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WELL

ELL then, poor Glies ander ground!
So there's an end of honest Jack.

So little juftice here he found,

'Tis ten to one he'll ne'er come back.

* EPIGRAM, on the toafts of the Kit-kat club.

WHENC

Anno 1716.

E deathlefs kit-kat took its

Few critics can unriddle;

Some fay from pastry-cook it came,

And fome from cat and fiddle.

From no trim beaux its name it boafts,

Grey statesmen, or green wits;

But from this pell-mell pack of toasts
Of old cats and young kits.

name,

* To a LADY, with the Temple of Fame.

WHAT's fame with men, by cuftom of the nation

Is call'd in women only reputation :

About them both why keep we fuch a pother?
Part you with one, and I'll renounce the other.

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* VERSES to be placed under the picture of ENGLAND'S ARCH-POET; containing a complete catalogue of his works.

EE who ne'er was nor will be half read!

SEE

Who first fung Arthur †, then fung Alfred ‡;

Prais'd great Eliza || in God's anger,

Till all true Englishmen cry'd, Hang her!

Two heroic poems in folio, twenty books.

Heroic poems in twelve books.

Heroic poems in folio, ten books.

Made William's virtues wipe the bare a

And hang'd up Marlb'rough in arras*:

Then hifs'd from earth, grew heav'nly quite;
Made ev'ry reader curse the light † ;
Maul'd human wit in one thick fatire ‡ ;
Next, in three books, funk human nature ||,
Undid creation ** at a jerk,

And of redemption †† made damn'd work.
Then took his muse at once, and dipt her
Full in the middle of the Scripture:

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10

What wonders there the man grown old did!
Sternhold himself he out-Sternholded:

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Made David ‡‡ feem fo mad and freakish,

All thought him juft what thought King Achish.
No mortal read his Solomon ||||,

But judg'd R'oboam his own fon.
Mofes *** he ferv'd as Mofes Pharaoh,
And Deborah as fhe Siferah;

Made +++ Jeremy full fore to cry,
And Job ‡‡‡ himself curfe God and die.

WHAT punishment all this must follow?
Shall Arthur ufe him like King Tollo?
Shall David as Uriah flay him?

Or dext'rous Deb'rah Siferah him?
Or fhall Eliza lay a plot

To treat him like her fifter Scot?

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** Inftructions to Vanderbank, a tapestry weaver,

Hymn to the light.

Satire against wit.

Of the nature of man.

** Creation, a poem, in feven books.

tt The Redeemer, another heroic poem, in fix books. #Tranflation of all the Pfalms.

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Canticles and Ecclefiaftes.

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Paraphrafe of the canticles of Mofes and Deborah, &c. ttt The Lamentations.

### The whole book of Job, a poem, in folio.

Shall William dub his better end * ?

Or Marlb'rough ferve him like a friend?
No, none of these heav'n spare his life!
But fend him, honeft Job, thy wife.

Dr SWIFT to Mr POPE, while he was writing the DUNCIAD.

POPE

E has the talent well to speak,
But not to reach the ear;

His loudeft voice is low and weak,
The Dean too deaf to hear.

A while they on each other look,
Then diff'rent ftudies chufe;
The Dean fits plodding on a book,
Pope walks, and courts the mufe.

Now backs of letters, tho' defign'd

For thofe who more will need `em, Are fill'd with hints, and interlin'd,

Himself can hardly read 'em.

Each atom by fome other ftruck,

All turns and motions tries:
Till in a lump together stuck,
Behold a poem rife :

Yet to the Dean his fhare allot;
He claims it by a canon;
That without which a thing is not,
Is caufa fine qua non.

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Thus, Pope t, in vain you boast

your

wit;

For, had our deaf divine

* Kick him on the breech, not knight him on the fhoulder. + A polite turn is given to this incident by Mr. Pope, in his

letter to Dr Sheridan, in vol. iv. let. 127. p. 260.

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An epistle from a dog at Twickenham to a dog at court.

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thee, fweet fop, thefe lines I fend,
Who, tho' no fpaniel, am a friend.
Tho' once my tail in wanton play
Now frifking this and then that way,
Chanc'd with a touch of just the tip
To hurt your lady-lap dog-fhip:

Yet thence to think I'd bite your head off!
Sure Bounce is one you never read of.

For! you can dance, and make a leg,
Can fetch and carry, cringe and beg,
And (what's the top of all your tricks)
Can ftoop to pick up ftrings and sticks.
We country-dogs love nobler sport,
And fcorn the pranks of dogs at court.
Fie, naughty Fop! where e'er you come,
To fart and pifs about the room,

To lay your head in ev'ry lap,
And, when they think not of you-
The worst that envy or that spite

E'er faid of me, is, I can bite ;

-fnap!

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That idle gypfies, rogues in rags,
Who poke at me, can make no brags ;
And that to towze fuch things as flutter,
To honeft Bounce is bread and butter.

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WHILE you, and ev'ry courtly fop,

Fawn on the devil for a chop,
I've the humanity to hate

A butcher, tho' he brings me meat ;
And, let me tell you, have a nose,
(Whatever ftinking fops fuppofe),
That, under cloth of gold or tissue,
Can fmell a plaister, or an iffue.

YOUR pilf'ring lord with fimple pride
May wear a pick-lock at his fide;
My mafter wants no key of state,
For Bounce can keep his house and gate.

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WHEN all fuch dogs have had their days,
As knavish Pams, and fawning Trays;
When pamper'd Cupids, beaftly Venis,
And motly, fquinting Harlequinis
Shall lick no more their ladies br-
But die of loofenefs, claps, or itch;
Fair Thames from either echoing shore
Shall hear and dread my manly roar.

SEE Bounce, like Berecynthia, crown'd
With thund'ring offspring all around;
Beneath, befide me, and at top,
A hundred fons, and not one fop!

BEFORE my children fet your beef,
Not one true Bounce will be a thief;
Not one without permiffion feed,.
(Tho' fome of J-n's hungry breed):
But whatfoe'er the father's race,

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50.

From me they fuck a little grace:

While your fine whelps learn all to steal,
Bred up by hand on chick and veal.

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* Alii legunt Harvequinis.

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