Senfe may they feek, and lefs engage In papers fill'd with party-rage. But if their riches spoil their vein, And now he dies, and now he's dead. To see what dangers threat the year : Ye Gods! what sonnets on a wench? What lean tranflations out of French? 'Tis plain, this lobe is fo unfound, S prints, before the months go round. But hold, before I close the scene, The facred altar fhould be clean. Oh Oh had I Shadwell's fecond bays, Rent from the corps, on yonder pin, "This trophy from the Python won, "Two foes in one I fent to hell.. “ Ye "Ye Poets, who my labours fee, "Come share the triumph all with me! "Ye Critics! born to vex the Mufe, "Go mourn the grand ally you lose. An ALLEGORY on MAN. A Thoughtful Being, long and fpare, Our race of mortals call him Care: (Were Homer living, well he knew And lov'd to work, tho' no one bought. In Jove's eternal sable head, Contriv'd a fhape impow'r'd to breathe, And be the worldling here beneath. The Man rose staring, like a stake; Wond'ring to see himself awake! Then look'd fo wife, before he knew The bus'nefs he was made to do; That That pleas'd to fee with what a grace But ere he gave the mighty nod, She stood confefs'd before his eyes; Nor with long streets and longer roads Her honours made, great Jove, fhe cry'd, This thing was fashion'd from my fide; His hands, his heart, his head are mine; Nay rather afk, the Monarch faid, What boots his hand, his heart, his head, Were what I gave remov'd away? Thy part's an idle fhape of clay. Halves, more than halves! cry'd honest Care, Your pleas wou'd make your titles fair, But I who join'd them, claim the whole. On such a trivial caufe, as Man. Quoth Virgil, in a later age. As thus they wrangled, Time came by; (There's none that paint him fuch as I, For what the fabling Ancients fung Makes Saturn old, when Time was young.) Their filver honours on his head; |