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Fearful of future grief and pain,
Should filently sneak out again.
Full piteous feems young Alma's cafe ;
As in a lucklefs gamester's place,
She would not play, yet muft not pafs.
Again; as fhe grows fomething ftronger,
And mafter's feet are swath'd no longer,
If in the night too oft he kicks,
Or fhews his loco-motive tricks;
Thefe firft affaults fat Kate repays
When half afleep, fhe overlays him.

him

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;

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Now mark, dear Richard, from the age
That children tread this worldly stage,
Broom-ftaff or poker they beftride,
And round the parlour love to ride ;
Till thoughtful father's pious care

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Provides his brood, next Smithfield Fair,

With fupplemental hobby-horses:

And happy be their infant courses!

Hence for fome years they ne'er ftand fill :

Their legs, you fee, direct their will;

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From opening morn till setting fun,

Around the fields and woods they run;

They frisk, and dance, and leap, and play,

Nor heed what Freind or Snape can say.

To her next stage as Alma flies, And likes, as I have faid, the thighs,

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With Sympathetic power fhe warms

Their good allies and friends, the arms;

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And Sufan is at ftool-ball feen ;

While John for nine-pins does declare,
And Roger loves to pitch the bar :
Both legs and arms fpontaneous move;
Which was the thing I meant to prove.
Another motion now fhe makes

O need I name the feat she takes?

:

His thought quite chang'd the ftripling finds;

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Leaves all the fwains, and fighs for one.
The nymph is warm'd with young defire,
And feels, and dies to quench his fire.
They meet each evening in the grove ;
Their parley but augments their love:
So to the priest their cafe they tell :
He ties the knot; and all goes well.

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But, O my Mufe, juft diftance keep;

Thou art a maid, and must not peep.

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And that young life and quickening sense
Spring from his influence darted thence.
So from the middle of the world
The Sun's prolific rays are hurl'd:
'Tis from that seat he darts those beams,
Which quicken Earth with genial flames.
Dick, who thus long had paffive fat,
Here ftrok'd his chin, and cock'd his hat;
Then flapp'd his hand upon the board,

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And thus the youth put in his word.
Love's advocates, sweet Sir, would find him
A higher place than you affign'd bim.

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Love's advocates! Dick, who are those ?—

The Poets, you may well fuppofe.

I'm forry, Sir, you have discarded

The men with whom till now you herded.
Profe-men alone for private ends,

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I thought, forfook their ancient friends.
In cor ftillavit, cries Lucretius;
If he may be allow'd to teach us.
The felf-fame thing soft Ovid says
(A proper judge in fuch a cafe).
Horace's phrafe is, torret jecur;
And happy was that curious fpeaker.
Here Virgil too has plac'd this paffion.
What fignifies too long quotation?

In Ode and Epic, plain the cafe is,
That Love holds one of these two places.
Dick, without paffion or reflection,

I'll strait demolish this objection.

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First, Poets, all the world agrees, Write half to profit, half to please. Matter and figure they produce; For garnish this, and that for ufe;

And, in the structure of their feasts,

They seek to feed and please their guests:
But one may balk this good intent,

And take things otherwise than meant.

Thus, if

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Roaft-beef and venison is your fare ;

Thence you proceed to fwan and buftard,

And perfevere in tart and cuftard:

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But tulip-leaves and lemon-peel

Help only to adorn the meal;
And painted flags, fuperb and neat,
Proclaim you welcome to the treat.
The man of fenfe his meat devours,
But only smells the peel and flowers;

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And he must be an idle dreamer,

Who leaves the pie, and gnaws the streamer.

That Cupid goes with bow and arrows,

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And Venus keeps her coach and sparrows,
Is all but emblem, to acquaint one,
The fon is fharp, the mother wanton.
Such images have fometimes shown
A myftic fenfe, but oftener none.

For who conceives, what bards devife,
That heaven is plac'd in Celia's eyes;
Or where's the fenfe, direct and moral,
That teeth are pearl, or lips are coral?

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Your

Your Horace owns, he various writ,

As wild or fober maggots bit :

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And, where too much the poet ranted,

The fage Philofopher recanted.

His grave Epiftles may difprove
The wanton Odes he made to love.
Lucretius keeps a mighty pother
With Cupid and his fancy'd mother;
Calls her great Queen of Earth and Air,
Declares that winds and feas obey her;
And, while her honour he rehearses,
Implores her to infpire his verfes.

Yet, free from this poetic madness,
Next page he fays, in fober fadness,
That she and all her fellow-gods
Sit idling in their high abodes,
Regardless of this world below,

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Our health or hanging, weal or woe;

Nor once disturb their heavenly spirits

With Scapin's cheats, or Cæfar's merits.
Nor e'er can Latin Poets prove

Where lies the real feat of Love.

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Fecur they burn, and Cor they pierce,

As either beft fupplies their verfe;

And, if folks ask the reason for't,
Say, one was long, and t'other short.
Thus, I prefume, the British Muse

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May take the freedom ftrangers use.
In profe our property is greater:
Why should it then be lefs in metre?

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