sit,

For fenfe fits filent, and condemns for weaker Shew him but mirth, and hair that inirth with wit; The finner, nay, fonetimes the wittiest 1peaker: That Iliadow of a jet shall be enjoy’l,

But ’ris prodigious so much eloquence Though he left all mankind to be ciestroy'd. Should be acquired by such little icnsc ! So cat, tranform’d, fat gravely and demure,

For words and wit did anciently agree ;. Till moule appear’d, and thought himself fecure; And Tully was no fool, though this man be.

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At bar abusive, on the bench unable,

Then o'er his cups this night-bird chirping fitsi Knave on the woollack, fop at council-table. Till he takes Hewet and Jack Hall for wics. These are the grievances of such fools as would Rochester I despise for want of wit, Be rather wife than honest, great than good. Though thought to have a tail and cloven foot ;

Some other kind of wits must be made known, For while he mischief means to all mankind, Whose hariniess errors hurt themselves alone ; Himself alone the ill effects does find : Excess of luxury they think can please, And so like witches justly suffers shame, And laziness call loving of their cafe ;

Whose harmless malice is so much the fame, To live diffolv'd in pleasures ftill they feign, Falle are his words, affected is his wit ; Though their whole life's but intermitting pain: So often he does aim, so seldom hit ; So much of surfeits, head-aches, claps, are seen, To ev'ry face he cringes while he speaks, We scarce perceive the little time between ; But when the back is turn'd, the head he breaks: Well-meaning men who make this gross mistake, Mean in cach action, lewd in ev'ry limb, And pleasure lose only for pleasure's fake ; Manners themselves are mischievous in him : Each pleasure has its price, and when we pay A proof that chance alone makes ev'ry creaturo Too much of pain, we {quander life away. A very Killigrew, without good-nature.

Thus Dorset, purring like a thoughtful cat, For what a Bessus has he always liv'd, Marry'd; but wiser puss ne'er thought of that ; And his own kickings notably contriv'd ? And first he worry'd her with railing rhime, For, there's the folly that's still mixt with fear, Like Pembroke's mastives at his kindest time; Cowards more blows than any hero bear ; Then for one night fold all his flavilh life, Of fighting sparks fome may their pleafures sayı A teeming widow, but a barren wife ;

But 'ris a bolder thing to run away :
Swell’d by contact of such a fulsome toad, The world may well forgive him all his ill,
He lugg'd about the matrimonial load ; For ev'ry fault does prove his penance ftilla
Till fortune, blindly kind as well as he, Falsely he falls into some dang’rous noole,
Has ill restor'd him to his liberty !

And then as meanly labours to get loose ;
Which he would use in his old Incaking way, A life fo infamous is better quitting,
Drinking all night, and dozing all the day; Spent in base injury and low submitting,
Dull as Ned Howard, whom his brisker times I'd like to have left out his poetry;
Had fam'd for dulness in mnalicious rhymes. Forgot by all almoft as well as me.

Mulgrave had much ado to 'scape the snare, Sometimes he has some humour, never wit;
Tho' learn’d in all those arts that cheat the fair ; And if it rarely, very rarely, hit,
For after all his vulgar marriage-mocks, 'Tis under so much nafty rubbish laid,
With beauty dazzld, Numps was in the stocks; To find it out's the cinderwoman's trade
Deluded parents dry'd their weeping eyes, Who for the wretched remnants of a fire,
To lee him catch his tartar for his prize ; Must toil all day in alhes and in mire.
Th’impatient town waited the wish'd-for change, So lewdly dull his idol works appear,
And cuckolds smil'd in hopes of tweet revenge ; The wretched texts deserve no comments here ;
Till Perworth plot made us with forrow fee, Where one poor thought sometimes, left all alonc
As his estate, his person too was free :

For a whole page of dulness must atone. Hiin no soft thoughts, no gratitude could move ; How vain a thing is man, and how unwise ; To gold he fled from beauty and from love; Ev'n he, who would himself the most despise ! Yet failing there, he keeps his freedom still, I, who so wife and humble seem to be, Forc'd to live happily against his will :

Now my own vanity and pride can't see. 'Tis not his fault, if too much wealth and pow'r While the world's nonsense is so sharply shewn, Break nor his boasted quiet ev'ry hour.

We pull down others but to raise our own : And little Sid. for fimile renown'd,

That we may angels feem, we paint them elves, Pleasure has always fought, but never found : And are but satiies to set up ourselves. Though all his thoughts on wine and women fall, I (who have all this while been finding fault, His are so bad, fure he ne'er thinks at all. Ev'n with my master, who first fatire taught, The Aeth he lives upon is rank and strong; And did by that describe the talk so hard, His meat and mistresses are kept too long. It seeins ftupendous, and above reward) But sure we all mistake this pious man, Now labour with unequal force to climb Who inortifies his person all he can :

That lofty hill, unreach'd by former tine; What we uncharitably take for sin,

Tis just that I should to the bottom fall, Are only rules of this odd capuchin;

Learn to write well, or not to write at all. For never hermit, under grave pretence, Has liv'd more contrary to common sense And 'tis a miracie we may suppose,

$31. Cymon and Iphigenia. DRYDEN. No nattinels offends his skilful nose ;

Pocta Loquitur. Which from all stink can, with peculiar art,

OLD as I am, for ladies love unfit, Extrat perfume and effence froin a f-t:

The pow'r of beauty I remember, yet ; Expeeting supper is his great delight;

Which once in fam'd my soul, and still inspires He toils all day but to be drunk at night :


my wit.

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