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Yet, in your felf when smooth and round*,
They glance afide without a wound.

"Tis faid, the gods try'd all their art,
How Pain they might from Pleasure part;
But little could their ftrength avail;
Both ftill are fasten'd by the tail.
Thus Fame and Censure with a tether
By fate are always link'd together.

WHY will you aim to be preferr'd
In wit before the common herd?
And yet grow mortify'd and vex'd
To pay the penalty annex'd?

'Tis eminence makes envy rife;
As fairest fruits attract the flies.
Should ftupid libels grieve your mind,
You foon a remedy may find;
Lie down obfcure like other folks
Below the lash of fnarlers jokes.
Their faction is five hundred odds;
For every coxcomb lends them rods;
And fneers as learnedly as they;
Like females o'er their morning-tea.

You fay, the mufe will not contain,
And write you muft, or break a vein.

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Then, if you find the terms too hard,

No longer my advice regard :

But raife your fancy on the wing;

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The Irish fenate's praises fing;

How jealous of the nation's freedom,

And for corruptions, how they weed 'em ;

How each the public good pursues,

How far their hearts from private views;

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In feipfo tatus teres atque rotundus.

Make all true patriots up to fhoe boys
Huzza their brethren at the Blue-boys*;
Thus grown a member of the club,
No longer dread the rage of Grub.

How oft am I' for rhyme to feek!
To drefs a thought, I toil a week:
And then how thankful to the town,
If all my pains will earn a crown!
Whilft every critic can devour
My work and me in half an hour.
Would men of genius cease to write,

The rogues muft die for want and spite;
Muft die for want of food and raiment,
If fcandal did not find them payment.
How chearfully the hawkers cry
A fatire, and the gentry buy!

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While my hard-labour'd poem pines

Unfold upon the printer's lines.

A genius in the rev'rend gown Muft ever keep its owner down; 'Tis an unnatural conjunction,

And spoils the credit of the function.

Round all your brethren caft your eyes;
Point out the fureft men to rife ;
That club of candidates in black,
The least deferving of the pack,
Afpiring, factious, fiercè, and loud,
With grace and learning unendu'd,
Can turn their hands to ev'ry job,
The fittest tools to work for Bob+;

Will fooner coin a thousand lies,

Than fuffer men of parts to rife ;

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The Irish parliament fat at the Blue-boys hofpital, while the

new parliament-houfe was building.

↑ Sir Robert Walpole, afterwards Earl of Orford,

They croud about preferment's gate,
And prefs you down with all their weight.
For, as of old mathematicians

Were by the vulgar thought magicians;
So academic dull ale-drinkers
Pronounce all men of wit freethinkers.

WIT, as the chief of virtue's friends,
Difdains to ferve ignoble ends.
Obferve what loads of ftupid rhymes
Opprefs us in corrupted times:
What pamphlets in a court's defence
Shew reason, grammar, truth, or sense?
For tho' the muse delights in fiction,
She ne'er infpires against conviction.
Then keep your virtue ftill unmixt,
And let not faction come betwixt :

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By party steps no grandeur climb at,

Tho' it would make you England's primate:
Firft learn the fcience to be dull,

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WHEN Jove was from his teeming head Of wit's fair goddefs brought to bed, There follow'd at his lying-in

For afterbirth a Sooterkin ;

Which, as the nurse purfu'd to kill,

Attain'd by flight the mufes hill,
There in the foil began to root,

And litter'd at Parnaffus' foot.

From hence the critic vermin fprung

With harpy claws and pois'nous tongue,

Who fatten on poetic scraps,

Too cunning to be caught in traps.

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To flourish o'er a cup of gin:

Find the last garret where they lay,
Or cellar where they starve to day.
Suppofe you had them all trepann'd,
With each a libel in his hand,

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What punishment would you inflict?
Or call 'em rogues, or get 'em kickt?
These they have often try'd before;

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You but oblige 'em so much more:
Themfelves would be the first to tell,
To make their trafh the better fell.

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Will you regard the hawker's cries,
Who in his titles always lies?
Whate'er the noisy fcoundrel fays,

It might be fomething in your praise :
And praise bestow'd on Grub-ftreet rhymes
Would vex one more a thousand times.-
Till critics blame, and judges praise,
The poet cannot claim his bays.
On me, when dunces are fatiric,
I take it for a panegyric.
Hated by fools, and fools to hate,
Be that my motto, and my fate.

ON

DREAM S.

An imitation of PETRONIUS.

Written in the year 1724.

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Somnia quæ mentes ludunt volitantibus umbris, &c.
THOSE dreams, that on the filent night intrude,
And with falfe flitting fhades our minds delude,
Jove never fends us downward from the skies;
Nor can they from infernal mansions rife ;
But are all mere productions of the brain,
-And fools confult interpreters in vain.

FOR, when in bed we reft our weary limbs,
The mind unburthen'd fports in various whims ;
The bufy head with mimic art runs o'er
The scenes and actions of the day before.

THE droufy tyrant, by his minions led,

To regal rage devotes fome patriot's head.
With equal terrors, not with equal guilt,
The murd❜rer dreams of all the blood he spilt.
THE foldier fmiling hears the widow's cries,

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And ftabs the fon before the mother's eyes.
With like remorfe his brother of the trade,

The butcher, fells the lamb beneath his blade.

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