Methinks (his mind with future honours big,
His Tyburn bob turn'd to a dress'd bag wig)
I hear him cry-" What doth this jargon mean?
Was ever such a damn'd dull blockhead seen?
Majesty-bard-prerogative-Disdain
Hath got into, and turn'd the fellow's brain;
To Bethlem with him-give him whips and straw-
I'm very sensible he 's mad in law.
A saucy groom who trades in reason, thus
To set himself upon a par with us;

If this here's suffer'd, and if that there fool
May when he pleases send us all to school,
Why then our only business is outright

To take our caps, and bid the world good night.
I've kept a bard myself this twenty years,
But nothing of this kind in him appears.
He, like a thorough true-bred spaniel licks

The hand which cuffs him, and the foot which kicks;

He fetches and he carries, blacks my shoes,
Nor thinks it a discredit to his Muse;
A creature of the right cameleon hue,
He wears my colours, yellow or true blue,
Just as I wear them; 'tis all one to him,
Whether I change through conscience, or through
whim.

Now this is something like; on such a plan
A bard may find a friend in a great man;
But this proud coxcomb-zounds, I thought that all
Of this queer tribe had been like my old Paul.”
Injurious thought! accursed be the tongue
On which the vile insinuation hung,
The heart where 'twas engender'd! Curst be those,
Those bards, who not themselves alone expose,
But me, but all, and make the very name
By which they're call'd, a standing mark of shame.
Talk not of custom-'tis the coward's plea,
Current with fools, but passes not with me;
An old stale trick, which Guilt hath often tried
By numbers to o'erpow'r the better side.
Why tell me, then, that from the birth of Rhyme,
No matter when, down to the present time,
As by th' original decree of Fate,
Bards have protection sought amongst the great;
Conscious of weakness, have applied to them
As vines to elms, and twining round their stem,
Flourish'd on high; to gain this wish'd support,
E'en Virgil to Mecenas paid his court?
As to the custom, 'tis a point agreed,
But 'twas a foolish diffidence, not need,
From which it rose: had bards but truly known
That strength, which is most properly their own,
Without a lord, unpropp'd, they might have stood,
And overtopp'd those giants of the wood.

But why, when present times my care engage,
Must I go back to the Augustan age?
Why, anxious for the living, am I led
Into the mansions of the ancient dead?
Can they find patrons no where but at Rome,
And must I seek Mæcenas in the tomb?
Name but a Wingate, twenty fools of note
Start up, and from report Mæcenas quote;
Under his colours lords are proud to fight,
Forgetting that Mæcenas was a knight;
They mention him, as if to use his name
Was in some measure to partake his fame,
Though Virgil, were he living, in the street
Might rot for them, or perish in the Fleet.
See how they redden, and the charge disclaim-
Virgil, and in the Fleet!-Forbid it shame.

Hence, ye vain boasters, to the Fleet repair, And ask, with blushes ask, if LLOYD is there'.

Patrons, in days of yore, were men of sense, Were men of taste, and had a fair pretence To rule in letters.-Some of them were heard To read off-hand, and never spell a word; Some of them too, to such a monstrous height Was learning risen, for themselves could write, And kept their secretaries, as the great Do many other foolish things, for state.

Our patrons are of quite a diff'rent strain, With neither sense nor taste, against the grain, They patronize for fashion sake-no moreAnd keep a bard, just as they keep a whore. Melcombe (on such occasion I am loth

2

To name the dead) was a rare proof of both.
Some of them would be puzzled e'en to read,
Nor could deserve their clergy by their creed;
Others can write, but such a pagan hand,
A Willes 3 should always at our elbow stand;
Many, if begg'd, a chancellor, of right,
Would order into keeping at first sight.
Those who stand fairest to the publie view,
Take to themselves the praise to others due;
They rob the very spital, and make free
With those, alas! who've least to spare.-We see,
hath not a word to say,

Since winds and waves bore Singlespeech away.
Patrons in days of yore, like patrons now,
Expected that the bard should make his bow
At coming in, and ev'ry now and then
Hint to the world that they were more than men;'
But, like the patrons of the present day,
They never bilk'd the poet of his pay.
Virgil lov'd rural ease, and, far from harm,
Mæcenas fix'd him in a neat, snug farm,
Where he might, free from trouble, pass his days
In his own way, and pay his rent in praise.
Horace lov'd wine, and, through his friend at court,
Could buy it off the key in ev'ry port;
Horace lov'd mirth, Mæcenas lov'd it too,
They met, they laugh'd, as Goy 4 and I may do,
Nor in those moments paid the least regard
To which was minister, and which was bard.

Not so our patrons-grave as grave can be,
They know themselves, they keep up dignity;
Bards are a forward race, nor is it fit

That men of fortune rank with men of wit;
Wit, if familiar made, will find her strength-
'Tis best to keep her weak and at arms-length.
"Tis well enough for bards, if patrons give,
From hand to mouth, the scanty means to live.
Such is their language, and their practice such,
They promise little, and they give not much.
Let the weak bard, with prostituted strain,
Praise that proud Scot, whom all good men disdain;
What's his reward? Why, his own fame undone,
He may obtain a patent for the run
Of his lord's kitchen, and have ample time,
With offal fed, to court the cook in rhyme;
Or (if he strives true patriots to disgrace)
May at the second table get a place,

Mr. Lloyd died in the Fleet, Dec. 15, 1764, shortly after the publication of this poem.

* George Bubb Dodington, lord Melcombe. He died July 28, 1762.

3 Decypherer to the state.

A Frenchman, secretary to Mr. Wilkes.

With somewhat greater slaves allow'd to dine,
And play at crambo o'er a gill of wine.

And are there bards, who on creation's file,
Stand rank'd as men, who breathe in this fair isle
The air of Freedom, with so little gall,
So low a spirit, prostrate thus to fall
Before these idols, and without a groan

Bear wrongs might call forth murmurs from a stone?
Better, and much more noble to abjure
The sight of men, and in some cave, secure
From all the outrages of pride, to feast
On Nature's sallads, and be free at least.
Better (though that, to say the truth, is worse
Than almost any other modern curse)
Discard all sense, divorce the thankless Muse,
Critics commence, and write in the Reviews,
Write without tremour, Griffiths cannot read ;
No fool can fail, where Langhorne can succeed.
But (not to make a brave and honest pride
Try those means first, she must disdain when
tried)

There are a thousand ways, a thousand arts,
By which, and fairly, men of real parts
May gain a living, gain what Nature craves;
Let those, who pine for more, live, and be slaves.
Our real wants in a small compass lie,
But lawless appetite with eager eye,
Kept in a constant fever, more requires,
And we are burnt up with our own desires.

Hence our dependence, hence our slav'ry springs;
Bards, if contented, are as great as Kings.
Ourselves are to ourselves the cause of ill;
We may be independent, if we will.
The man who suits his spirit to his state,
Stands on an equal footing with the great;
Moguls themselves are not more rich, and he
Who rules the English nation, not more free.
Chains were not forg'd more durable and strong
For bards than others, but they 've worn them long,
And therefore wear them still; they've quite forgot
What Freedom is, and therefore prize her not.
Could they, though in their sleep, could they but
know

The blessings which from Independence flow;
Could they but have a short and transient gleam
Of Liberty, though 'twas but in a dream;
They would no more in bondage bend their knee,
But, once made freemen, would be always free.
The Muse, if she one moment freedom gains,
Can never more submit to sing in chains.
Bred in a cage, far from the feather'd throng,
The bird repays his keeper with his song,
But if some playful child sets wide the door,
Abroad he flies, and thinks of home no more,
With love of liberty begins to burn,
And rather starves than to his cage return.

Hail, Independence-by true reason taught,
How few have known, and priz'd thee as they ought.
Some give thee up for riot; some, like boys,
Resign thee, in their childish moods, for toys;
Ambition some, some avarice misleads,
And in both cases Independence bleeds:
Abroad, in quest of thee, how many roam,
Nor know they had thee in their reach at home;
Some, though about their paths, their beds about,
Have never had the sense to find thee out;
Others, who know of what they are possess'd,
Like fearful misers lock thee in a chest,
Nor have the resolution to produce

In these bad times, and bring thee forth for use.

Hail, Independence-though thy name 's scarce known,

Though thou, alas! art out of fashion grown,
Though all despise thee, I will not despise,
Nor live one moment longer than I prize
Thy presence, and enjoy: by angry Fate
Bow'd down, and almost crush'd, thou cam'st,
though late,

Thou cam'st upon me, like a second birth,
And made me know what life was truly worth.
Hail, Independence-never may my cot,
Till I forget thee, be by thee forgot;
Thither, O thither, oftentimes repair;
Cotes 5, whom thou lovest too, shall meet thee there;
All thoughts, but what arise from joy, give o'er;
Peace dwells within, and Law shall guard the door.
O'erweening bard! Law guard thy door, what
Law?

The Law of England?- -To control, and awe
Those saucy hopes, to strike that spirit dumb,
Behold, in state, Administration come.

Why let her come, in all her terrours too;
I dare to suffer all she dares to do.

I know her malice well, and know her pride,

I know her strength, but will not change my side.
This melting mass of flesh she may control
With iron ribs, she cannot chain my soul,
No to the last resolv'd her worst to bear,
I'm still at large, and independent there.

Where is this minister? Where is the band
Of ready slaves, who at his elbow stand
To hear, and to perform his wicked will?
Why, for the first time, are they slow to ill?
When some grand act 'gainst Law is to be done,
Doth - sleep; doth bloodhound -
To L, and worry those small deer,
When he might do more precious mischief here?
Doth Webb turn tail? Doth he refuse to draw
Illegal warrants, and to call them Law?
Doth Webb, at Guildford kick'd, from Guildford

run,

- is

run

With that cold lump of unbak'd dough, his son,
And, his more honest rival Ketch to cheat,
Purchase a burial-place where three ways meet?
Believe it not;
still,
And never sleeps, when he should wake to ill;
doth lesser mischiefs by-the-by,
The great ones till the Term in petto lie;
Webb lives, and, to the strictest justice true,
Scorns to defraud the hangman of his due.

O my poor country-weak and overpower'd
By thine own sons-eat to the bone-devour'd
By vipers, which, in thine own entrails bred,
Prey on thy life, and with thy blood are fed,
With unavailing grief thy wrongs I see,
And, for myself not feeling, feel for thee.
I grieve, but can't despair-for, lo, at hand
Freedom presents a choice, but faithful band
Of loyal patriots, men who greatly dare
In such a noble cause, men fit to bear
The weight of empires; Fortune, Rank, and Sense,
Virtue, and Knowledge, leagu'd with Eloquence,
March in their ranks; Freedom from file to file
Darts her delighted eye, and with a smile
Approves her honest sons, whilst down her cheek,
As 'twere by stealth (her heart too full to speak)
One tear in silence creeps, one honest tear,
And seems to say, "Why is not Granby here?"

5 Humphrey Cotes,

O ye brave few, in whom we still may find
A love of virtue, freedom, and mankind,
Go forth, in majesty of woe array'd,

See, at your feet your country kneels for aid,
And (many of her children traitors grown)
Kneels to those sons she still can call her own;
Seeming to breathe her last in ev'ry breath,
She kneels for freedom, or she begs for death-
Fly then, each duteous son, each English chief,
And to your drooping parent bring relief.
Go forth-nor let the siren voice of Ease
Tempt ye to sleep, whilst tempests swell the seas;
Go forth-nor let Hypocrisy, whose tongue
With many a fair, false, fatal art is hung,
Like Bethel's fawning prophet, cross your way,
When your great errand brooks not of delay;
Nor let vain Fear, who cries to all she meets,
Trembling and pale-" A lion in the streets"-
Damp your free spirits; let not threats affright,
Nor bribes corrupt, nor flatteries delight.
Be as one man-Concord success ensures-
There's not an English heart but what is yours.
Go forth-and Virtue, ever in your sight,
Shall be your guide by day, your guard by night-
Go forth-the champions of your native land,
And may the battle prosper in your hand-
It may, it must-Ye cannot be withstood-
Be your hearts honest, as your cause is good.

THE JOURNEY.

SOME of my friends, (for friends I must suppose
All, who, not daring to appear my foes,
Feign great good-will, and, not more full of spite
Than full of craft, under false colours fight)
Some of my friends, (so lavishly I print)
As more in sorrow than in anger, hint
(Though that indeed will scarce admit a doubt)
That I shall run my stock of genius out,
My no great stock, and, publishing so fast,
Must needs become a bankrupt at the last.
"The husbandman, to spare a thankful soil,
Which, rich in disposition, pays his toil
More than a hundred fold, which swells his store
E'en to his wish, and makes his barns run o'er,
By long experience taught, who teaches best,
Foregoes his hopes a while, and gives it rest.
The land, allow'd its losses to repair,
Refresh'd, and full in strength, delights to wear
A second youth, and to the farmer's eyes
Bids richer crops aud double harvests rise.

"Nor think this practice to the earth confin'd,
It reaches to the culture of the mind.
The mind of man craves rest, and cannot bear,
Though next in pow'r to God's, continual care.
Genius himself (nor here let Genius frown)
Must, to ensure his vigour, be laid down,
And fallow'd well: had Churchill known but this,
Which the most slight observer scarce could miss,
He might have flourish'd twenty years or more,
Though now, alas! poor man! worn out in four."
Recover'd from the vanity of youth,

I feel, alas! this melancholy truth,
Thanks to each cordial, each advising friend,
And am, if not too late, resolv'd to mend,
Resolv'd to give some respite to my pen,
Apply myself once more to books and mẹn,

View what is present, what is past review,
And my old stock exhausted, lay in new.
For twice six moons (let winds, turn'd porters, bear
This oath to Heav'n) for twice six moons, I swear,
No Muse shall tempt me with her siren lay,
Nor draw me from Improvement's thorny way:
Verse I abjure, nor will forgive that friend,
Who in my hearing shall a rhyme commend.
It cannot be-Whether I will, or no,
Such as they are, my thoughts in measure flow.
Convinc'd, determin'd, I in prose begin,
But ere I write one sentence, verse creeps in,
And taints me through and through: by this good
In verse I talk by day, I dream by night; [light,
If now and then I curse, my curses chime,
Nor can I pray, unless I pray in rhyme.
E'en now I err, in spite of common sense,
And my confession doubles my offence.

[breath,

Rest then, my friends-spare, spare your precious
And be your slumbers not less sound than death;
Perturbed spirits rest, nor thus appear
To waste your counsels in a spendthrift's ear.
On your grave lessons I cannot subsist,
Nor e'en in verse become economist;
Rest then, my friends, nor, hateful to my eyes,
Let Envy in the shape of Pity rise

To blast me ere my time; with patience wait,
('Tis no long interval) propitious Fate
Shall glut your pride, and ev'ry son of phlegm
Find ample room to censure and condemn.
Read some three hundred lines, (no easy task;
But probably the last that I shall ask)
And give me up for ever; wait one hour,
Nay not so much, revenge is in your pow'r,
And ye may cry," Ere Time hath turn'd his glass,
Lo! what we prophesied is come to pass."

Let those, who poetry in poems claim,
Or not read this, or only read to blame;
Let those, who are by fiction's charms enslav'd,
Return me thanks for half-a-crown well sav'd;
Let those, who love a little gall in rhyme,
Postpone their purchase now, and call next time;
Let those, who, void of nature, look for art,
Take up their money, and in peace depart;
Let those, who energy of diction prize,
For Billingsgate quit Flexney, and be wise;
Here is no lie, no gall, no art, no force;
Mean are the words, and such as come of course,
The subject not less simple than the lay;
A plain, unlabour'd Journey of a day.

Far from me now be ev'ry tuneful maid,
I neither ask, nor can receive their aid.
Pegasus turn'd into a common hack,
Alone I jog, and keep the beaten track,
Nor would I have the Sisters of the hill
Behold their bard in such a dishabille.
Absent, but only absent for a time,
Let them caress some dearer son of rhyme;
Let them, as far as decency permits,
Without suspicion, play the fool with wits,
'Gainst fools be guarded; 'tis a certain rule,
Wits are safe things, there's danger in a fool.

Let them, though modest, Gray more modest

Whilst he, fine feeling creature, all in tears,
Melts as they melt, and weeps with weeping peers;
Let them with simple Whitehead, taught to creep
Silent and soft, lay Fontenelle asleep";
Let them with Browne contrive, no vulgar trick,
To cure the dead, and make the living sick 7;
Let them in charity to Murphy give

Some old French piece, that he may steal and live;
Let them with antic Foote subscriptions get,
And advertise a Summer-house of wit.

Thus, or in any better way they please,

DEDICATION

TO CHURCHILL'S SERMONS.

Let them their appetite for laughter feed;

I on my journey all alone proceed.

If fashionable grown, and fond of pow'r,

With hum'rous Scots let them disport their hour:
Let them dance, fairy-like, round Ossian's tomb;
Let them forge lies, and histories for Hume;
Let them with Home, the very prince of verse,
Make something like a tragedy in Erse;
Under dark Allegory's flimsy veil

Let them with Ogilvie spin out a tale

Of rueful length; let them plain things obscure,
Debase what's truly rich, and what is poor
Make poorer still by jargon most uncouth;
With ev'ry pert, prim prettiness of youth
Born of false taste, with fancy (like a child
Not knowing what it cries for) running wild,
With bloated style, by affectation taught,
With much false colouring, and little thought,
With phrases strange, and dialect decreed
By reason never to have pass'd the Tweed,
With words which Nature meant each other's foe,
Fore'd to compound whether they will or no;
With such materials, let them, if they will,
To prove at once their pleasantry and skill,
Build up a bard to war 'gainst common sense,
By way of compliment to Providence;

Let them with Armstrong, taking leave of sense,
Read musty lectures on benevolence,
Or con the pages of his gaping Day,
Where all his former fame was thrown away,
Where all but barren labour was forgot,
And the vain stiffness of a letter'd Scot;
Let them with Armstrong pass the term of light,
But not one hour of darkness; when the night
Suspends this mortal coil, when Memory wakes,
When for our past misdoings Conscience takes
A deep revenge, when by Reflection led,
She draws his curtains, and looks Comfort dead,
Let ev'ry Muse be gone; in vain he turns
And tries to pray for sleep; an Ætna burns,
A more than Ætna in his coward breast,
And Guilt, with vengeance arm'd, forbids him rest:
Though soft as plumage from young zephyr's wing,
His couch seems hard, and no relief can bring.
Ingratitude hath planted daggers there,
No good man can deserve, no brave man bear.
Thus, or in any better way they please,
With these great men, or with great men like these,
Let them their appetite for laughter feed;
I on my journey all alone proceed.

And, spite of Hell, that character is mine:
To speak e'en bitter truths I cannot fear;
But truth, my lord, is panegyric here.

Health to great Gloster-nor, through love of

ease,

Which all priests love, let this address displease.
I ask no favour, not one note I crave,
And when this busy brain rests in the grave,
(For till that time it never can have rest)
I will not trouble you with one bequest;
Some humbler friend, my mortal journey done,
More near in blood, a nephew or a son,
In that dread hour executor I'll leave:
For I, alas! have many to receive,
To give but little-To great Gloster health;
Nor let thy true and proper love of wealth
Here take a false alarm-in purse though poor,
In spirit I'm right proud, nor can endure
The mention of a bribe-thy pocket's free,
I, though a dedicator, scorn a fee.
Let thy own offspring all thy fortunes share;
I would not Allen rob, nor Allen's heir.

Think not, a thought unworthy thy great soul, Which pomps of this world never could control, Which never offer'd up at Power's vain shrine, Think not that pomp and pow'r can work on mine. 'Tis not thy name, though that indeed is great, 'Tis not the tinsel trumpery of state,

'Tis not thy title, doctor though thou art,
'Tis not thy mitre, which hath won my heart.
State is a farce, names are but empty things,
Degrees are bought, and, by mistaken kings,
Titles are oft misplac'd; mitres, which shine
So bright in other eyes, are dull in mine,
Unless set off by virtue: who deceives
Under the sacred sanction of lawn sleeves,
Enhances guilt, commits a double sin;
So fair without, and yet so foul within.
'Tis not thy outward form, thy easy mien,
Thy sweet complacency, thy brow serene,
Thy open front, thy love-commanding eye,
Where fifty Cupids, as in ambush, lie,
Which can from sixty to sixteen impart
The force of love, and point his blunted dart;
'Tis not thy face, though that by Nature's made
An index to thy soul, though there display'd
We see thy mind at large, and through thy skin
Peeps out that courtesy which dwells within;
Tis not thy birth, for that is low as mine,
Around our heads no lineal glories shine-
But what is birth-when, to delight mankind,

7 See The Cure of Saul, by Dr. Browne.

When thou art to thyself, thy sire unknown,

A whole Welsh genealogy alone?

No, 'tis thy inward man, thy proper worth,
Thy right just estimation here on Earth,
Thy life and doctrine uniformly join'd,

And flowing from that wholesome source thy mind,

Thy known contempt of persecution's rod,
Thy charity for man, thy love of God,
Thy faith in Christ, so well approv'd-'mongst men,
Which now give life and utt'rance to my pen:
Thy virtue, not thy rank, demands my lays;
'Tis not the bishop, but the saint I praise.
Rais'd by that theme, I soar on wings more strong,
And burst forth into praise withheld too long.
Much did I wish, e'en whilst I kept those sheep,
Which, for my curse, I was ordain'd to keep;
Ordain'd, alas! to keep through need, not choice,
Those sheep which never heard their shepherd's
voice,

Which did not know, yet would not learn their way, Which stray'd themselves, yet griev'd that I should stray,

Those sheep, which my good father (on his bier
Let filial duty drop the pious tear)

Kept well, yet starv'd himself; e'en at that time,
Whilst I was pure, and innocent of rhyme,
Whilst, sacred dullness ever in my view,
Sleep at my bidding crept from pew to pew,
Much did I wish, though little could I hope,

A friend in him who was the friend of Pope. [guide,
“His hand,” said I, "my youthful steps shall
And lead me safe where thousands fall beside;
His temper, his experience shall control,
And hush to peace the tempest of my soul;
His judgment teach me, from the critic school,
How not to err, and how to err by rule;
Instruct me, mingle profit with delight,

And, idly wand'ring o'er the Muses' hill, Let the salvation of mankind stand still?

Far, far be that from thee-yes, far from thee
Be such revolt from grace, and far from me
The will to think it-guilt is in the thought-
Not so, not so, hath Warburton been taught,
Not so learn'd Christ--Recall that day, well-known,
When (to maintain God's honour-and his own)
He call'd blasphemers forth-Methinks I now
See stern rebuke enthroned on his brow,
And arm'd with tenfold terrours-from this tongue,
Where fiery zeal and Christian fury hung,
Methinks I hear the deep-ton'd thunders roll,
And chill with horrour ev'ry sinner's soul-`
In vain they strive to fly-flight cannot save,
And Potter trembles even in his grave-
With all the conscious pride of innocence,
Methinks I hear him, in his own defence,
Bear witness to himself, whilst all men knew,
By gospel rules, his witness to be true.

O glorious man, thy zeal I must commend,
Though it depriv'd me of my dearest friend.
The real motives of thy anger known,
Wilkes must the justice of that anger own,
And could thy bosom have been bar'd to view,
Pitied himself, in turn had pitied you.

Bred to the law, you wisely took the gown,
Which I, like Demas, foolishly laid down.
Hence double strength our holy mother drew:
Me she got rid of, and made prize of you.
I, like an idle truant, fond of play,

Grasping at shadows, let the substance slip;

whim,

How little 's due to them, how much to him.
Rais'd 'bove the slavery of common rules,
Of common sense, of modern, ancient schools,
Those feelings banish'd, which mislead us all,
Fools as we are, and which we Nature call,
He, by his great example, might impart
A better something, and baptize it art;
He, all the feelings of my youth forgot,
Might show me what is taste, by what is not;
By him supported, with a proper pride,
I might hold all mankind as fools beside;
He (should a world perverse and peevish grown,
Explode his maxims, and assert their own)
Might teach me, like himself, to be content,
And let their folly be their punishment;
Might like himself teach his adopted son,
'Gainst all the world, to quote a Warburton."
Fool that I was, could I so much deceive
My soul with lying hopes; could I believe
That be, the servant of his Maker sworn,
The servant of his Saviour, would be torn
From their embrace, and leave that dear employ,
The cure of souls, his duty and his joy,
For toys like mine, and waste his precious time,
On which so much depended, for a rhyme?
Should be forsake the task he undertook,
Desert his flock, and break his past'ral crook?
Should he (forbid it Heaven) so high in place,
So rich in knowledge, quit the work of grace,

With better purpose, and more noble aim,
And wisely play'd a more substantial game.
Nor did Lawe mourn, bless'd in her younger son,
For Mansfield does what Gloster would have done.
Doctor, dean, bishop, Gloster, and my lord,

If haply these high titles may accord
With thy meek spirit, if the barren sound
Of pride delights thee, to the topmost round
Of Fortune's ladder got, despise not one,
For want of smooth hypocrisy undone,
Who, far below, turns up his wond'ring eye,
And, without envy, sees thee plac'd so high;
Let not thy brain (as brains less potent might)
Dizzy, confounded, giddy with the height,
Turn round, and lose distinction, lose her skill
And wonted powers of knowing good from ill,
Of sifting truth from falsehood, friends from foes;
Let Gloster well remember, how he rose,
Nor turn his back on men who made him great;
Let him not, gorg'd with pow'r, and drunk with state,
Forget what once he was, though now so high;
How low, how mean, and full as poor as I.

Cætera desunt'.

It is presumed the sudden death of the author will sufficiently apologize for the DEDICATION remaining unfinished. JOHN CHURCHILL.