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With quicker life, as gilded coaches pass,
young : And all that's madly wild, or oddly gay, We call it only pretty Fanny's way.
Let Time, that makes you homely, make you fage, The sphere of wisdom is the sphere of age.
'Tis true, when beauty dawns with early fire, And hears the flattering tongues of foft desire, If not from virtue, from its gravest ways The foul with pleafing avocation strays. But beauty gone, 'tis easier to be wise ; As harpers better by the loss of eyes. Henceforth retire, reduce your roving airs, Hąunt less the plays, and more the public prayers, Reject the Mechlin head, and gold brocade, Go pray, in sober Norwich crape array'd. Thy pendant diamonds let thy Fanny take (Their trembling lustre shows how much you shake); Or bid her wear thy necklace row'd with pearl, You'll find your Fanny an obedient girl. So for the rest, with less incumbrance hung, You walk through life, unmingled with the young, And view the shade and substance as you pass With joint endeavour trilling at the glass, Or Folly drest, and rambling all her days, To meet her counterpart, and grow by praise :
Yet still sedate yourself, and gravely plain,
BOOK - WORM.
OM E hither, boy, we'll hunt to-day,
The Book-worm, ravening beast of prey,
On every corner fix thine eye,
he scuds the cover o’er,
Bring Homer, Virgil, Taffo near,
Hold, boy, thy hand out-runs thy wit,
Come, bind the victim,- there he lies,
The goblet in my hand I take, (For the libation's yet to make) A health to poets! all their days May they have bread, as well as praise ; Sense may they seek, and less engage In papers fill’d with party-rage. But if their riches spoil their vein, Ye Muses, make them poor again.
Now bring the weapon, yonder blade, With which my tuneful pens are made. I strike the scales that arm thee round, And twice and thrice I print the wound; The sacred altar floats with red, And now he dies, and now he's dead.
How like the son of Jove I stand, This Hydra stretch'd beneath
hand ! Lay bare the monster's entrails here, To see what dangers threat the year: Ye Gods! what sonnets on a wench ! What lean translations out of French ! 'Tis plain, this lobe is so unsound, S--- prints, before the months
But hold, before I close the scene,
Rent from the corps, on yonder pin,
“ This trophy from the Python won, « This robe, in which the deed was done, “ These, Parnell, glorying in the feat,
Hung on these shelves, the Muses feat. “ Here ignorance and hunger found Large realms of wit to ravage
round: “ Here ignorance and hunger fell : “ Two foes in one I sent to hell. “ Ye poets, who my labours see, “ Come share the triumph all with me
! " Ye Critics ! born to vex the Muse, • Go mourn the grand ally you lofe.”