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HEN simple Macer, now of high renown,
First fought a

Poet's Fortune in the Town,
'Twas all th’ Ambition his high soul could feel,
To wear red stockings, and to dine with Steel.
Some Ends of verse his Betters might afford,

the harmless fellow a good word.
Set with these; he ventur'd on the Town,
And with a borrow'd Play, out-did poor

There he stop'd short, nor since has writ a tittle,
But has the wit to make the most of little:
Like ftunted hide-bound Trees, that just have got
Sufficient sap at once to bear and rot,
Now he begs Verse, and what he gets comm

Not of the Wits his foes, but Fools his friends.

So some coarse Country Wench, almost decay'd,
Trudges to town, and first turns Chambermaid ;
Aukward and fupple, each devoir to pay ;
She flatters her good Lady twice a day ;
Thought wond'rous honest, though of mean degree,
And strangely lik'd for her Simplicity :


In a translated Suit, then tries the Town,
With borrow'd Pins, and Patches not her own;
But just endur'd the winter she began,
And in four months a batter'd Harridan.
Now nothing left, but wither'd, pale, and shrunk,
To bawd for others, and go shares with Punk.

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
She e're should cancel - but she may forget.
Safe is

Secret still in Cloc's ear;
But none of Cloë's fall you ever hear.
Of all her Dears she never slander'd one,
But cares not if a thousand are undone.
Would Cloë know if you're alive or dead ?
She bids her Footman put it in her head.
Cloë is prudent — would you too be wise ?
Then never break your heart when Cloë dies.

To Mrs. M. B. on her Birth-day.

H bé thou bleft with all that Heav'n can send,
Long Health, long Youth, long Pleasure, and a

Friend :
Not with those Toys the female world admire,
Riches that vex, and Vanities that tire.
With added years if Life bring nothing new,
But like a Sieve let ev'ry blessing thro',
Some joy still loft, as each vain year runs o’er,
And all we gain, fome fad Reflection more ;
Is that a Birth-day : 'tis alas ! too clear,
'Tis but the Fun’ral of the former year.

Let Joy or Ease, let Afluence or Content,
And the gay Conscience of a life well spent,
Calm ev'ry thought, inspirit ev'ry Grace,
Glow in thy heart, and smile upon thy face.


Let day improve on day, and year on year,
Without à Pain, a Trouble, or a Fear ;
Till Death unfelt that tender frame destroy,
İn some some soft Dream, or Extasy of joy :
Peaceful sleep out the Sabbath of the Tomb,
And wake to Raptures in a Life to come.




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
To know but this, that Thou art Good,

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,
This, teach me more than Hell to shun,

That, more than Heav'n pursue.

What Blessings thy free Bounty gives,

Let me not caft away ;
For God is pay'd when Man receives,

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,
At ought thy Wisdom has deny'd,
Or ought thy Goodness lent,


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