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[8]

What though his works to pastry-cooks descend,
Or serve to light the Miser's candle-end;

Yet if marked "scarce" in catalogues they're found,
Bl-df-d* will have them in morocco bound.

In such mad times, when folly seizes all,

And Prince and Peer alike for satire call

What Poet, void of spleen, can e'er refrain
To re-assert neglected virtue's reign.

discretion, but of manhood, bestowed on the world their lucubrations. We may hope some ages hence, from the great consumption of waste paper by pastry cooks, trunk-makers, and other honest artisans, their volumes may become rare, and therefore valuable. Till that period arrives, both Portugal and Ælian will rest uncut, and consequently unread, on the Booksellers' shelves, unless the taste of the world alters materially for the worse; which heaven forefend!!!

* Vide this noble Lord's collection; where the dullest works of the dullest Authors (provided they are scarce) are to be found; not "cased in congenial calf," as Lord Byron recommends, but in the most gorgeous morocco coverings.-It is impossible to apply the lines of Pope, on the library of the Duke of Chandos, more appropriately, than to that of this noble Personage:

"His study, with what Authors is it stored?

"In Books, not Authors, curious is my Lord."

[9]

But where commence ?-approach not near the

throne,

Nor tread the ground, the Laureat treads alone:

But prostrate dread the law with thunder big,

And fear th' Attorney-General's awful wig.

Shall then a subject 'scape, because he bears A sounding title, or an office shares?

Shall, if like Ab-rd-n's * 'tis always worn,

A Ribbon silence then the public scorn?

No-if I perish in the glorious cause,

Each knave shall feel the weight of satire's laws.

To

Hail ********, hail, the

's humble friend,

you, as first in favour, first I bend;

*It has been reported, but I know not with what truth, that this noble Lord was seen, on a certain occasion, divested of his usual accompaniment of the Star and Ribbon of the Thistle.-From the noble Diplomat's known attachment to his order, this anecdote may be doubted; and indeed I should be sorry to calumniate him so far, as to assert it as a fact, I only mention it as an extraordinary

rumour.

But not with flattery, such as courts may give;

It is by truth that satire's bard would live.
What though in shameless infamy grown old,
Both fame and character for power you've sold!
What though an injured nation's scorn you bear,
And muttered hatred wounds your trembling ear;
Though curses every where your footsteps greet,
And hisses urge you on from street to street;
Still at a venal court you keep your place,
And gain new honours from each new disgrace;
Still with unblushing front you dare your fate,
And rise the higher from the nation's hate.
Hail, wond'rous man, what can you wish for more,

Your son a blackguard, and your wife a w→→→→.

To

you

W

in vain* by Providence was given, Rank-honour-wealth-each blessing under heaven:

age

*It is perhaps one of the most extraordinary circumstances of the in which we live, that a man, noble by birth, and blest by fortune with all the advantages of this world, should have placed himself on a level with the lowest of mankind, and have acted as a pander in the intrigues of his wife.

Your native meanness broke through each disguise,

And scorned the petty rules which mortals prize.

*

From vicious youth to unrespected age,

What servile adulation mark'd each stage.

O may your memory live in future time,
And show to men the dire effects of crime;

In history's page your name shall stand alone,
Equalled by no one, but your worthless son!

Hail, Son, hail whiskered ********, born to grace

Thy father's house, and high exalted race;
Of Stock-jobbers the first-and justly known,
By winning other's cash, to save your own:
The nightly plunderer of the youthful heir;
Forerunner true of evil and despair:

* This noble Personage has continued through the whole of his long life, to merit in the fullest manner, the lines bestowed upon him in the "Diaboliad," a poem now almost forgotten:

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In all the various arts of ruin tried,

The Jobber's glory-and the Gamester's pride.
Tho' Lord of thousands-grasping stil! for more,
And 'midst increasing riches, truly poor;

In you, united, every vice* we see,

And wonder how their varied ends agree.

As ********'s colleague, let me ******* name,
The same his talents, his pursuits the same-
Whether to C-It-n H-se his steps he bend,
The ―'s flatterer, and obsequious friend.

Or on the turf displays his different skill,
Expert to rear-but more expert to kill.†

* Whether we look at Lord ******** in the character of a son—a husband—a father, or a friend, we shall find him equally despicable:as a son, the disgrace of his family-as a husband, the deserter of his wife-as a father, neglectful of his children— and as a friend, the pernicious adviser of his Sovereign.-His character, indeed, seems to be the common centre of all vice and profligacy.

It was, perhaps, fortunate for this titled Gamester, that the unhappy man, who was immolated as a victim to the vengeance of the law, for the poisoning of the horses at Newmarket, possessed so eminently the gifts of taciturnity and secresy.

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