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But let no alien Sedley interpose,

To lard with wit thy hungry Epsom prose:

And when false flowers of rhet'ric thou wouldst cull,
Trust Nature, do not labour to be dull;

But, write thy best, and top; and, in each line,
Sir Formal's oratory will be thine :

Sir Formal, though unsought, attends thy quill,
And does thy northern dedications fill.
Nor let false friend seduce thy mind to fame,
By arrogating Johnson's hostile name.
Let father Flecnoe fire thy mind with praise,
And uncle Ogleby thy envy raise.

Thou art my blood, where Johnson has no part;
What share have we in nature or in art?
Where did his wit on learning fix a brand,

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And rail at arts he did not understand?
Where made he love in Prince Nicander's vein,
Or swept the dust in Psyche's humble strain?
Where sold he bargains, Whip-stitch, Kiss my arse,
Promis'd a play, and dwindled to a farce?
When did his muse from Fletcher scenes purloin,
As thou old Eth'rege dost transfuse to thine?
But so transfus'd as oil and waters flow,
His always floats above, thine sinks below.
This is thy province, this thy wondrous way,
New humours to invent for each new play:
This is that boasted bias of thy mind,

By which, one way, to dulness 'tis inclin'd:

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Which makes thy writings lean on one side still,
And, in all changes, that way bends thy will.
Nor let thy mountain-belly make pretence
Of likeness; thine's a tympany of sense.
A tun of man in thy large bulk is writ,
But sure thou'rt but a kilderkin of wit.
Like mine, thy gentle numbers feebly creep;
Thy Tragic Muse gives smiles, thy Comic sleep.
With whate'er gall thou sett'st thyself to write,
Thy inoffensive satires never bite.

In thy felonious heart though venom lies,

It does but touch thy Irish pen, and dies.

Thy genius calls thee not to purchase fame
In keen Iambics, but mild Anagram.

Leave writing Plays, and chuse for thy command
Some peaceful province in Acrostic land:
There thou may'st wings display, and altars raise,
And torture one poor word ten thousand ways:
Or if thou would'st thy diff'rent talents suit,
Set thy own songs, and sing them to thy lute.

He said; but his last words were scarcely heard;
For Bruce and Longvil had a trap prepar'd,
And down they sent the yet-declaiming bard.
Sinking, he left his drugget robe behind,
Borne upwards by a subterranean wind:
The mantle fell to the young prophet's part,
With double portion of his father's art.

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THE MEDAL.

A SATIRE AGAINST SEDITION.

Per Graium populos mediaeque per Elidris urbem,
Ibat ovans, Divumque sibi poscebat honorem.

Virg.

Of all our antic sights and pageantry,
Which English idiots run in crowds to see,
The Polish Medal bears the prize alone,
A monster, more the fav'rite of the Town
Than either fairs or theatres yet have shown.
Never did Art so well with Nature strive,
Nor ever idol seem so much alive;
So like the man, so golden to the sight,
So base within, so counterfeit and light;
One side is fill'd with title and with face,
And, lest the King should want a regal place,
On the reverse a tow'r the town surveys,
O'er which our mounting sun his beams displays.
The word, pronounc'd aloud by shrieval voice,
Latamur, which, in Polish, is Rejoice.

The day, month, year, to the great act are join'd,
And a new canting holiday design'd.

Five days he sat, for every cast and look,
Four more than God to finish Adam took:
But who can tell what essence angels are.
Or how long Heav'n was making Lucifer?
Volume 11.

R

ΤΟ

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O, could the style that copy'd ev'ry grace,
And plough'd such furrows for an eunuch face,
Could it have form'd his ever-changing will,
The various piece had tir'd the graver's skill !
A martial hero first, with early care,
Blown, like a pigmy by the winds, to war;
A beardless chief, a rebel ere a man,

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So young his hatred to his prince began.
Next this, how wildly will ambition steer!
A vermin, wriggling in th' usurper's ear;
Bart'ring his venal wit for sums of gold,
He cast himself into the saint-like mould;
Groan'd, sigh'd, and pray'd, while godliness was gain,

The loudest bagpipe of the squeaking train.
But, as 'tis hard to cheat a juggler's eyes,
His open lewdness he could ne'er disguise.
There split the saint; for hypocritic zeal
Allows no sins but those it can conceal.

Whoring to scandal gives too large a scope:
Saints must not trade, but they may interlope.
Th' ungodly principle was all the same,
But a gross cheat betrays his partner's game.
Besides, their pace was formal, grave, and slack;
His nimble wit outran the heavy pack:
Yet still he found his fortune at a stay,

Whole droves of blockheads choaking up his way:
They took, but not rewarded, his advice;
Villain and wit exact a double price.

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Pow'r was his aim; but thrown from that pretence,
The wretch turn'd loyal in his own defence,
And malice reconcil'd him to his prince.
Him, in the anguish of his soul, he serv'd,
Rewarded faster still than he deserv'd.
Behold him now exalted into trust,
His counsels oft convenient, seldom just.
E'en in the most sincere advice he gave,
He had a grudging still to be a knave.
The frauds he learnt in his fanatic years,
Made him uneasy in his lawful gears:
Af best, as little honest as he could,
And, like white witches, mischievously good.
To his first bias, longingly, he leans.
And rather would be great by wicked means.
Thus, fram'd for ill, he loos'd our triple hold,
Advice unsafe, precipitous, and bold:
From hence those tears, that Ilium of our woe,
Who helps a pow'rful friend fore-arms a foe.
What wonder if the waves prevail so far,

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When he cut down the banks that made the bar? 70
Seas follow but their nature, to invade ;

But he by art our native strength betray'd.
So Samson to his foe his force confest,

And, to be shorn, lay slumb'ring on her breast?
But, when this fatal counsel, found too late,

Expos'd its author to the public hate;

Dryden.1

Rij

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