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Thou wifheft I fhould make to fhore;
Yet ftill putt'ft in thy thwarting oar.
What I have told thee fifty times
In profe, receive for once in rhymes:
A huge fat man in country-fair,
Or city-church (no matter where),
Labour'd and push'd amidst the crowd,
Still bawling out extremely loud,
Lord fave us why do people prefs!
Another, marking his diftrefs,
Friendly reply'd, plump gentleman,
Get out as faft as e'er you can;
Or cease to push, or to exclaim:
You make the very crowd you blame.
Says Dick, your moral does not need
The leaft return; fo e'en proceed:
Your tale, howe'er apply'd, was fhort:

So far, at least, I thank you for't.

Mat took his thanks; and, in a tone

More magisterial, thus went on.

Now, Alma fettles in the head,
As has before been fung, or faid:
And here begins this farce of life;
Enter revenge, ambition, ftrife:
Behold on both fides men advance,
To form in earnest Bays's dance.
L'Avare, not using half his ftore,
Still grumbles that he has no more;
Strikes not the present tun, for fear
The vintage should be bad next year;

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And

And eats to-day with inward forrow,
And dread of fancy'd want to-morrow.
Abroad if the furtout you wear
Repels the rigour of the air;

Would you be warmer, if at home

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You had the fabric and the loom ?

And, if two boots keep out the weather,

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For

part of his Petronius loft,

That he can never take the pains
To understand what yet remains.

What toil did honest Curio take,
What ftrict inquiries did he make,
To get one medal wanting yet,
And perfect all his Roman fet!

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'Tis found: and, O his happy lot!

'Tis bought, lock'd up, and lies forgot:

Of these no more you hear him fpeak:

He now begins upon the Greek.

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Thefe, rang'd and fhew'd, fhall in their turns

Remain obfcure as in their urns.

My

My copper-lamps at any rate,

For being true antique, I bought ; Yet wifely melted down my plate,

On modern models to be wrought:

And trifles I alike purfue,

Because they're old, because they're new.

Dick, I have feen you with delight

For Georgy* make a paper kite.
And fimple odes too many fhow ye

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I leave thy frauds, and crimes, and woes ;;

Nor think to-night of thy ill-nature,

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But of thy follies, idle creature!
The turns of thy uncertain wing,
And not the malice of thy fting:
Thy pride of being great and wife
I do but mention, to defpife;
I view with anger and difdain
How little gives thee joy or pain;.
A print, a bronze, a flower, a root,
A fhell, a butterfly, can do't;
Ev'n a romance, a țune, a rhyme,
Help thee to pafs the tedious time,

* Mr. Shelton's fon.

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Which elfe would on thy hand remain ;

Though, flown, it ne'er looks back again;

And cards are dealt, and chefs-boards brought,
To eafe the pain of coward thought:

Happy refult of human wit!

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That Alma may herself forget.

Dick, thus we act; and thus we are,

Or tofs'd by hope, or funk by care.

With endless pain this man pursues,

What, if he gain'd, he could not use:
And t' other fondly hopes to fee
What never was, nor e'er fhall be.
We err by ufe, go wrong by rules,
In gefture grave, in action fools:
We join hypocrify to pride,
Doubling the faults we ftrive to hide.
Or grant that, with extreme furprise,
We find ourselves at fixty wife,
And twenty pretty things are known,
Of which we can't accomplish one;
Whilft, as my fyftem fays, the mind-
Is to thefe upper rooms confin'd.
Should I, my friend, at large repeat
Her borrow'd fenfe, her fond conceit,
The bead-roll of her vicious tricks,
My Poem would be too prolix.
For, could I my remarks fuftain,
Like Socrates, or Miles Montaigne,
Who in these times would read my
But Tom o'Stiles, or John o'Nokes?
VOL. XXXIII.

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books,

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As

As Brentford kings, discreet and wise, After long thought and grave advice,

Into Lardella's coffin peeping,

Saw nought to cause their mirth or weeping:
So Alma, now to joy or grief

Superior, finds her late relief:

Weary'd of being high or great,

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And nodding in her chair of ftate;

Stunn'd and worn out with endless chat
Of Will did this, and Nan faid that;
She finds, poor thing, fome little crack,

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Which Nature, forc'd by Time, must make,
Through which she wings her deftin'd way;
Upward fhe foars, and down drops clay:
While fome furviving friend supplies
Hic jacet, and a hundred lies.

O Richard, till that day appears,

Which must decide our hopes and fears,
Would Fortune calm her prefent rage,
And give us play-things for our age:
Would Clotho wash her hands in milk,
And twift our thread with gold and silk ;
Would fhe, in friendship, peace and plenty,
Spin out our years to four times twenty;
And fhould we both in this condition
Have conquer'd Love, and worse Ambition
(Elfe those two paffions, by the way,
May chance to fhew us fcurvy play);
Then, Richard, then should we fit down,
Far from the tumult of this town;

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