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And fair pretensions I have for 't,
Much need, and very small desert.
Whene'er I writ to you, I wanted;
I always begged, you always granted.
Now, as you took me up when little,
Gave me my learning and my vittle;
Asked for me, from my lord, things fitting,
Kind as I'd been your own begetting;
Confirm what formerly you've given,
Nor leave me now at six and seven,
As Sunderland has left Mun Stephen.1
No family that takes a whelp
When first he laps and scarce can yelp,
Neglects or turns him out of gate
When he's grown up to dog's estate:
Nor parish, if they once adopt
The spurious brats by strollers dropt,
Leave them, when grown up lusty fellows,
To the wide world, that is, the gallows:
No, thank them for their love, that's worse
Than if they'd throttled them at nurse.

My uncle, rest his soul! when living,
Might have contrived me ways of thriving;
Taught me with cyder to replenish
My vats, or ebbing tide of rhenish.

So when for hock I drew prickt white-wine,
Swear't had the flavour, and was right wine.
Or sent me with ten pounds to Furni-
val's inn, to some good rogue-attorney;
Where now, by forging deeds, and cheating,
I'd found some handsome ways of getting.

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1 Mr Mun Stephen had been under secretary to Lord Sunderland when he held the post of secretary of state in the time of James II. A few years after the revolution, falling into a desponding state, he put an end to his life by cutting his throat.

All this you made me quit, to follow
The sneaking whey-faced god Apollo;
Sent me among a fiddling crew
Of folks, I'd never seen nor knew,
Calliope, and God knows who.

To add no more invectives to it,

You spoiled the youth to make a poet.
In common justice, Sir, there's no man

That makes the whore, but keeps the woman.
Among all honest christian people,

Whoe'er breaks limbs maintains the cripple.

The sum of all I have to say,

Is, that you'd put me in some way;

And your petitioner shall pray

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There's one thing more I had almost slipped, But that may do as well in postscript:

My friend Charles Montague's preferred;

Nor would I have it long observed,

That one mouse eats, while t'other's starved.

ON THE TAKING OF NAMUR.

THE town which Louis bought, Nassau reclaims,
And brings instead of bribes avenging flames;
Now, Louis, take thy titles from above,
Boileau shall sing, and we 'll believe thee Jove;
Jove gained his mistress with alluring gold,
But Jove, like thee, was impotent and old!
Active and young did he like William stand,
He had stunned the dame, his thunder in his hand.

ODE

IN IMITATION OF HORACE, III. OD. II. WRITTEN IN 1692.

How long, deluded Albion, wilt thou lie
In the lethargic sleep, the sad repose,
By which thy close, thy constant enemy,
Has softly lulled thee to thy woes?

Or wake, degenerate isle, or cease to own
What thy own kings in Gallic camps have done;
The spoils they brought thee back, the crowns they won.
William, so fate requires, again is armed;

Thy father to the field is gone:
Again Maria weeps her absent lord,
For thy repose content to rule alone.

Are thy enervate sons not yet alarmed?

When William fights dare they look tamely on,
So slow to get their ancient fame restored,

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As nor to melt at Beauty's tears, nor follow Valour's sword?

See the repenting isle awakes,

Her vicious chains the generous goddess breaks; The fogs around her temples are dispelled; Abroad she looks, and sees armed Belgia stand Prepared to meet their common lord's command; 20 Her lions roaring by her side, her arrows in her hand. And, blushing to have been so long withheld, Weeps off her crime, and hastens to the field. Henceforth her youth shall be inured to bear Hazardous toil and active war;

To march beneath the dog-star's raging heat, Patient of summer's drought, and martial sweat; And only grieve in winter's camps to find

Its days too short for labours they designed:
All night beneath hard heavy arms to watch,

All day to mount the trench, to storm the breach;
And all the rugged paths to tread,

Where William and his virtue lead.
Silence is the soul of war;

Deliberate counsel must prepare

The mighty work, which valour must complete.
Thus William rescued, thus preserves the state;
Thus teaches us to think and dare.

As whilst his cannon just prepared to breathe
Avenging anger and swift death,

In the tried metal the close dangers glow,

And now, too late, the dying foe

Perceives the flame, yet cannot ward the blow.
So whilst in William's breast ripe counsels lie,
Secret and sure as brooding fate,
No more of his design appears,
Than what awakens Gallia's fears;

And, though guilt's eye can sharply penetrate,

Distracted Lewis can descry

Only a long unmeasured ruin nigh.

On Norman coasts and banks of frighted Seine
Lo! the impending storms begin;

Britannia safely through her master's sea

Ploughs up her victorious way.

The French Salmoneus throws his bolts in vain,
Whilst the true thunderer asserts the main.

'Tis done; to shelves and rocks his fleets retire,

Swift victory in vengeful flames

Burns down the pride of their presumptuous names; They run to shipwreck to avoid our fire,

And the torn vessels that regain their coast

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Are but sad marks to show the rest are lost.
All this the mild, the beauteous queen has done,
And William's softer half shakes Lewis' throne.
Maria does the sea command

Whilst Gallia flies her husband's arms by land.
So, the sun absent, with full sway the moon
Governs the isles, and rules the waves alone;
So Juno thunders when her Jove is gone.
Io Britannia! loose thy ocean's chains,
Whilst Russel strikes the blow thy queen ordains;
Thus rescued, thus revered, for ever stand,
And bless the counsel, and reward the hand,

Io Britannia! thy Maria reigns.

From Mary's conquests, and the rescued main,
Let France look back to Sambre's armed shore,
And boast her joy for William's death no more.'
He lives, let France confess, the victor lives;
Her triumphs for his death were vain,
And spoke her terror of his life too plain.
The mighty years begin, the day draws nigh,
In which that one of Lewis' many wives,2
Who, by the baleful force of guilty charms,
Has long enthralled him in her withered arms,
Shall o'er the plains, from distant towers on high,
Cast around her mournful eye,

And with prophetic sorrow cry:

'Why does my ruined lord retard his flight,
Why does despair provoke his age to fight?
As well the wolf may venture to engage
The angry lion's generous rage;

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1 At the battle of Boyne King William being slightly wounded with a cannon ball, a report was spread which reached France, that he was killed. This report produced great, though short lived joy in that country.- Madam Pompadour.

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