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With quicker life, as gilded coaches pass,
In fideling courtesy the drops the glass.
With better strength, on visit-days the bears
To mount her fifty flights of ample stairs.
Her mien, her shape, her temper, eyes, and tongue,
Are sure to conquer—for the rogue


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 :


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Yet still sedate yourself, and gravely plain,
You neither fret, nor envy at the vain.
'T was thus, if man with woman we compare,
The wise Athenian croft a glittering fair,
Unmoy'd by tongue and fights, he walk'd the place,
Through tape, toys, tinsel, gimp, perfume, and lace;
Then bends from Mars's hill his awful eyes,
And-What a World I never want? he cries:
But cries unheard : for folly will be free.
So parts the buzzing gaudy crowd and he:
As careless he for them, as they for him :
He wrapt in wisdom, and they whirld by whim.




OM E hither, boy, we'll hunt to-day,

The Book-worm, ravening beast of prey,
Produc'd by parent Earth, at odds,
As Fame reports it, with the Gods.
Him frantic hunger wildly drives
Against a thousand authors lives :
Through all the fields of wit he flies;
Dreadful his head with clustering eyes,
With horns without, and tusks within,
And scales to serve him for a skin.
Observe him nearly, left he climb
To wound the Bards of ancient time,
Or down the vale of Fancy go
To tear some modern wretch below

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On every corner fix thine eye,
Or ten to one he slips thee by.
See where his teeth a passage eat :
We'll rouse him from the deep retreat.
But who the shelter 's forc'd to give?
"Tis facred Virgil, as I live!
From leaf to leaf, from fong to song,
He draws the tadpole form along,
He mounts the gilded edge before,


he scuds the cover o’er,
He turns, he doubles, there he past,
And here we have him, caught at last.
Insatiate brute, whose teeth abuse
The sweetest feryants of the Muse.
(Nay never offer to deny, .
I took thee in the fact to fly.)
His roses nipt in every page,
My poor Anacreon mourns thy rage;
By thee my Oyid wounded lies;
By thee my Lesbia's sparrow dies;
Thy rabid teeth have half destroy’d
The work of love in Biddy Floyd,
They rent Belinda's locks away,
And spoil'd the Blouzelind of Gay.
For all, for every single deed,
Relentless Justice bids thee bleed.
Then fall a victim to the Nine,
Myself the priest, my desk the shrine.

Bring Homer, Virgil, Taffo near,
To pile a facred altar here;

Hold, boy, thy hand out-runs thy wit,
You reach'd the plays that Dennis writ;
You reach'd me Philips' rustic strain ;
Pray take your mortal Bards again.

Come, bind the victim,- there he lies,
And here between his numerous eyes
This venerable dust I lay,
From manuscripts just swept away.

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,
The sacred altar should be clean.
Oh had I Shadwell's second bays,
Or, Tate! thy pert and humble lays !
(Ye pair, forgive me, when I vow
I never miss'd your works till now)
I'd tear the leaves to wipe the shrine,
(That only way you please the Nine)
But since I chance to want these two,
I'll make the songs of Durfey do..

Rent from the corps, on yonder pin,
I hang the scales that brac'd it in;
I hang my studious morning-gown,
And write my own inscription down.

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.”

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