Imatges de pÓgina



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The rest, fome farm the poor-box, fome the pews;

vi. Some keep assemblics, and would keep the stews; Some with fat bucks on childless dotards fawn;

To Mr. Murray. Some win rich Widows by their chine and brawn; While, with the filent growth of ten per cent. “ NOT to admire, is all the art I know In dirt and darkness, hundreds itink content. “ To make men happy, and to keep them fo.''

Of all these ways, if cach puriues his own, (Plain truth, dear Murray! needs no flow'rs of Satire, be kind, and let the wretch alone :

speech; But thew me one who has it in his pow'r So take it in the very words of Creech). To act confitent with himself an hour.

This vault of air, this congregated ball, Sır job fail'd fortli, the evening bright and still, Self-centred fun, and stars that rile and fall, No place on eartha (he cried) like Greenwich There are, my friend ! whose philosophic eyes “ hill!"

Look thro' and trust the Ruler with his skies; Ip starts a palace, lo' th' obedient base To him commit the hour, the day, the year, Siopes at its foot, the woods its sides embrace, And view this dreadful all without a fear. The filver Thames reficets its marble face. Admire we then what earth's low entrails Now let some whimsy, or that Devil within Arabian fhores, or Indian feas in fold; [hold, Which guides all those who know not what All the mad trade of fools and laves for guld they mean,

Or popularity, or itars and strings? But give the Knight (or give his Lady) spleen; The mob's applauses, or the gifts of kings ? Away, away ! take all


scaffolds down, Say with what eyes we ought at courts to gaze, For inng's the word i ny dear! we'll live in And pay the great our homage of amaze ? town,'

If weak the pleasure that from these can spring, At am'rous Flavio is the stocking thrown; The fear to want them is as weak a thing, That very night he longs to lie alone.

Whether we drcad, or whether we desire, The fool whose wife clopes fome thrice a quarter, In either case, believe me, we admire ; For matriinovial solacc dies a martyr.

Whether we joy or grieve, the same the curse,
Did ever Proteus, Merlin, any witch,. Surpris'd at better, or surpris'd at worse.
Transform themselves so strangely as the rich : Thus, good or bad to one extreme betray
Well, but the poor—the poor have the same itch; Th' unbalanc'd mind, and snatch the man away;
They change their weekly barber, weekly news, For virtue's self may too much zeal be had;
Prefer a new japanner to their hoes,

The worst of madinen is a saint run mad.
Discharge their garrets, move their beds, and run Go then, and if you can, admire the fate
(They know not whither) in a chaise and one ; Of beaming diamonds, and reflected plate ;
They hire their sculler, and when once aboard Procure a taste to double the surprise,
Grow fick, and damn the climare like a lord.

And gaze on Parian charms with learned cves :
You laugh, half beau, half floren, if I stand, Be (truck with bright brocade, or Tyrian dye,
My wig all powder, and all snuff iny band; Our birth-day nobles' splendid livery.
You laugh, if coat and breeches strangely vary, If not so pleas'd, at council-board rejoice,
White gloves, and linen worthy Lady Mary. To see their judgments hang upon thy voice;
But when no prelate's lawn with hair-thirt lind From morn to night, at senate, rolls, and hali,
Is haif fu incoherent as my mind,

Pload much, read more, dine late, or not at all. When (each opinion with the next at strife, But wherefore all this labour, all this strife? One ebb and flow of follies all my life)

For fame, for riches, for a noble wife? I plaut, root up; I build, and then confound; Shall one whom vature, learning, birth conspir'd Turn round to Iquarc, and square again to round ; To form, not to admire but be admir'd, You never change one muscle of your face, Sigh while his Chloe, blind to wit and worth, You think this madness but a common cale, Weds the rich dulness of some son of earth Nor once to Chancery nor to Halc apply; Yet time ennobles or degrades each line; Yet hang your lip, to see a seam awry! It brighten’d Craggs's, and may darken thine: Careless how ill ' with myself agree,

And what is fame? The mcanest have their day; Kind to my dress, my figure, not to me. The greatest can but blaze, and pass away. Is this my guide, philosopher, and friend? Grac'd as thou art with all the pow'r of words, This he who loves me, and who ought to mend; So known, so honour'd, at the House of Lords: Who ought to make me (what he can, or none) Conspicuous scene ! another yet is nigh, That man divine whom wisdom calls her own; (More filent far) where kings and poets lie; Great without title, without fortune bleft; [prest; Where Murray (long enough his country's pride) Rich even when plunder'd, honour'd while op- Shall be no more than Tully, or than Hyde ! Lov'd without youth, and follow'd without pow'r; Rack'd withosciatics, martyr'd with the stone, At home, tho' exild; free, tho' in the Tow'r: Will any mortal let himself alone ? In short, that reas’ning, high, immortal thing; See Ward by batter'd beaus invited over, Just less than Jove, and much above a king, And desp'rate misery lays hold on Dover. Nay, half in heaven-except (what's mighty odd) The case is easier in the mind's disease; A fit of vapours clouds this derni-god? There all men may be cur'd whene'er they please.




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Would ye be blest? despise low joys, low gains ; From Latian Syrens, French Circuan feasts, Dildain whatever Cornbury disdains :

Return'd welltravelld, and transform d to beasts; Be virtuous, and be happy for your pains. Or for a titled punk, or foreign flame,

But art thou one whom new opinions 1way, Renounce our country and degrade our name? One who believes as Tindal leads the way; lf, after all, we must with Wilmot own, Who virtue and a church alike disowns ; The cordial drop of life is love alone, Thinks that but words, and this but brick and And Swift cry wisely, “ Vive la Bagatelle!” stones?

The man that loves and laughs must fure do well. Fly then on all the wings of wild desire, Adieu-if this advice appear the worst, Admire whate'er the maddest can admire. E'en take the counsel which I gave you first; Is wealth thy passion : Hence! from pole to pole, Or, better precepts if you can impart, Where winds can carry, or where waves can roll, Why do; l'll follow them with all my heart, For Indian spices, for Peruvian gold, Prevent the greedy, or outbid the bold:

E PI$TLE I. BOOK II. Advance thy golden mountain to the skies;

To Asufius.
On the broad base of fifty thousand rise,
Add one round hundred, and (if that's not fair) WHILE you, great patron of mankind ! fustain
Add fifty more, and bring'it to a square. The balanc'd world, and open all the main;
For, mark th' advantage, just so many score Your country, chief, in arms abroad defend,
Will gain a wife with half as many more ; At home, with morals, arts, and laws amend
Procure her beauty, make that beauty chaste; How shall the mufe from fuch a monarch feal
And then such friends-as cannot fail to last. An hour, and not defraud the public weal?
A man of wealth is dubb'd a man of worth ; Edward and Henry, now the boast of fame,
Venus shall give him form, and Anstis youth. And virtuous Alfred, a more sacred name,
(Belicve me, many a German prince is worte, After a life of gen'rous toils endur'd,
Who, proud of pedigree, is poor of purse) The Gaul subdued, or property secur'd,
His ivealth brave Timon gloriously confounds; Ambition humbled, mighty cities stormd,
Ask'd for a groat, he gives a hundred pounds; Or laws establish'd, and the world reformid;
Or, if three ladics like a luckless play, Clos'd their long glories with a figh, to find
Takes the whole house upon the poet's day. Th' unwilling gratitude of base mankind!
Now, in sich exigencics not to need,

All human virtue, to its latest breath,
Upon my word, you must be rich indeed; Finds envy never conquer'd, but by death.
A noble superfluity it craves,

The great Alcides, ev'ry labour past,
Not for yourself, but for your fools and knaves; Had Itill this monster to subdue at last.
Something, which for your honour they may cheat, Sure fate of all, beneath whose rising ray
And which it much becomes you to forget. Each far of meaner merit fades away!
If wealth alone then make and keep us blest, Opprest we feel the beam dire&tly beat,
Ştill, still be getting; nerer, never rest. Those suns of glory please not till they set.

But if to pow'r and place your pallion lie, To thee the world its present homage pays, If in the pomp of life confifts the joy,

The harveit early, but mature the praite : Then hire a flave, or (if you will) a lord, Great friend of liberty! in kings a name To do the honours, and to give the word : Above all Greek, above all Roman fame : Tell at your levee, as the crowds approach, Whose word is truth, as sacred and rever'd To whom to nød, whom take into your coach, As heaven's own oracles from altars heard. Whom honour with your hand : to make remarks Wonder of kings ! like whom to mortal eyes Who rules in Cornwall, or who rules in Berks : None e'er has risen, and none e'er shall rile. “ This may be troublesome, is near the chair; Just in one instance, be it yet confeft, “ That makes three members, this can choose a Your people, sir, are partial in the rest: “ may’r.”

Foes to all living worth except your own, Instructed thus, you bow, embrace, protest, And advocates for folly dead and gone. Adopt him fon, or cousin at the least,

Authors, like coins, grow dear as they grow old;

It is the rust we value, not the gold. Or if your life be one continued treat, Chaucer's worst ribaldry is learn’d by rote, If to live well means nothing but to eat, And beastly Skelton heads of houses quote : Up, up! cries Gluttony, 'tis break of day; One likes no language but the Faery Queen ; Go, drive the deer, and drag the finny prey; A Scot will fight for Christ's Kirk o' the Green: With hounds and horns go hunt an appetite- And each true Briton is to Ben so civil, So Ruffel did, but could not eat at night;

He livears the Mufes met him at the Devil. Callid“ happy dog” the beggar at his door; Tho' juftly Greece her eldest sons admires, And envied thirft and hunger to the poor. Why should not we be wiser than our fires ? Or shall we ev'ry decercy confound,

In ev'ry public virtue we excel; Thro’taverns, stews, and bagnios take our round; We build, we paint, we fing, we dance as well; Go dine with Chartres, in each vice outdo And learned Athens to our art must stoop, K-l's lewd cargo, or Ty—y's crew, Could the behold us tumbling thro' a hoop.



If time improve our wits as well as wine, One fimile, that solitary thines Say at what age a poet grows divine ?

In the dry defert of a thousand lines, Shall we, or thall we not, account him so, Or lengthen'd thought that gleams thro' many a Who died, perhaps, an hundred years ago ?

page, End all dispute, and fix the year precise

Has fanétified whole poems for an age. When British bards begin t'immortalize? I lose my patience, and I own it too, “ Who lasts a century can have no flaw;

When works are censur'd not as bad, but new; “ I hold that wit a classic, good in law.” While, if our elders break all reason's laws,

Suppose he wants a year, will you compound: Thele fuols demand not pardon, but applause. And thall we deem him ancient, right, and ound: On Avon's bank, where flow'rs eternal blow, Or damn to all eternity at once,

If I but ask if any weed can grow; At ninety-nine, a modern and a dunce? One tragic sentence if I darc deride, “ We shall not quarrel for a year or two;

Which Betterton's grave action dignified, “ By courtesy of England, he may do." Or well-mouth'd Booth with emphasis proclaims

Then, by the rule that made the horse-tail bare, (Tho' hut, perhaps, a muster-rull of naincs), I pluck out year by year, as hair by hair, How will our fathers rise up in a rage, And melt down ancients like a heap of snow, And swear, all thame is loft in George's age! While you, to measure merits, look in Stowe; You'd think no fools disgrac'd the former reign, And, estimating authors by the year,

Did not some grave examples yet remain, Beltow a garland only on a bier.

Who scorn a lad Thould teach his father skill, Shakespear (whom you and ev'ry playhouse bill And, having once been wrong, will be so still. Style the divine, the matchless, what you will) He, who to seem more deep than you or 1, For gain, not glory, wing'd his roving flight, Extols old bards, or Merlin's prophecy, And grew imitiortal in his own despite. Mistake him not; he envies, not admires; Ben, old and poor, as little scem'd to heed And, to debate the fons, exalts the sires. The life to come, in ev'ry poet's creed.

Had ancient times con pir'd to ditallow Who now reads Cowley? if he pleases yet,

What then was new, what had been ancient now? His moral pleases, not his pointed wit; Or what remain d, so worthy to be read Forgot his epic, nay Pindaric art !

By learned critics of the mighty dead ? But still I love the language of his heart. In days of cale, when now the weary sivord

Yet surely, surely, there were famous men! Was sheath'd, and luxury with Charles restor’d; “What boy but hears the sayings of old Ben? In cv'ry taste of foreign courts improv'd, “ In all debates where critics bcar a part, “ All, by the king's example, liv'd and lov'd.” “ Not one but nods, and talks of Jonion's art, Then peers grew proud in horsemanship t' excel; “ Of Shakelpear's nature, and of Cowley's wit; Newmarket's glory rosc, as Britain's fell; " How Beaumont's judginent check'd what Flet- The soldier breath'd the gallantries of France, “ cher writ;

And ev'ry How'ry courtier writ Romance. “ How Shadwell hasty, Wycherly was now; Then marble, soften'd into life, grew warm ; “ But, for the paifions, Southern sure and Rowe. And yielding metal flow'd to human form : “ Thele, only thesc, Tupport the crowded stage, Lely on animated canvas stole “ From cldet Heywood down to Cibber's age. The Neepy eye that spoke the melting soul.

All this may be; the people's voice is odd; No wonder then, when all was love and sport, It is, and it is not, the voice of God.

The willing Muses were debauch'd at court : To Gammer Gurton if it give the bays, On each enervate string they taught the note And yet deny the Careless Husband prailc, To pant, or tremble thro' an eunuch's throat. Or say our fathers never broke a rule;

But Britain, changeful as a child at play, Why then, I say, the public is a fool.

Now calls in princes, and now turns away. But let them own that greater faules than we Now Whig, now Tory, what we lov'd we hate; They had, and greater virtues, I 'll agree. Now all for pleasure, now for church and state ; Spenser himself affects the obsolete,

Now for prerogative, and now for laws; And Sydney's verse halts ill on Roman feet: Effects unhappy! from a noble cause. Milton's strong pinion now not heaven can bound, Time was, a fober Englishman would knock Now, serpent-like, in prose he sweeps the ground; His servants up, and rise by five o'clock, In quibbles, angel and archangel join, Instruct his family in ev'ry rule, And God the Father turns a school-divine. And send his wife to church, his son to school. Not that I'd lop the beauties from his book, To worship like his Fathers, was his care; Like Nathing Bentley, with his defp'rate hook ; To teach their frugal virtues to his heir; Or damn all Shakespear, like th' affected fool To prove, that luxury could never hold; At court, who hatcs whate'er he read at school. And place, on good security, his gold.

But for the wits of cither Charles's days, Now times are chang’d, and one poetic itch The mob of gentlemen who wrote with ease; Has seiz'd the court and city, poor and rich : Sprat, Carew, Sedley, and a hundred more Sons, fires, and grandfires, all will wear the bays, (Like twinkling stars the miscellanics o'er), Our wives read Milton, and our daughters plays;



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To theatres and to rchearsals throng;

Verse cheers their lcisure, verfe affifts their work, And all our grace at table is a long!

Verte prays for peace, or fings down Pope and I, who so oft renounce the Muses, lie;

Turk. Nor -'s felf c'er tells more fibs than I : The filenc'd preacher yields to potent strain, When, sick of muse, our follies we deplore, And feels that grace his pray’r betought in vain; And promise our best friends to rhyme no more; The blessing thrills chiro' all the lab’ring throng, We wake next morning in a raging fit, And heaven is won by viclence of fons. And call for pen and ink to that our wit. Our rural arcefors, with little lett,

He ferv'da 'prenticeship who fets up thop; Patient of labour when the end was rest, Ward tried on, and the poor, his drop; Indulg'd the day that hous'd their annual grain Even Radclitt's doctors travel first to France, With feafts and off'rings, and a thankful (train: Nor dare tá practise till ulicy've learu'd to dance. The joy their wives, their fons, and servants shares W! ho builds a bridge that never drore a pile? Ease of their toil, and partners of their carc: (Snouid Ripley venture, all the world would The laugh, the jest

, attendants on the bowl, mile)

Smooth'd ev'ry brow, and open'd ev'ry soul : But those who cannot write, and those who can, With growing years the pleasing license grew, All rhyme, and scrawl, and scribble 10 a man. And taunts alternate innocently few.

Yet, sir, reficci, the mischief is not great ; But times corrupt, and nature ill-inclind, These madmen never liurt the church or state; Produc'd the point that left the sting behind; Sometimes the folly benefits mankind; Till friend with friend, and families at strife, And rarely av'rice taints the tuneful mind. Triumplant malice rang'd thro' private life. Allow him but his plaything of a pen,

Who felt the wrong, or fear'd it, took th' alarm, He ne'er rebels, or plots, like other men : Appeai'd to law, and justice levt her arm. Flight of cashiers, or mobs, he'll never mind; At length, by wholesome dread of statutes bound, And know's no lotes while the muse is kind. The

poets learn’d to pleasc, and not to wound: To cheat a friend, or ward, he leaves to l'eler, Molt warp'd to Hattery's side; but fome, more nice, The good man heaps up nothing but mere metre; Preferv’d the freedom, and forbore the vice. Enjoys his garden and his book in quitt; Hence satire rosc, that just the medium hit, And ther-a perfect hermit in his dict.

And heals with morals what it hurts with wit. Of little use the man you may suppose, We conquerid France, but felt our captive's Who says in verfe what others say in prose:

claims; Yet let ine few, a poet 's of some weight, Her arts victorious triumph'd o'er our arins; And (tho'ro foldier) useful to the statc. Britain to soft refinements less a foe, What will a child leam fcover than a fong? Wit grew polite, and numbers learn'd to flow. Whạt better teach a foreigner the tongue,

Waller was smooth; buiDryden taught to join What's long or short, cach accent where to place, The varying verse, the full resounding line, And speak in public with some fort of grace? The long majestic march, and energy divine; I scarec can think bim such a worthless thing, Tho' ftill fone traces of our rustic vein Uniets he praise fome montier of a king; And play foot verse remain'd, and will reinain. Or virtue or religion turn to sport,

Late, very late, corruétness grow our care, To please a loud or unbelieving court.

When the tir'd nation breath'd from civil war. Unhappy Dryden! in all Charles's days, Exact Racine, and Corneille's noble fire, Roscommon only boasts unspotted bays; Shew'd us that France had something to admir And in our own (cxcuse from courtly stains) Not but the tragic spirit was our own, No whiter page ihan Addison's remains. And full in Shakespear, fair in Otway Thone: He from thic taste obscene reclaims our youth, But Otway fail'd to polish or refinc, And sets the pallions on the side of truth ; And fluent Shakespear scarce effac'd a line. Forms the soft Lofom with the gentlest art, Even copicus Dryden wanted, or forgot, And pours each human virtue in the heart. The last and greatest art, the art to blot. Let Ireland tell, how wit upheld her cause, Some doubt if equal pains or equal fire Her trade supported, and supplied her laws; The humbler mufe of comedy require. And leave on Swift this grateful verse engravd : But, in known images of life, I guefs “ The rights a court attack'd, a poet fav’d.” The lalour greater, as ch' indulgence less. Behold the hand that wrought a nation's cure, Obferve how feldom even the best fucceed : Stretch'd to relieve the idiot and the poor, Tell me if Congreve's Fools are fools indeed ? Proud vicc to brand, or injur'd worth adorn, What pert low dialogue has Farquhar writ! And stretch the ray to ages yet uubori).

How Van wants grace who never wanted wit! Not but there are who merit other palms; The stage how loofdly does Aftrea tread, Ilopkins and Sternhold glad the heart with psalms: Who fauly puts all characters to bed! The boys and girls whom charity maintains, And idle Cister, how he breaks the laws, Implore your help in these pathetic strains : To make poor Pinkey eat with vast applause ! How could devotion touch the country pews, But fill their purse, our pocts' work is done ; Unless the Gods bortow'd a proper mufe ? Alike to them, by l'athos or by Pun.

O you!



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O you ! whom vanity's light bark conveys The season when to come and when to go, On fame's mad voyage by the wind of praise, To fing or ccafe to sing, we never know; With what a shifting gale your course you ply, And, if we will recite nine hours in ten, For ever funk too low, or borne too high ! You lose your patience just like other men. Who pants for glory finds but short repose ; Then too we hurt ourselves, when, to defend A breath revives hiin, or a breath o'erthrows. A fingle verse, we quarrel with a friend; Farewel the stage ! if, just as thrives the play, Repeat unalk'd; lament, the wit's too fine The filly bard grows fat, or falls away. For vulgar eyes, and point out ev'ry line.

There still remains, to mortify a wit, But mori when, straining with too weak a wing, ' The many-headed monder of the Pit;

We needs will write epittles to the King; A senseless, worthless, and unhonour'd crowd, And from the moment we oblige the town, Who, to disturb their berters mighty proud, Expect a place, or pension from the Crown; Clatt'ring their sticks before ten lines are spoke, Or dubb'd Hisorians by express command, Call for the Farce, the Bcar, or the Black Joke. T'cnroll your triumphs o'er the seas and land; What dear delight to Britons farce affords ! Be call'd to Court to plan fome work divine, Ever the taste of mobs, but now of lords As once, for Louis, Boileau and Racine. (Taste, that eternal wanderer! which dies Yet think, great Sir! (so many virtues shewn). From heads to ears, and now from cars to eyes)! Ah think what Poet best may make them known! The play stands ftill! damn action and discourse, Or choose at least fome Minister of Grace, Back fly the scenes, and enter foot and horse; Fit to bestow the Laureat's weighty place. Pageants on pageants, in long order drawn, Charles, to late times to be transinitted fair, Peers, heralds, bishops, crmin, gold, and lawn; Affign’d his figure to Bernini's care; The champion too! and, to complete the jeft, And great Nailau to Kneller's hand decreed Old Edward's armour bcams on Cibber's breaft. To fix him graceful on the bounding Steed; With laughter fure Democritus had died, So well in paint and stone they judg'd of merit : Had he beheld an audience gape to wide. But Kings in Wit may want difcerning Spirit. Let bear or elephant be e'er fo white,

The Hero William, and the Martyr Charles, The people, sure the people, are the fight! One knighted Blackmore, and one pension'd Ah, luckless poet' stretch thy lungs and roar, Quarles; That bear or elephant shall heed thee more; Which made old Ben and surly Denis swear, While all its throats the gallery extends, " No Lord's anointed, but a Rullian Bear.” And all the thunder of the pit ascends! Not with such majesty, such bold relief, Loud as the wolves, on Orcas' stormy steep, The forms august of King or conq'ring Chief Howl to the roarings of the northern deep, E'er swellid on marble, as in verse have thin'd Such is the shout, the long-applauding note, (In polish'd verse) the Manners and the Mind. At Quin's high plume, or Oldfield's petticoat : Oh! could I mount on the Mæonian wing, Or when from Court a birth-day suit bestow'd Your Arms, your Actions, your Repose to sing ! Sinks the loft A&or in the tawdry load. What seas you travers’d, and what fields you Booth enters-hark! the universal peal !

fought ! “ But has he spoken :” Not a fyllable.

Your country's peace how oft, how dcarly bought! • What shook the stage, and made the people stare? How barb'rous rage subsided at your word, Cato's long wig, flower'd gown,andlacquer’dchair. And nations wonder'd while they dropp'd the Yet lett you think I rally inore than teach,

fivord! Or praise malignly arts I cannot reach, IIow, when you nodded, o'er the land and dcep Let me for once presume t' instruct the times, Peace stole her wing, and wrapp'd the world in To know the Poet from the man of rhymes :

sleep; 'Tis he who gives my breast a thousand pains, Till earth's extremes your mediation own, Can make me feel each pallion that he feigns ; And Afia's Tyrants tremble at your Throne. Enrage, compose, with more than magic art, But Verse, alas! your Majesty disdains; With pity and with terror tear my heart; And I'm not us'd to Panegyric strains : And snatch me o'er the earth, or thro’the air, The Zeal of Fools offends at any time, To Thebes, to Athens, when he will, and where. But most of all the Zeal of Fools in rhyme. But not this part of the poetic fiate

Besides, a fate attends on all I write; Alone deserves the favour of the Great : That, when I aim at praile, they say I bite. Think of those Authors, Sir, who would rely A vile Encomium doubly ridicules : More on a Reader's sense, than Gazer's eye. There's nothing blackens like the ink of fools. Or who shall wander where the Mufes fing? If true, a woful likenefs; and if lies, Who climb their mountain, or who taste their “ Praise undeserv'd is scandal in disguise :” How Thall we fill a library with wit, [spring : Well may he bluh who gives it or receives; When Merlin's Cave is half unfurnish'd yet ? And, when I fatter, let my dirty leaves My Liege ! why writers little claim your thought,|(Like Journals, Odes, and such forgotten things I guess; and, with their leave, will tell the fault : As Eusden, Philips, Settle, writ of Kings) We Poets are (upon a Poet's word)

Clothe spice, line trunks, or flute’ring in a row Of all mankind the creatures most absurd: Befringe the rails of Bedlam and Soho.



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