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I must’nt forget though, that Bob, like a gander, '. .
Thus chatting and singing they sat till eleven, .!
So off he betook him the way that he came,
The others then parted, all highly delighted;
FEAST OF THE POETS.
* I think,let me see-yes, it is, I declare,
As long ago now as that Buckingham there. SHEFFIELD, Duke of Buckinghamshire, one of the licentious dabblers in wit, who were educated in the court of Charles the Second. It would have appeared a great piece of insolence to this flimsy personage, who in a posthumous edition of his works is recommended to the care of “Time, Truth, and Posterity," to be told, that at the distance of a hundred years, it would be nécessary to say who he was. His Grace, it is true, by favour of long standing, and of the carelessness or ignorance of compilers, still keeps his place in those strange medleys of good and bad, called collections of the English Poets; but very few persons know any thing of him; and they who do, will hardly object to the tone of contempt with which Apollo speaks of a grave coxcomb, who affected to care nothing for the honours of either literatụre or the world, when he was evidently ambitious of both. In his election of a Poet Laureat, where Pope, Prior, and others, are among the candidates, he thus modestly introduces himself:
When Buckingham came, he scarce car'd to be seen,
Yet if the kind God had been ne'er so inclined
To break an old rule, yet he well knew his mind, • Who of such preferment would only make sport,
And laugh'd at all suitors for places at court.
I may here, by the way, take notice of a strange piece of carelessness, which has escaped Mr. Walter Scott in his edition of Dryden, and which, unless he had made eighteen volumes of it; might be construed