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As boys eat bread, to fill up chinks.

Kind Sir, I should be glad to see you; I hope y' are well; so God be wi' you; Was all I thought at first to write: But things, since then, are alter'd quite; Fancies flow in, and Muse flies high; So God knows when my clack will lie: no I must, Sir, prattle on, as afore, And beg your pardon yet this half hour.

So at pure barn of loud Non-con, Where with my grannam I have gone, When Lobb had sifted all his text, And I well hop'd the pudding next; Now To Apply, has plagued me more, Than all his villain cant before.

For your religion, first, of her
Your friends do sav'ry things aver: iw>

They say, she's honest, as your claret,
Not sour'd with cant, nor stum'd with merit:
Your chamber is the sole retreat
Of chaplains every Sunday night:
Of grace, no doubt, a certain sign,
When lay-man herds with man divine: For if their fame be justly great,
Who would no Popish nuncio treat;
That his is greater, we must grant,
Who will treat nuncios Protestant. no

One single positive weighs more,
You know, than negatives a score.

In politics, I hear, you're stanch,
Directly bent against the French;
Deny to have your free-born toe
Dragoon'd into a wooden shoe:

Are in no plots; but fairly drive at

The public welfare, in your private:

And will, for England's glory, try

Turks, Jews, and Jesuits to defy, no

And keep your places till you die.

For me, whom wand'ring Fortune threw
From what I lov'd, the town and you;
Let me just tell you how my time is
Past in a country-life.—Imprimis,
As soon as Phoebus' rays inspect us,
First, Sir, I read, and then I breakfast;
So on, till foresaid God does set,
I sometimes study, sometimes eat.
Thus, of your heroes and brave boys, iso

With whom old Homer makes such noise,
The greatest actions I can find,
Are, that they did their work, and din'd.

The books of which I'm chiefly fond,
Are such, as you have whilom conn'd;
That treat of China's civil law,
And subjects' rights in Golconda;
Of highway-elephants at Ceylan,
That rob in clans, like men o' th' Highland;
Of apes that storm, or keep a town, 160 As well almost, as count Lauzun;
Of unicorns and alligators,
Elks, mermaids, mummies, witches, satyrs,
And twenty other stranger matters;
Which, though they're things I've no concern in.
Make all our grooms admire my learning.

Critics I read on other men,
And hypers upon them again;
From whose remarks I give opinion

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On twenty books, yet ne'er look in one. 170 Then all your wits, that fleer and sham,

Down from Don Quixote to Tom Tram;

From whom I jests and puns purloin,

And slily put them off for mine:

Fond to be thought a country wit:

The rest,—when fate and you think fit.
Sometimes I climb my mare, and kick her

To bottled ale, and neighbouring vicar;

Sometimes at Stamford take a quart,

Squire Shephard's health,—with all my heart, isi Thus, without much delight, or grief, I fool away an idle life;

Till Shadwell from the town retires,

(Chok'd up with fame and sea-coal fires,)

To bless the wood with peaceful lyric;

Then hey for praise and panegyric;

Justice restor'd, and nations freed,

And wreaths round William's glorious head.

TO THE COUNTESS OF DORSET,

WRITTEN IN HER HILTON, BY HR. BRADBURY.

IEE here how bright the first-born virgin
shone,
And how the first fond lover was un-
done.

Such charming words our beauteous mother spoke,
As Milton wrote, and such as yours her look.

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Yours, the best copy of th' original face,
Whose beauty was to furnish all the race:
Such chains no author could escape but he;
There's no way to be safe, but not to see.

TO THE LADY DURSLEY:'

ON THE SAME SUBJECT.

) ERE reading how fond Adam was bc-
tray'd,
And how by sin Eve's blasted charms
decay'd;

Our common loss unjustly you complain;
So small that part of it, which you sustain.

You still, fair mother, in your offspring trace
The stock of beauty destin'd for the race:
Kind nature, forming them, the pattern took
From Heav'ns first work, and Eve's original look.
You, happy saint, the serpent's pow'r control:
Scarce any actual guilt defiles your soul: 10 And hell does o'er that mind vain triumph boast,
Which gains a Heav'n, for earthly Eden lost.

With virtue strong as yours had Eve been arm'd, In vain the fruit had blush'd, or serpent charm'd: Nor had our bliss by penitence been bought; Nor had frail Adam fall'n, nor Milton wrote.

* Elizabeth, daughter of Baptist Noel, Viscount Campden. She died 30th July, 1719. Her husband, Charles Earl of Berkeley (when Lord Dursley), had been envoy extraordinary and plenipotentiary to the States of Holland, from whence he returned in 1695.

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TO MY LORD BUCKHURST.*

VERY YOUNO, PIAYING WITH A CAT.

?HE am'rous youth, whose tender breast Was by his darling cat possest, Obtain'd of Venus his desire, Howe'er irregular his fire:Nature the pow'r of love obey'd:The cat became a blushing maid;And, on the happy change, the boy Employ'd his wonder, and his joy. Take care, O beauteous child, take care, Lest thou prefer so rash a pray'r: 10 Nor vainly hope, the queen of love Will e'er thy fav'rite's charms improve. O quickly from her shrine retreat;Or tremble for thy darling's fate. The queen of love, who soon will see Her own Adonis live in thee, Will lightly her first loss deplore;Will easily forgive the boar:Her eyes with tears no more will flow;With jealous rage her breast will glow: 20 And on her tabby rival's face She deep will mark her new disgrace.

* Lionel, afterwards Duke of Dorset, to whom Prior dedicated his poems.

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