Hail Bards triumphant born in happier Days Immortal Heus of universal Praise! Oh may some Spark of your celestial Fire The last, the meanest of 4 your Sons inspire. Essay on Crit.

EPISTLE

VII.

'T

Imitated in the Manner of Dr. SWIFT.

IS true, my Lord, I gave my word,
I would be with you June the third;
Chang'd it to August, and (in short)
Have kept it as you do at Court.
You humour me when I am sick,
Why not when I am splenetick?
In town, what Objects could I meet?
The shops fhut up in ev'ry street,
And Fun'rals black'ning all the Doors,
And yet more melancholy Whores:
And what a duft in every place?

And a thin Court that wants your Face,
And Fevers raging up and down,

And W* and H** both in Town?

Quinque dies tibi pollicitus me rure futurum,
Sextilem totum mendax defideror. atqui,
Si me vivere vis fanum recteque valentem;
Quam mihi das aegro, dabis aegrotare timenti,
Maecenas, veniam: dum ficus prima calorque
Defignatorem decorat lictoribus atris:
Dum pueris omnis pater, et matercula pallet;
Officiofaque fedulitas, et opella forenfis
Adducit febris, et teftamenta refignat.

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10

"The Dog-days are no more the case.” 'Tis true, but Winter comes apace:

Then fouthward let your Bard retire,

Hold out fome Months 'twixt Sun and Fire,

And shall see the first warm Weather, you

Me and the Butterflies together.

My Lord your Favours well I know; 'Tis with Diftinction you bestow;

And not to ev'ry one that comes,

15

Juft as a Scotfman does his Plums,

"Pray take them, Sir--Enough's a Feast:
"Eat fome, and pocket up the rest.”.
What rob your Boys? thofe pretry rogues !
"No, Sir you'll leave them to the Hogs."
Thus Fools with Compliments besiege ye,
Contriving never to oblige ye.

Scatter your Favours on a Fop,
Ingratitude's the certain crop;

And 'tis but juft, I'll tell ye wherefore,
You give the things you never care for.

Quod fi bruma nives Albanis illinet agris;
Ad mare defcendet vates tuus, et fibi parcet,
Contractufque leget; te, dulcis, amice, revifet
Cum Zephyris, fi concedes, et hirundine prima.
Non, quo more pyris vefci Calaber jubet hofpes,
Tu me fecifti locupletem. Vefcere fodes.
Jam fatis eft. At tu quantumvis tolle. Benigne.
Non invifa feres pueris munufcula parvis.

Tam teneor dono, quam fi dimittar onustus.
Ut libet haec porcis hodie comedenda relinques.
Prodigus et ftultus donat quae fpernit et odit:

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