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'he love of praise, howe'er conceal'd by art Aid me, great Homer! with thy epic rulos,
Seigns, more or less, and glows, in every heart : To take a catalogue of British fools.
'he proud, to gain it, toils on toils endure; Satire ! had I thy Dorset's force divine,
he modest shun it, but to make it sure.

A knave or fool should perish in each line; er globes, and sceptres, now on thrones it swells; Though for the first all Westminster should plead, 'ow, trims the midnight lamp in college cells : And for the last all Gresham intercede. -C is Tory, Whig; it plots, prays, preaches, pleads, Begin. Who first the catalogue shall grace? larangues in senates, squeaks in masquerades. To quality belongs the highest place. (ere, to Steele's humour makes a bold pretence; My lord comes forward; forward let him come! here, bolder, aims at Pulteney's eloquence. Ye vulgar! at your peril, give him room : : aids the dancer's heel, the writer's head, He stands for fame on his forefathers' feet, nd heaps the plain with mountains of the dead; By heraldry, prov'd valiant or discreet : or ends with life; but nods in sable plumes, With what a decent pride he throws his eyes dorns our hearse, and flatters on our lombs. Above the man by three descents less wise! What is not proud ? the pimp is proud to see

If virtues at his noble hands you crave, o many like himself in high degree :

You bid him raise his father's from the grave. he whore is proud her beauties are the dread Men should press forward in Fame's glorious chase ; f peevish virtue, and the marriage-bed ;

Nobles look backward, and so lose the race. nd the brib'd cuckolil, like crown'd victims born Let high-birth triumph! What can be more great ? o slaughter, glories in his gilded horn.

Nothing but merit in a low estate. Some go to church, proud humbly to repent,

To virtue's humblest son let none prefer nd come back much more guilty than they went: Vice, though descended from the Conqueror. ne way they look, another way they sleer,

Shall men, like figures, pass for high, or base, ray to the gods, but would have mortals hear; Slight, or important, only by their place? nd when their sins they set sincerely down, Titles are marks of honest men, and wise ; hey 'll find that their religion has been one. The fool, or knave, that wears a title, lyes. Others with wistful eyes on glory look,

They that on glorious ancestors enlarge, hen they have got their picture towards a book : Produce their debl, instead of their discharge. -r pompous title, like a gaudy sign,

Dorset, let those who proudly boast their line, eant to betray dull sots to wretched wine. Like thee, in worth hereditary, shine. at his title T - had dropp'd his quill,

Vain as false greatness is, the Muse must own might have pass'd for a great genius still. We want not fools to buy that Bristol stone. ut T-alas! (excuse him if you can)

Mean sons of earth, who on a South-sea tide i now a scribbler, who was once a man.

Of full success, swam into wealth and pride, nperious, some a classic fame demand,

Knock with a purse of gold at Anstis' gate, or heaping up, with a laborious hand,

And beg to be descended from the great. waggon-load of meanings for one word,

When men of infamy to grandeur soar, Thile A 's depos'd, and B with pomp restor'd. They light a torch to show their sliame the more.

Some, for renown, on scraps of learning dote, Those governments which curb not evils, cause ! nd think they grow immortal as they quote.

And a rich knave 's a libel on our laws. o patch-work learn'd quotations are ally'd; Belus with solid glory will be crown'd; oth strive to make our poverty our pride.

He buys no phantom, no vain empty sound; On glass how witty is a noble peer!

But builds himself a name ; and, to be great, Vid ever diamond cost a man so dear?

Sinks in a quarry an immense estate! Polite diseases make some idiots vain ;

In cost and grandeur, Chandos he 'll outdo; Vhich, if unfortunately well, they feign.

And Burlington, thy taste is not so true. of folly, vice, disease, men proud we see; The pile is finish’d; every toil is past; ind (stranger still!) of blockheads' Aattery; And full perfection is arriv'd at last; Vhose praise defames; as if a fool should mean, When lo! my lord to some small corner runs, By spitting on your face, to make it clean. And leaves state-rooms to strangers and to duns.

Nor is 't enough all hearts are swoln with pride, The man who builds, and wants wherewith to pay ler power is mighty, as her realm is wide.

Provides a home from which to run away. Vhat can she not perform? The love of Fame In Britain, what is many a lordly seat, dade bold Alphonsus his Creator blame :

But a discharge in full for an estate ? impedocles hurl'd down the burning steep:

In smaller compass lies Pygmalion's fame; Ind (stronger still!) made Alexander weep. Not domes, but antique statues, are his flame: Nay, it holds Delia from a second bed,

Not Fountaine's self more Parian charms has known Though her lov'd lord has four half months been dead. Nor is good Pembroke more in love with stone. This passion with a pimple have I seen

The bailiffs come (rude men, prophanely bold !) Retard a cause, and give a judge the spleen.

And bid him turn his Venus into gold. By this inspir'd (O ne'er to be forgot!)

“ No, sirs,” he cries; “ I'll sooner rot in jail: Somc lords have learn'd to spell, and some to knot.

Shall Grecian arts be truck'd for English bail ?" It makes Globose a speaker in the house;

Such heads might make their very bustos laugh : He hems, and is deliver'd of his mouse.

His daughter starves ; but Cleopatra 's safe. * It makes clear self on well-bred tongues prevail, Men, overloaded with a large estate, And I the little hero of each tale.

May spill their treasure in a nice conceit: Sick with the Lore of Fanu, what throngs pour in, The rich may be polite ; but, oh! 't is sad Unpeople courl, and leave the senate thin? To say you 're curious, when we swear you 're mad. My growing subject

. seems but just begun, And, chariot-like, I kindle as I run.

• A famous statue.

By your revenue measure your expense; | Say, dear Hippolytus, (whose drink is ale,
And to your funds and acres join your sense. Whose erudition is a Christinas tale,
No man is bless'd by accident or guess ;

Whose mistress is saluted with a sinack,
True wisdom is the price of happiness :

And friend receiv'd with thumps upon the back, Yet few without long discipline are sage;

When thy sleek gelding nimbly leaps the mount And our youth only lays up sighs for age.

And Ringwood opens on the tainted ground, But how, my Muse, canst thou resist so long Is that thy praise ? Let Ringwood's fame alone; The bright temptation of the courtly throng, Just Ringwood leaves each animal his own; Thy most inviting theme? The court affords Nor envies, when a gypsey you commit, Much food for satire ; - it abounds in lords. And shake the clumsy bench with country wit; “ What lords are those saluting with a grin ?" When you the dullest of dull things have said, One is just out, and onc as lately in.

And then ask pardon for the jest you made. “ How comes it then to pass, we see preside

Here breathe, my Muse! and then the task reset On both their brows an equal share of pride ?". Ten thousand fools unsung are still in view. Pride, that impartial passion, reigns through all, Fewer lay-atheists made by church debates; Attends our glory, nor deserts our fall.

Fewer great beggars fam'd for large estates; As in its home it triumphs in high place,

Ladies, whose love is constant as the wind; And frowns a haughty exile in disgrace.

Cits, who prefer a guinea to mankind; Some lords it bids admire their hands so white, Fewer grave lords to Scrope discreetly bend; Which bloom, like Aaron's, to their ravish'd sight : | And fewer shocks a statesman gives his friend Some lords it bids resign; and turns their wands, Is there a man of an eternal vein, Like Moses', into serpents in their hands.

Who lulls the town in winter with his strain, These sink, as divers, for renown; and boast, At Bath, in summer, chants the reigning las, With pride inverted, of their honours lost.

And sweetly whistles as the waters pass? But against reason sure 't is equal sin,

Is there a tongue, like Delia's o'er her cup, The boast of merely being out, or in.,

That runs for ages without winding-up? What numbers here, through odd ambition strive Is there, whom his tenth epic mounts to fame? To seem the most transported things alive! Such, and such only, might exhaust my three: As if by joy, desert was understood :

Nor would these heroes of the task be glad, And all the fortunate were wise and good.

For who can write so fast as men run nod? Hence aching bosoms wear a visage gay, And stitled groans frequent the ball and play.

SATIRE II. Completely dress'd by Monteuil * and grimace, They take their birth-day suit and public face : | My Muse, proceed, and reach thy destin'd end; Their smiles are only part of what they wear, I Though toils and danger the bold task attend. Put off at night, with Lady B. 's hair. | Heroes and gods make other poems fine ; What bodily fatigue is half so bad ?

Plain Satire calls for sense in every line: With anxious care they labour to be glad.

Then, to what swarms thy faults I dare espose! What numbers, here, would into fame advance, All friends to vice and folly are thy foes. Conscious of merit, in the coxcomb's dance;

When such the fue, a war eternal wage; The tavern! park ! assembly! mask ! and play!

'T is most ill-nature to repress thy rage : Those dear destroyers of the tedious day!

And if these strains some nobler Muse excice, That wheel of fops! that saunter of the town! I'll glory in the verse I did not write. Call it diversion, and the pill goes down.

So weak are human-kind by nature made, Fools grin on fools, and, stvic-like, support,

Or to such weakness by their vice betray'd, Without one sigh, the pleasures of a court.

Almighty Vanity! to thee they owe Courts can give nothing to the wise and good,

Their zest of pleasure, and their balm of woe. But scorn of pomp, and love of solitude.

'Thou, like the Sun, all colours dost contain, High stations tumult, but not bliss, create : Varying, like rays of light, on drops of rain. None think the great unhappy, but the great :

For every soul finds reason to be proud, Fools

gaze, and envy; envy darts a sting, Though hiss'd and hooted by the pointing crowd Which makes a swain as wretched as a king.

Warm in pursuit of foxes and renown, I envy none their pageantry and show ;

Hippolytus * demands the sylvan crown; I envy none the gilding of their woe.

But Florio's fame, the product of a shower, Give ine, indulgent gods! with mind serene, Grows in his garden, an illustrious flower! And guiltless heart, to range the sylvan scene; Why teems the Earth? Why melt the vernal stie No splendid poverty, no smiling care,

Why shines the Sun? To make Paul Diack + rise No well-bred hate, or servile grandeur, there : From morn to night has Florio gazing stood, There pleasing objects useful thoughts suggest ;

And wonder'd how the gods could be so good: The sense is ravish'd, and the soul is blest ; What shape ! What hue! Was ever nymph so far! On every thorn delightful wisdom grows;

He dotes! he dies ! he too is rooted there.
In every rill a sweet instruction flows.

O solid bliss! which nothing can destroy,
But some, untaught, o'erhear the whispering rill, Except a cat, bird, snail, or idle boy.
In spite of sacred leisure, blockheads still :

In faine's full bloom lies Florio down at night, Nor shoots up folly to a nobler bloom

And wakes next day a most inglorious wight; In her own native soil, the drawing-room.

The tulip 's dead! See thy fair sister's fate, The squire is proud to see his coursers strain, OC-! and be kind, ere 't is too late. Or well-breath'd beagles sweep along the plain.

This refers to the first Satire. • A famous tailor.

+ The name of a tulip.

Nor are those enemies I mention'd, all ;

Who, with the charms of his own genius smit, Beware, O florist, thy ambition's fall.

Conceives all virtues are compris'd in wit !
A friend of mine indulg'd this noble flame; But time his fervent petulance may cool ;
A Quaker serv'd him, Adam was his name ; For though he is a wit, he is no fool.
To one lov'd tulip oft the master went,

In time he 'll learn to use, not waste, his sense ;
Hung o'er it, and whole days in rapture spent ; Nor make a frailty of an excellence.
But came, and miss'd it, one ill-fated hour : He spares nor friend nor foe; but calls to mind,
He rag'd! he roar'd ! “ What demon cropt my Like doom's day, all the faults of all mankind.
flower?"

What though wit tickles ? tickling is unsafe, Serene, quoth Adam, “ Lo! ’t was crush'd by me; If still 't is painful while it makes us laugh. fall’n is the Baal to which thou bow'dst thy knee." Who, for the poor renown of being smart,

But all men want amusement; and what crime Would leave a sting within a brother's heart? 'n such a Paradise to fool their time?

Parts may be prais’d, good-nature is ador'd; None: but why proud of this ? To fame they soar : Then draw your wit as seldom as your sword; Ve grant they 're idie, if they 'll ask no more. And never on the weak; or you ’ll appear - We smile at florists, we despise their joy, As there no hero, no great genius here. And think their hearts enamour'd of a toy: As in smooth oil the razor best is whet, But are those wiser whom we most admire, So wit is by politeness sharpest set : jurvey with envy, and pursue with fire?

Their want of edge from their offence is seen ; What's he who sighs for wealth, or fame, or power? Both pain us least when exquisitely keen. Another Florio doting on a flower !

The fame men give is for the joy they find; A short-liv'd flower; and which has often sprung Dull is the jester, when the joke's unkind. rom sordid arts, as Florio's out of dung.

Since Marcus, doubtless, thinks himself a wit, With what, O Codrus! is thy fancy smit? To pay my compliment, what place so fit? The flower of learning, and the bloom of wit. His most facetious letters * came to hand, hy gaudy shelves with crimson bindings glow, Which my First Satire sweetly reprimand : Ind Epictetus is a perfect beau.

If that a just offence to Marcus gave,
low fit for thee, bound up in criinson too, Say, Marcus, which art thou, a fool, or knave
šilt, and like thein, devoted to the view!

For all but such with caution I forbore ;
Thy books are furniture. Methinks 't is hard That thou wast either, I ne'er knew before:
That science should be purchas'd by the yard ;

I know thee now, both what thou art, and who ;
İnd Tonson, turn'd upholsterer, send home No mask so good, but Marcus must shine through:
The gilded leather to fit up thy room.

False names are vain, thy lines their author tell; - If not to some peculiar end design'd,

Thy best concealment had been writing well : tudy 's the specious trifling of the mind;

But thou a brave neglect of fame hast shown, -)s is at best a secondary aim,

Of others' fame, great genius! and thy own. - chase for sport alone, and not for game.

Write on unheeded; and this maxim know, f so, sure they who the mere volume prize, The man who pardons, disappoints his foe. But love the thicket where the quarry lies.

In malice to proud wits, some proudly lull On buying books Lorenzo long was bent, Their peevish reason; vain of being dull; But found at length that it reduc'd his rent ; When some home joke has stung their solemn souls, Iis farms were flown; when, lo! a sale comes on, In vengeance they determine — to be fools ; choice collection! what is to be done ?

Through spleen, that little Nature gave, make less, le sells his last ; for he the whole will buy; Quite zealous in the ways of heaviness ; sells e'en his house ; nay, wants whereon to lie: To lumps inanimate a fondness take; jo high the generous ardour of the man

And disinherit sons that are awake. for Romans, Greeks, and Orientals ran.

These, when their utmost venom they would spit, When terms were drawn, and brought him by the Most barbarously tell you -" He's a wit." clerk,

Poor negroes, thus to show their burning spite Lorenzo sign'd the bargain — with his mark. To cacodemons, say, they 're devilish white. Unlearned men of books assume the care,

Lampridius, from the bottom of his breast, As eunuchs are the guardians of the fair.

Sighs o'er one child; but triumphs in the rest. Not in his authors' liveries alone

How just his grief! one carries in his head Is Codrus' erudite ambition shown:

A less proportion of the father's lead; Editions various, at high prices bought,

And is in danger, without special grace, Inform the world what Codrus would be thought ;

To rise above a justice of the peace.
And to this cost another must succeed,

The dung-hill breed of men a diamond scorn,
To pay a sage, who says that he can read; And feel a passion for a grain of corn ;
Who tilles knows, and indexes has seen;

Some stupid, plodding, money-loving wight,
But leaves to Chesterfield what lies between; Who wins their hearts by knowing black from white,
Of pompous books who shuns the proud expense, Who with much pains, exerting all his sense,
And humbly is contented with their sense.

Can range aright his shillings, pounds, and pence. O Stanhope, whose accomplishments make good The booby father craves a booby son; The promise of a long-illustrious blood,

And by Heaven's blessing thinks himself undone. In arts and manners eminently grac'd,

Wants of all kinds are made to fame a plea; The strictest honour! and the finest taste ! One learns to lisp; another not to see : Accept this verse; if Satire can agree

Miss D-tottering, catches at your hand : With so consummate an humanity.

Was ever thing so pretty born to stand ?
By your example would Hilario mend,
How would it grace the talents of my friend ;

• Letters sent to the author, signed Marcus.

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Whilst these, what Nature gave, disown through

Morose is sunk with shame, whene'er surpri's pride,

In linen clean, or peruke undisguis'd. Others affect what Nature has denied ;

No sublunary chance his vestments fear; What Nature has denied, fools will pursue :

Valued, like leopards, as their spots appear. As apes are ever walking upon two.

A fam'd surtout he wears, which once was blue, Crassus, a grateful sage, our awe and sport! And his foot swims in a capacious shoe; Supports grave forms; for forms the sage support. One day his wife (for who can wives reclaim ?) He hems; and cries, with an important air, Levell'á her barbarous needle at his fame : “ If yonder clouds withdraw, it will be fair :" But open force was vain ; by night she went, Then quotes the Stagyrite, to prove it true : And, while he slept, surpris'd the darling rent: And adds, “ The learn'd delight in something where yawn'd the frieze is now becomne a doubt, new.

“ And glory, at one entrance, quite shut out. Is 't not enough the blockhead scarce can read, He scorns Florello, and Florello him; But must he wisely look, and gravely plead ? This hates the filthy creature; that, the prin : As far a formalist from wisdom sits,

Thus, in each other, both these fools despise In judging eyes, as libertines from wits.

Their own dear selves, with undiscerning eyes; These subtle wights (so blind are mortal men, Their methods various, but alike their aim; Though Satire couch them with her keenest pen) The sloven and the fopling are the same. For ever will hang out a solemn face,

Ye Whigs and Tories! thus it fares with you, To put off nonsense with a better grace :

When party-rage too warmly you pursue ; As pedlars with some hero's head make bold, Then both club nonsense, and impetuous pride, Illustrious mark! where pins are to be sold. And folly joins whom sentiments divide. What 's the bent brow, or neck in thought reclin'd? You vent your spleen, as monkeys, when they The body's wisdom to conceal the mind.

Scratch at the mimic monkey in the glass; A man of sense can artifice disdain;

While both are one : and henceforth be it knon As men of wealth may venture to go plain ; Fools of both sides shall stand for fools alone. And be this truth eternal ne'er forgot,

“ But who art thou ?" methinks Florello crio. Solemnity 's a cover for a sot.

“ Of all thy species art thou only wise ?" I find the fool, when I behold the skreen ;

Since smallest things can give our sins a twitch, For 't is the wise man's interest to be seen. As crossing straws retard a passing witch,

Hence, Chesterfield, that openness of heart, Florello, thou my monitor shalt be; And just disdain for that poor mimic art ;

I'll conjure thus some profit out of thee. Hence (manly praise !) that manner nobly free, O Thou myself! abroad our counsels roam, Which all admire, and I commend, in thee. And, like ill husbands, take no care at home:

With generous scorn how oft hast thou survey'd Thou too art wounded with the common dart, Of court and town the noontide masquerade ; And Love of Fame lies throbbing at thy heart; Where swarms of knaves the vizor quite disgrace, And what wise means to gain it hast thou chose ? And hide secure behind a naked face!

Know, fame and fortune both are made of prost Where Nature's end of language is declin’d, Is thy ambition sweating for a rhyme, And men talk only to conceal the mind :

Thou unambitious fool, at this late time? Where generous hearts the greatest hazard run

While I a moment name, a moment 's past; And he who trusts a brother, is undone!

I'm nearer death in this verse, than the last : These all their care expend on outward show What then is to be done? Be wise with speed; For wealth and fame : for fame alone, the beau. A fool at forty is a fool indeed. Of late at White's was young Florello seen!

And what so foolish as the chase of fame? How blank his look ! how discompos’d his mien!

How vain the prize ! how impotent our aim! Sc hard it proves in grief sincere to feign ! For what are men who grasp at praise sublime, Sunk were his spirits; for his coat was plain. But bubbles on the rapid stream of time, Next day his breast regain'd its wonted peace ;

That rise, and fall, that swell, and are no more, His health was mended with a silver lace.

Born, and forgot, ten thousand in an hour ?
A curious artist, long inured to toils
Of gentler sort, with

combs, and fragrant oils, Whether by chance, or by some god inspir'd,

SATIRE III.
So touch'd his curls, his mighty soul was fir'd.
The well-swoln ties an equal homage claim,

TO THE RIGHT HON. MR. DODINGTON.
And either shoulder has its share of fame;
His sumptuous watch-case, though conceal'd it lies, Long, Dodington, in debt I long have sought
Like a good conscience, solid joy supplies.

To ease the burthen of my grateful thought; He only thinks himself (so far from vain!) And now a poet's gratitude you see; Stanhope in wit, in breeding Deloraine.

Grant him two favours, and he 'll ask for threr: Whene'er, by seeming chance, he throws his eye For whose the present glory, or the gain? On mirrors that reflect his Tyrian dye,

You give protection, I a worthless strain. With how sublime a transport leaps his heart!

You love and feel the poet's sacred flame, But Fate ordains that dearest friends must part.

And know the basis of a solid fame; In active measures, brought from France, he wheels, Though prove to like, yet cautious to commend, And triumphs, conscious of his learned heels. You read with all the malice of a friend;

So have I seen, on some bright suminer's day, Nor favour my attempts that way alone, A calf of genius, debonnair and gay,

But, more to raise my verse, conceal your own Dance on the bank, as if inspir'd by fame, Fond of the pretty fellow in the stream.

# Milton.

An ill-tim'd modesty! turn ages o'er,

In those choice books their panegyrics read, Vhen wanted Britain bright examples more? And scorn the creatures that for hunger feed. Ier learning, and her genius too, decays;

If man by feeding well commences great, und dark and cold are her declining days;

Much more the worm to whom that man is meat, is if men now were of another cast,

To glory some advance a lying claim, 'hey meanly live on alms of ages past.

Thieves of renown, and pilferers of fame : len still are men; and they who boldly dare, Their front supplies what their ambition lacks; hall triumph o'er the sons of cold despair ; They know a thousand lords, behind their backs. r, if they fail, they justly still take place

Cottil is apt to wink upon a peer, If such who run in debt for their disgrace; When turn'd away, with a familiar leer ; Vho borrow much, then fairly make it known, And Harvey's eyes, unmercifully keen, nd damn it with improvements of their own. Have murder'd fops, by whom she ne'er was seen. Ve bring some new materials, and what 's old Niger adopts stray libels; wisely prone Tew-cast with care, and in no borrow'd mould; To covet shame still greater than his own. ate times the verse may read, if these refuse ; Bathyllus, in the winter of threescore, ind from sour critics vindicate the Muse,

Belies his innocence, and keeps a whore. Your work is long," the critics cry. 'Tis true, Absence of mind Brabantio turns to fame, nd lengthens still, to take in fools like you : Learns to mistake, nor knows his brother's name

; horten my labour, if its length you blame ; Has words and thoughts in nice disorder set, or, grow but wise, you rob me of my game; And takes a memorandum to forget. s hunted hags, who, while the dogs pursue, Thus vain, not knowing what adorns or blots, enounce their four legs, and start up on two. Men forge the patents that create them sots.

Like the bold bird upon the banks of Nile, As love of pleasure into pain betrays, 'hat picks the teeth of the dire crocodile,

So most grow infamous through love of praise. Till I enjoy (dread feast !) the critic's rage, But whence for praise can such an ardour rise, ind with the fell destroyer feed my page. When those, who bring that incense, we despise ? or what ambitious fools are more to blame, For such the vanity of great and small, han those who thunder in the critic's name? Contempt goes round, and all men laugh at all. food authors damn'd, have their revenge in this, Nor can e'en Satire blame them; for 't is true, o see what wretches gain the praise they miss. They have most ample cause for what they do. - Balbutius, muffled in his sable cloak,

O fruitful Britain ! doubtless thou wast meant ike an old Druid from his hollow oak,

A nurse of fools, to stock the continent. is ravens solemn, and as boding, cries,

Though Phæbus and the Nine for ever mow, Ten thousand worlds for the three unities !" Rank folly underneath the scythe will grow. s'e doctors sage, who through Parnassus teach, The plenteous harvest calls me forward still, Ir quit the tub, or practise what you preach. Till I surpass in length my lawyer's bill;

One judges as the weather dictates ; right A Welsh descent, which well-paid heralds damn; - The poem is at noon, and wrong at night: Or, longer still, a Dutchman's epigram. Another judges by a surer gage,

When cloy'd, in fury I throw down my pen, in author's principles, or parentage ;

In comes a coxcomb, and I write again. ince his great ancestors in Flanders fell,

See Tityrus, with merriment possest, he poem doubtless must be written well. Is burst with laughter ere he hears the jest : Another judges by the writer's look ;

What need he stay? for, when the joke is o'er, Inother judges, for he bought the book ;

His teeth will be no whiter than before. omne judge, their knack of judging wrong to keep; Is there of these, ye fair! so great a dearth, some judge, because it is too soon to sleep. That you need purchase monkeys for your mirth?

Thus all will judge, and with one single aim, Some, vain of paintings, bid the world admire ;
Co gain themselves, not give the writer fame. Of houses some; nay, houses that they hire :
The very best ambitiously advise,

Some (perfect wisdom !) of a beauteous wife ;
Half to serve you, and half to pass for wise. And boast, like Cordeliers, a scourge for life. (airs;

Critics on verse, as squibs on triumphs wait, Sometimes, through pride, the sexes change their
Proclaim the glory, and augment the state ; My lord has vapours, and my lady swears ;
Hot, envious, noisy, proud, the scribbling fry Then, stranger still ! on turning of the wind,
Burn, hiss, and bounce, waste paper, stink, and die. My lord wears breeches, and my lady 's kind.
Rail on, my friends! what more my verse can crown To show the strength, and infamy of pride,
T'han Compton's smile, and your obliging frown? By all 't is follow'd, and by all denied.
Not all on books their criticism waste :

What numbers are there, which at once pursue I'he genius of a dish some justly taste,

Praise, and the glory to contemn it, too!
And eat their way to fame; with anxious thought Vincenna knows self-praise betrays to shame,
The salmon is refus'd, the turbot bought.

And therefore lays a stratagem for fame;
Impatient art rebukes the Sun's delay,

Makes his approach in modesty's disguise, And bids December yield the fruits of May; To win applause; and takes it by surprise. Their various carcs in one great point combine “ To err," says he, “ in small things is my fate.” The business of their lives, that is – to dine. You know your answer, “ He 's exact in great." Half of their precious day they give the feast ; “ My style," says he, “ is rude and full of faults." And to a kind digestion spare the rest.

“ But oh! what sense! what energy of thoughts!" Apicius, here, the taster of the town,

That he wants algebra, he must confess; Feeds twice a week, to settle their renown. “ But not a soul to give our arms success."

These worthies of the palate guard with care " Ah! That 's a hit indeed," Vincenna cries ; The sacred annals of their bills of fare ;

<< But who in heat of blood was ever wise?

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