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Such wits and beauties are not praia'd for nought, For both the beauty and the wit are bought. Twould burst ev'n Heraclitus with the spleen, To see those anticks, Fopling and Courtin: The presence seems, with things so richly odd. The mosque of Mahound, or some queer pa-god, See them survey their limbs by Durer's rules, Of all beau-kind the best proportion'd fools! Adjust their clothes, and to confession draw Those venial sins, an atom, or a straw: But, oh! what terrors must distract the soul 'Convicted of that mortal crime, a hole; Or should one pound of powder less bespread Those monkey-tails that wag behind their head? Thus finish'd, and corrected to a hair, They march, to prate their hour before the fair. So first to preach a white-glov'd chaplain goes, With band of lilly, and with cheek of rose, Sweeter than Sharon, in immac'late trim, Neatness itself impertinent in him. Let but the ladies smile, and they are blest: Prodigious! how the things protest, protest! Peace, fools, or Gonson will for papists seize yon, If once he catch you at your Jesu! Jesu!

Nature made every fop to plague his brother, Just as one beauty mortifies another.

Him not so much as good-will, he arrests,

And unto her protests, protests, protests,

So much as at Rome would serve to have thrown

Ten cardinals into the inquisition;

And whispers by Jesu so oft, that a

Pursuevant would have ravish'd him away

For saying our lady's Psalter. But 'tis fit

That they each other plague, they merit it.

But here comes Glorious that will plague 'em both,

Who in the other extreme only doth

Call a rough carelessness good fashion:

Whose cloak his spurs tear, or whom he spits on,

But here's the captain that will plague them both,
Whose air cries, Arm -! whose very look's an oath;
The captain's honest, sirs, and that's enough,
Though his soul's bullet, and his body buff.
He spits fore-right; his hanghty chest before,
Like battering rams, beats open every door:
And with a face as red, and as awry,
As Herod's hangdogs in old tapestry,
Scarecrow to boys, the breeding woman's curse,
Has yet a strange ambition to look worse:
Confounds the civil, keeps the rnde in awe,
Jests like a licens'd fool, commands like law.

Frighted, I quit the room, but leave it so
As men from jails to execution go;
For hung with deadly sins I see the wall,
And lin'd with giants deadlier than them all:
Each man an Askapart, of strength to toss
For qnoits, both Temple-bar and Charing-cross.
Scar' d at the griazly forms, I sweat, I fly,
And shake all o'er, like a discover'd spy.

Courts are too much for wits so weak as mine: Charge them with heaven's artillery, bold divine!

He cares not, he. His ill words do no harm
To him; he rushes in, as if arm, arm,
He meant to cry; and though his face be as ill
As theirs which in old hangings whip Christ, still
He strives to look worse; he keeps all in awe;
Jests like a licens'd fool, commands like law.

Tir'd, now, 1 leave this place, and but plcas'd so
As men from gaols to execution go,
Go, through the great chamber (why is it hung,
"With these seven deadly sins ?) being among
Those Askaparts, men big enough to throw
Charing-cross, for a bar, men that do know
No token of worth, but queens man, and fine
Living; barrels of beef, rlaggons of wine.
I shook like a spied spie—Preachers which are
Seas of wit and arts, you can, then dare,

From such alone the great rebukes endure,
Whose satire's sacred, and whose rage secure;
'Tis mine to wash a few light stains; but theirs
Tq deluge sin, and drown a court in tears.
Howe'er, what's now Apocrypha, my wit,
In time to come, may pass for holy writ.

Drown the sins of this place, but as for me Which am but a scant brook, enough shall be To wash the stains away: although I yet (With Maccabees modesty) the known merit Of my work lessen, yet some wise men shall, 1 hope, esteem my writs canonical.

EPILOGUE TO THE SATIRES.

IN TWO DIALOGUES.

WRITTEN IN M DCC XXXVIII.

DIALOGUE I.

Fr.'VTOT twice a twelvemonth you appear in print,
And when it comes the court see nothing in't,
You grow correct, that once with rapture writ,
And are, besides, too moral for a wit.
Decay of parts, alas! we all must feel-
Why now, this moment, don't I see you steal?
'Tis all from Horace ; Horace long before ye
Said,' Tories call'd him Whig, and Whigs a Tory,*
And tanght his Romans, in much better metre,
'To langh at fools who put their trust in Peter.'

But Horace, sir, was delicate, was nice;
Bubo observes, he lash'd no sort of vice:
Horace would say, sir Billy serv'd the crown,
Blunt could do business, Higgins knew the town;
In Sappho touch the failings of the sex,
In reverend bishops note some small neglects,
And own the Spaniard did a waggish thing,
Who cropt our ears, and sent them to the king.
His sly, polite, insinuating style
Could please at court, and make Augustus smile t
An artful manager, that crept between
His friend and shame, and was a kind of screen.
But 'faith your very friends will soon be sore;
Patriots there are, who wish yon'd jest no more—
And where's the glory'twill be only thought
The great man never offer'd you a groat.

Go see sir Robert

P. See sir Robert I—hum— And never langh—for all my life to come? Seen him I have, but in his happier hour Of social pleasure, ill-exchang'd for power; Seen him, uncumber'd with a venal tribe, Smile without art, and win without a bribe. Would he oblige me ? let me only find, He does not think me what he thinks mankind. Come, come, at all I langh he langhs, no doubt; The only difference is, I dare langh out.

K Why yes: with Scripture still you may be free; A horse-langh, if you please, at honesty; A joke ou Jekyll, or some odd old Whig, Who never chang'd his principle, or wig; A patriot is a fool in every age, Whom all lord chamberlains allow the stage: These nothing hurts; they keep their fashion still, And wear their strange old virtue as they will.

If any ask you, ' Who's the man so near His prince, that writes inverse, and has his ear?' Why answer, Lyttelton; and I'll engage The worthy youth shall uc'er be in a nige: But were his verses vile, his whisper base, Yon'd quickly find him in lord Fanny's case. Sejanus, Wolsey, hurt not honest Flenry, But well may put some statesman in a fury.

Langh then at any, but at fools or foes; These you but anger, and you mend not thoie. Langh at your friends, and, if your friends are sore, So much the better, you may langh the more. To vice and folly to confine the jest, Sets half the world, God knows, against the rest;

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