Hail Bards triumphant born in happier Days Immortal Heus of universal Praise! Oh may some Spark of your celestial Fire The last, the meanest of 4 your Sons inspire. Essay on Crit. EPISTLE VII. 'T Imitated in the Manner of Dr. SWIFT. IS true, my Lord, I gave my word, And a thin Court that wants your Face, And W* and H** both in Town? Quinque dies tibi pollicitus me rure futurum, 5 10 "The Dog-days are no more the case.” 'Tis true, but Winter comes apace: Then fouthward let your Bard retire, Hold out fome Months 'twixt Sun and Fire, And shall see the first warm Weather, you Me and the Butterflies together. My Lord your Favours well I know; 'Tis with Diftinction you bestow; And not to ev'ry one that comes, 15 Juft as a Scotfman does his Plums, "Pray take them, Sir--Enough's a Feast: Scatter your Favours on a Fop, And 'tis but juft, I'll tell ye wherefore, Quod fi bruma nives Albanis illinet agris; Tam teneor dono, quam fi dimittar onustus. 20% 25 30 |