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But I will rally, and combat the ruiner :
Not a look, nor a smile shall my passion discover,
She that gives all to the false one pursuing her,
Makes but a penitent, and loses a lover.

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In these bold times, when Learning's fons explore
The distant climates, and the favage shore ;
When wise astronomers to India fieer,
And quit for Venus many a brighter here;

While botanists, all cold to smiles and dimpling,
Forsake the fair, and patiently-go fimpling,
Our bard into the general spirit enters,
And fits his little frigate for adventures.
With Scythian stores, and trinkets deeply laden,
He this way steers his course, in hopes of trading-
Yet ere he lands he's order'd me before,
To make an observation on the thore,
Where are we driven ? our reckoning sure is lost!
This seems a rocky and a dangerous coast.
Lord, what a sultry climate am I under!
Yon ill foreboding cloud seems big with thunder :

[Upper gallery. There mangroves spread, and larger than I've seen



Here trees of stately size—and billing turtles in 'em

[Balconies. Here ill-conditioned oranges abound- [Stage. And apples, bitter apples sirew the ground :

[Tasting them. The inhabitants are canibals I fear : I heard a hiiling--there are serpents here ! O, there the people are--best keep my distance; Our Captain (gentle natives) craves assistance ; Our ship's well stor d-in yonder creek we've laid her, His honour is no mercenary trader. This is his first adventure, lend liim aid, And we may chance to drive a thriving trade.

His goods, he hopes, are prime, and brought from

Equally fit for gallantry and war.
What, no reply to promises so ample ?
I'd best step back--and order up a sample, ,

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Hold! Prompter, hold! a word before your

nonsense ;
I'd speak a word or two, to ease my conscience.

My pride forbids it ever should be said,
My heels eclips’d the honours of my head;
That I found humour in a pyeball vest,
Or ever thought that jumping was a jest.

[Takes off his mask.
Whence, and what art thou, visionary birth ?
Nature disowns, and reason fcorns thy mirth,
In thy black aspect every passion sleeps,
The joy that dimples, and the woe that weeps.
How hast thou fill’d the scene with all thy brood,
Of fools pursuing, and of fools pursu'd !
Whose ins and outs no ray of sense discloses,
Whofe only plot it is to break our noses ;

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