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Full gently pranc'd he o'er the lawn;

Oft roll'd his eyes around,

And from the stirrup ftretch'd to find

Who was not to be found.

Long brandish'd he the blade in air,

Long look'd the field all o'er :

At length he fpy'd the merry-men brown,

And eke the coach and four.

From out the boot bold Nicolas

Did wave his wand so white,
As pointing out the gloomy glade
Wherein he meant to fight.

All in that dreadful hour fo calm

A Was Lancastere to fee,

As if he meant to take the air,
Or only take a fee.

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Then wet and weary home he far'd,
Sore mutt'ring all the way,

"The day I meet him, Nic. fhall rue "The cudgel of that day.

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"Mean time on every piffing-poft

"Pafte we this recreant's name,

So that each piffer-by fhall read "And piss against the fame."

Now God preferve our gracious King,
And grant, his nobles all

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May learn this leffon from Duke Nic.

That pride will have a fall.

*FRAGMENT of a SATIRE+.

IF meagre Gildon draws his venal quill,

I wish the man a dinner, and fit ftill: If dreadful Dennis raves in furious fret,

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I'll anfwer Dennis when I am in debt.
'Tis hunger, and not malice, makes them print;
And who'll wage war with bedlam or the mint?
SHOULD fome more fober critics come abroad,
If wrong, I fmile; if right, I kifs the rod.
Pains, reading, ftudy, are their juft pretence;
And all they want is fpirit, tafte, and fenfe.
Commas and points they fet exactly right;
And 'twere a fin to rob them of their mite:
Yet ne'er one sprig of laurel grac'd those ribalds,
From flashing Bentley down to pidling Tibalds,
Who thinks he reads, when he but fcans and spells; 15
A word catcher, that lives on fyllables.

Yet ev'n this creature may fome notice claim,
Wrapt round and fanctify'd with Shakespear's name.
Pretty in amber to obferve the forms

Of hairs, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms!

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†This and the four following poems were wrote by Mr Pope.

The thing we know, is neither rich nor rare;
And wonder how the devil it got there.
angry ? I excufe them too:

ARE others
Well may they rage; I give them but their due.
Each man's true merit 'tis not hard to find;

*

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But each man's fecret ftandard in his mind,
That cafting weight pride adds to emptiness,
This who can gratify? for who can guess?
The wretch whom pilfer'd paftorals renown,
Who turns a Perfian tale for half a crown,
Juft writes to make his barrenness appear,
And ftrains from hard-bound brains fix lines a-year ;
In fense still wanting, tho' he lives on theft,
Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left:
+ Johnson, who now to fenfe, now nonfenfe leaning, 35
Means not, but blunders round about a meaning:
And he whofe fuftian's fo fublimely bad,

It is not poetry, but profe run mad:
Should modeft fatire bid all these translate,
And own that nine fuch poets make a Tate;

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How would they fume, and stamp, and roar, and chafe! How would they fwear not Congreve's felf was safe!

PEACE to all fuch! but were there one whofe fires

Apollo kindled, and fair fame infpires;

Blefs'd with each talent and each art to please,
And born to write, converfe, and live with ease:
Should fuch a man, too fond to rule alone,
Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne
View him with fcornful, yet with fearful eyes,
And hate for arts that caus'd himself to rife;
Damn with faint praife, affent with civil leer,
And without fneering teach the reft to fneer;
Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike,
Juft hint a fault, and hesitate dislike;

* Philips.

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+ Author of the Victim, and Cobler of Prefton. Verse of Dr Ev.

Alike referv'd to blame, or to commend,
A tim❜rous foe, and a fufpicious friend;
Dreading ev'n fools, by flatterers befieg'd,
And so obliging that he ne'er oblig'd;
Who, if two wits on rival themes conteft,
Approves of each, but likes the worst the best;
Like Cato, gives his little fenate laws,
And fits attentive to his own applaufe;
While wits and templars ev'ry fentence raife,
And wonder with a foolish face of praise-
What pity, heav'n! if fuch a man there be?
Who would not weep, if Addison were he !

*M A CE R.

WHEN
HEN fimple Macer, now of high renown,
Firft fought a poet's fortune in the town;
'Twas all th' ambition his great soul could feel,
To wear red stockings, and to dine with Steel.
Some ends of verfe his betters might afford,
gave the harmless fellow a good word.

And

Set

up with thefe, he ventur❜d on the town,
And in a borrow'd play outdid poor Crown..
There he stopt fhort, nor fince has writ a tittle,
But has the wit to make the most of little ;
Like ftunted hide-bound trees, that just have got
Sufficient fap at once to bear and rot..

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+ Now he begs verfe, and what he gets commends, Not of the wits his foes, but fools his friends.

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So fome coarfe country-wench, almoft decay'd, 15 Trudges to town, and firft turns chambermaid: Awkward, and fupple each devoir to pay,

She flatters her good lady twice a day;

+ He requested by public advertisements the aid of the ingeni us to make up a mifcellany in 1713.

Thought wondrous honeft, tho' of mean degree,
And ftrangely lik'd for her fimplicity:

In a tranflated fuit then tries the town,

With borrow'd pins, and patches not her own;
But just endur'd the winter fhe began,

And in four months a batter'd harridan.

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Now nothing's left, but wither'd, pale, and shrunk, 25 To bawd for others, and go fhares with punk.

*SYLVIA; a FRAGMENT.

YLVIA

SYLV

my heart in wondrous wife alarm'd

Aw'd without fenfe, and without beauty charm'd : But fome odd graces and fine flights fhe had,

Was juft not ugly, and was juft not mad :

Her tongue ftill run on credit from her eyes,
More pert than witty, more a wit than wife:
Good-nature, fhe declar'd it, was her fcorn,
Tho' 'twas by that alone she could be born:
Affronting all, yet fond of a good name;
A fool to pleasure, yet a slave to fame :
Now coy, and ftudious in no point to fall,
Now all agog
for Dy at a ball:

Now deep in Taylor, and the book of martyrs,

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Now drinking citron with his Grace and Charters.
MEN, fome to bus'nefs, fome to pleasure take; 15

But ev'ry woman's in her foul a rake.

Frail, fev'rish fex! their fit now chills, now burns :
Atheism and fuperftition rule by turns;

And the mere Heathen in her carnal part
Is fill a fad good Christian at her heart.

ARTEMISIA

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