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M A CER:
HEN simple Macer, now of high renown,
Poet's Fortune in the Town,
the harmless fellow a good word.
So some coarse Country Wench, almost decay'd,
In a translated Suit, then tries the Town,
CL 0 E:
ET Cloë sure was form’d without a Spot
'Tis true, but something in her was forgot. With ev'ry pleasing, ev'ry prudent part, “ Say what can Çloë want? She wants a Heart : She speaks, behaves, and acts just as the ought; But never, never, reach'd one gen'rous Thought. Virtue she finds too, painful an endeavour, Content to dwell in Decency, for ever. So very reasonable, fo unmov'd, As never yet to love, or to be lov'd. She, while her Lover pants upon her breaft, Can mark the figures on an Indian Cheft; And when she sees her friend in deep despair, Observes how much a Chintz exceeds Mohair.
Forbid it Heav'n, a favour or a Debt
Secret still in Cloc's ear;
To Mrs. M. B. on her Birth-day.
H bé thou bleft with all that Heav'n can send,
Let Joy or Ease, let Afluence or Content,
Let day improve on day, and year on year,
DEO OPT. MAX.
FATHER every Clime ador.
ATHER of All! in every Age,
Clime ador'd, By Saint, by Savage, and by Sage,
Jehovah, Jove, or Lord !
Thou Great First Cause, least understood :
Who all my Sense confin'd
And that my self am blind ;
Yet gave me, in this dark Estate,
To see the Good from Ill; And binding Nature faft in Fate,
Left Conscience free, and Will.
What Conscience dictates to be done,
Or warns me not to doe,
That, more than Heav'n pursue.
What Blessings thy free Bounty gives,
Let me not caft away ;
T'enjoy, is to obey.
Yet not to Earths contracted Span
Thy Goodness let me bound, Or think Thee Lord alone of Man,
When thousand Worlds are round :
Let not this weak, unknowing hand
Presume Thy Bolts to throw, And deal Damnation round the land,
On each I judge thy Foe :
If I am right, thy grace impart
Still in the right to stay ; If I am wrong, oh teach
heart To find that better way!
Save me alike from foolish Pride,
Or impious Discontent,