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The Honey dropping from Ty-l's tongue,
The Flow'rs of Bub-ton, the Flow of Y-ng! 70
The gracious Dew of Pulpit Eloquence,

And all the well-whipt Cream of Courtly Senfe,
That firft was H-vy's, F-'s next, and then

The S-te's, and then H-vy's once agen
O come, that easy Ciceronian stile,

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So Latin, yet fo English all the while,

As, tho' the Pride of Middleton and Bland,

All Boys may read, and Girls may understand!
Then might I fing without the least offence,

And all I fung fhould be the Nation's Senfe:

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Or teach the melancholy Muse to mourn,

Hang the fad Verfe on CAROLINA's Urn,
And hail her paffage to the Realms of Reft,
All Parts perform'd, and all her Children bleft!
So Satire is no more- I feel it die

No Gazeteer more innocent than I !

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And let, a God's-name, ev'ry Fool and Knave
Be grac'd thro' Life, and flatter'd in his Grave,
F. Why fo? if Satire know its Time and Place,
You ftill may lafh the Greatest in Disgrace:
For Merit will by turns forfake them all;

Would you know when? exactly when they fall.
But let all Satire in all Changes fpare
Immortal Sk, and grave De-re.
Silent and foft, as Saints remove to Heav'n,
All Tyes diffolv'd, and ev'ry Sin forgiv'n,
Thefe, may fome gentle minifterial Wing
Receive, and place for ever near a King!

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90

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There,

There, where no Paffion, Pride or Shame transport, Lull'd with the fweet Nepenthe of a Court;

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There, where no Father's, Brother's, Friend's difgrace Once breaks their reft, or ftirs them from their Place: But past the fenfe of human Miseries,

All Tears are wip'd for ever from all eyes;

No cheek is known to blush, no heart to throb, 105. Save when they lose a Question, or a Job.

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P. Good Heav'n forbid that I should blast their glory, Who know how like Whig-Minifters to Tory, And when three Sov'reigns dy'd, could scarce be vext, Confid'ring what a gracious Prince was next. Have I, in filent wonder, feen fuch things As Pride in Slaves, and Avarice in Kings; And at a Peer, or Peerefs, fhall I fret, Who ftarves a Sifter, or forfwears a Debt? Virtue, I grant you, is an empty boast ; But fhall the Dignity of Vice be lost ? Ye Gods! fhall Cibber's Son, without rebuke Swear like a Lord? or Rich out-whore a Duke? A Fav'rite's Porter with his Mafter vie,

Be brib'd as often, and as often lie?

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Shall Ward draw Contracts with a Statesman's fkill?
Or Japhet pocket, like his Grace, a Will?
Is it for Bond or Peter, (paltry Things!)

To pay their Debts, or keep their Faith, like Kings?
If * Blount dispatch'd himself, he play'd the man, 125
And fo may't thou, Illuftrious + Pafferan!

Author of a Book intitled, The Oracles of Reafon. + Author of another, called a Philofophical Dif courfe on Death. A 4

But

But shall a Printer, weary of his life,

Learn, from their Books, to hang himself and Wife?
This, this my friend, I cannot, must not bear;
Vice thus abus'd, demands a Nation's care:

This calls the Church to deprecate our Sin,
And hurls the Thunder of the Laws on Gin.

Let modeft FOSTER, if he will, excell
Ten Metropolitans in preaching well;
A fimple Quaker, or a Quaker's Wife,
Out-do Landaffe, in Doctrine

yea, in Life:

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Let humble ALLEN, with an aukward Shame,
Do good by stealth, and blush to find it Fame.
Virtue may chufe the high or low Degree,
'Tis just alike to Virtuę, and to me;
Dwell in a Monk, or light upon a King,
She's ftill the fame, belov'd, contented thing.
Vice is undone, if she forgets her birth,
And stoops from Angels to the Dregs of Earth:
But 'tis the Fall degrades her to a Whore;
Let Greatnefs own her, and fhe's mean no more:
Her Birth, her Beauty, Crowds and Courts confefs,
Chafte Matrons praise her, and grave Bishops bless;
In golden chains the willing World the draws,
And hers the Gospel is, and hers the Laws;
Mounts the Tribunal, lifts her scarlet head,
And fees pale Virtue carted in her ftead.
Lo! at the wheels of her Triumphal Car,
Old England's Genius, rough with many a fear,
Dragg'd in the duft! his Arms hang idly round, 155
His Flag inverted trails along the ground!

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Our

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Our Youth all livery'd o'er with foreign gold,
Before her dance: behind her crawl the Old!
See thronging Millions to the Pagod run,
And offer Country, Parent, Wife, or Son!
Hear her black Trumpet thro' the land proclaim,
That "Not to be corrupted is the Shame."
In Soldier, Churchman, Patriot, Man in Pow'r,
'Tis Av'rice all, Ambition is no more.
See, all our Nobles begging to be Slaves !

See, all our Fools afpiring to be Knaves!

The Wit of Cheats, the Courage of a Whore,
Are what ten thousand envy and adore.

All, all look up, with reverential Awe,

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At Crimes that 'scape, or triumph o'er the Law: 170
While Truth, Worth, Wisdom, daily they decry
"Nothing is Sacred now but Villany."

Yet may this Verse (if such a Verse remain).
Show, there was one who held it in disdain.

ONE

ONE THOUSAND

SEVEN HUNDRED

AND

THIRTY EIGHT.

FR.

DIALOGUE II.

IS all a Libel-Paxton (Sir) will fay.

"Ts. Not yet, my Friend! to morrow

P.

'faith it may;

And for that very cause I print to day.
How fhould I fret, to mangle ev'ry line,
In rev'rence to the Sins of Thirty nine!
Vice with fuch Giant ftrides comes on amain,
Invention ftrives to be before in vain ;
Feign what I will, and paint it e'er so strong,
Some rifing Genius fins up to my Song.

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F. Yet none but you by Name the guilty lash; Ev'n Guthry faves half Newgate by a Dafh.

10

The Ordinary of Newgate, who publishes the Memoirs of the Malefactors.

Spare

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