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With equal grief and shame my muse
The sequel of the tale pursues;
The ladle fell into the room,
And stuck in old Corisca's bum.
Our couple weep two wishes past,
And kindly join to form the last;
To ease the woman's awkward pain,
And get the ladle out again.

MORAL.

This commoner has worth and parts,
Is prais'd for arms, or lov’d for arts:
His head aches for a coronet:
And who is bless'd that is not great?
Some sense, and more estate, kind Heaven
To this well-lotted peer has given:
What then 2 he must have rule and sway;
And all is wrong, 'till he's in play.
The miser must make up his plum,
And dares not touch the hoarded sum ;
The sickly dotard wants a wife,
To draw off his last dregs of life.
Against our peace we arm our will :
Amidst our plenty, something still
For horses, houses, pictures, planting,
To thee, to me, to him is wanting.
That cruel something unpossessed
Corrodes and leavens all the rest.

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In

That something, if we could obtain,
Would soon create a future pain;
And to the coffin, from the cradle,
'Tis all a Wish, and all a Ladle.

WRITTEN AT PARIS. MDCC.

THE BEGINNING OF ROBE's GEOGRAPHY,

OF all that William rules, or Robe
Describes, great Rhea, of thy globe;
When or on post-horse, or in chaise,
With much expense, and little ease,
My destin'd miles I shall have gone,
By Thames or Maese, by Po or Rhone,
And found no foot of earth my own,
Great Mother, let me once be able
To have a garden, house, and stable;
That I may read, and ride, and plant,
Superior to desire, or want;
And as health fails, and years increase,
Sit down, and think, and die in peace.
Oblige thy favourite undertakers
To throw me in but twenty acres:
This number sure they may allow;
For pasture ten, and ten for plow:
'Tis all that I would wish, or hope,
For me and John, and Nell, and Crop.

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Then, as thou wilt, dispose the rest
(And let not Fortune spoil the jest)
To those, who at the market-rate
Can barter honour for estate,
Now if thou grant'st me my request,
To make thy votary truly blest,
Let curst revenge, and saucy pride
To some bleak rock far off be tied;
Nor e'er approach my rural seat,
To tempt me to be base and great.
And, Goddess, this kind office done,
Charge Venus to command her son,
(Wherever else she lets him rove)
To shun my house, my field, my grove:
Peace cannot dwell with hate or love.
Hear, gracious Rhea, what I say: -
And thy petitioner shall pray.

WRITTEN IN THE BEGINNING OF MEZERAY'S HISTORY OF FRANCE. || || --

WHATE’ER thy countrymen have done
By law and wit, by sword and gun,
In thee is faithfully recited:
And all the living world, that view
Thy work, give thee the praises due,
At once instructed and delighted.

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Yet for the fame of all these deeds,
What beggar in the Invalides,
With lameness broke, with blindness smitten,
Wish’d ever decently to die,
To have been either Mezeray,
Or any monarch he has written ?

It's strange, dear author, yet it true is,
That, down from Pharamond to Louis,
All covet life, yet call it pain:
All feel the ill, yet shun the cure:
Can sense this paradox endure ?
Resolve me, Cambray, or Fontaine.

The man in graver tragic known
(Though his best part long since was done)
Still on the stage desires to tarry :
And he who play'd the Harlequin,
After the jest still loads the scene
Unwilling to retire, though weary.

WRITTEN IN THE NOUVEAUX INTERETS

DES PRINCES DE L’EUROPE.

BLEST be the princes, who have fought
For pompous names, or wide dominion :

Since by their error we are taught,
That happiness is but opinion.

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ADRIANI MORIENTIS AD ANIMAM SUAM.

ANIMULA, vagula, blandula, -
Hospes, comesque corporis, -
Quæ nunc abibis in loca,
Pallidula, rigida, nudula 2
Nec, ut soles, dabis joca.

BY MONSIEUR FONTEN ELLE.

MA petite āme, ma mignonne,
Tu ten vas donc, ma fille, et Dieu sgache oil tu vas:
Tu pars seulette, nué, et tremblotante, helas !
Que deviendra ton humeur folichonne !
Que deviendront tant de jolis ébats!

IMITATED.

Poor little pretty, fluttering thing,
Must we no longer live together?
And dost thou prune thy trembling wing ;
To take thy flight thou know'st not whither ?
Thy humourous vein, thy pleasing folly
Lies all neglected, all forgot:
And pensive, wavering, melancholy,
Thou dread'st and hop'st thou know'st not what.

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