He car'd not what the Footmen did:
Her Maids She neither prais'd, nor chid:
So ev'ry Servant took his Course;
And bad at Firft, They all grew worse.
Slothful Disorder fill'd His Stable; y
And fluttish Plenty deck'd Her Table.

Their Beer was strong; Their Wine was Port;
Their Meal was large; Their Grace was fhort.
They gave the Poor the Remnant-meat,

Just when it grew not fit to eat.

They paid the Church and Parifh-Rate;
And took, but read not the Receit:

For which They claim'd their Sunday's Due,
Of slumb'ring in an upper Pew.

No Man's Defects fought They to know;
So never made Themselves a Foe.

No Man's good Deeds did They commend;
So never rais'd Themselves a Friend.

Nor cherish'd They Relations poor:
That might decrease Their present Store:
Nor Barn nor Houfe did they repair:
That might oblige Their future Heir.

They neither Added, nor Confounded: They neither Wanted, nor Abounded. Each Christmas They Accompts did clear; And wound their Bottom round the Year.

Nor

Nor Tear, nor Smile did They imploy

At News of Public Grief, or Joy.

When Bells were Rung, and Bonfires made; od vodi
If ask'd, They ne'er deny'd their Aid:
Their Jugg was to the Ringers carry'd;
Who ever either Dy'd, or Marry'd.
Their Billet at the Fire was found;

Who ever was Depos'd, or Crown'd. I

Nor Good, nor Bad, nor Fools, nor Wife;:!T

They wou'd not learn, nor cou'd advise:
Without Love, Hatred, Joy, or Fear,
They leda kind ofas it were

J

Nor Wish'd, nor Car'd, nor Laugh'd, nor Cry'd:
And fo They liv'd; and fo They dy'd.

A

LOT

Horace Lib. I. Epist. IX. 50 T

Septimius, Claudi, nimirum intelligit unus,

Quanti me facias: &c.

Mr.

ni bra Piw nog miH Imitated.moqxonu 1014

DEAR DICK, how e'er it comes into his Head,

Believes, as firmly as He does his Creed,

That You and I, SIR, are extremely great;
Tho' I plain MAT, You Minister of State.

One

One Word from Me, without all doubt, He fays,
Wou'd fix his Fortune in fome kittle Place.
Thus better than My felf, it feems, He knows,
How far my Intereft with my Patron goes
And answering all Objections I can make,
Still plunges deeper in his dear Mistake.

From this wild Fancy, SIR, there may proceed
One wilder yet, which I foresee, and dread;
That I, in Fact, a real Intereft have,

Which to my own Advantage I wou'd fave,
And, with the usual Courtier's Trick, intend
To serve My self, forgetful of my Friend.

To fhun this Cenfure, I all Shame lay by;
And make my Reason with his Will comply;
Hoping, for my Excufe, 'twill be confest,
That of two Evils I have chofe the leaft.
So, SIR, with this Epiftolary Scroll,
Receive the Partner of my inmost Soul:
Him you will find in Letters, and in Laws
Not unexpert, firm to his Country's Cause,
Warm in the Glorious Intereft You pursue,
And, in one Word, a Good Man and a True.

To

N one great Now, Superior to an Age,

IN

The full Extremes of Nature's Force We find:

How Heav'nly Virtue can exalt; or Rage

Infernal, how degrade the Human Mind.

II.

While the fierce Monk does at his Tryal ftand;
He chews Revenge, abjuring his Offence:
Guile in his Tongue, and Murther in his Hand,
He ftabs his Judge, to prove his Innocence.

III.

The guilty Stroke and Torture of the Steel

Infix'd, our dauntless BRITON fcarce perceives: The Wounds His Countrey from His Death must feel, The PATRIOT views; for those alone He grieves.

IV.

The barb'rous Rage that durft attempt Thy Life,
HARLEY, great Counsellor, extends Thy Fame:
And the sharp Point of cruel GUISCARD'S Knife,
In Brass and Marble carves Thy deathlefs Name,
V.

Faithful Affertor of Thy Country's Cause,

BRITAIN with Tears fhall bath Thy glorious Wound: She for thy Safety fhall enlarge Her Lawson

And in Her Statutes fhall Thy Worth be found.

VI.

Yet 'midft Her Sighs She Triumphs, on the Hand
Reflecting, that diffus'd the Publick Woe;
A Stranger to her Altars, and her Land:

No Son of Her's could meditate this Blow.

VII.

Mean Time Thy Pain is gracious ANNA's Care:
Our Queen, our Saint, with facrificing Breath
Softens Thy Anguish: In Her pow'rful Pray'r
She pleads Thy Service, and forbids Thy Death.
VIII.

Great as Thou art, Thou canft demand no more,
O Breast bewail'd by Earth, preferv'd by Heav'n!
No higher can aspiring Virtue foar: 1
Enough to Thee of Grief, and Fame is giv'n.

An Extempore INVITATION

ΤΟ ΤΗΕ

EARL of OXFORD,

Lord High Treasurer. 1712.

My LORD,

UR Weekly Friends To-morrow meet

Ου

At MATTHEW's Palace, in Duke-treet;
To try for once, if They can Dineli v.
On Bacon-Ham, and Mutton-chine:..

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