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This is my Plea, on this I rest my cause--
What faith my council, learned in the laws ?

F. Your plea is gond; but still I say, beware!
Laws are explain’d by men---so have a care---
It stands on record, that in Richard's times
A man was hang'd for very honest rhymes ;
Consult the Statute, quatt. I think, it is,
Edwardi sext. or prim. et quint. Eliz.
See Libels, Satires---here you have it--read.

P. Libels and Satires ! lawless things indeed ! But grave Epistles, bringing Vice to light, Such as a King might read, a Bishop write, Such as Sir ROBERT would approve.

F. Indeed ? The case is alter'da--you may then proceed; In such a case the plaintiff will be hiss’d, My Lords the judges laugh, and you're dismiss’d.

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Turns you

WHAT, and how great, the Virtue and the Art

To live on little with a chearful heart;
(A doctrine fage, but truly none of mine)
Let's talk, my friends, but talk before we dine.
Not when a gilt Buffet's reflected pride

from found Philosophy aside ;
Not when from plate to plate your eye-balls roll,
And the brain dances to the mantling bowl.

Hear Bethel's Sermon, one not vers’d in schools, But strong in sense, and wise without the rules.

Go work, hunt, exercise! (he thus began) Then scorn a homely dinner, if you can. Your wine lock'd up, your Butler (trolld abroad, Or filh dany'd (the river yet unthawd)

Of carps

If then plain bread and milk will do the feat,
The pleasure lies in you, and not the meat.

Preach as I please, I doubt our curious men
Will chuse a pheasant still before a hen;
Yet hens of Guinea full as good I hold,
Except you eat the feathers green and gold.

and mullets why prefer the great,
(Tho' cut in pieces ere my lord can eat)
Yet for small Turbots such esteem profess?
Because God made these large, the other less.
Oldfield with more than Harpy throat endu’d,
Cries “ Send me, Gods! a whole Hog barbecu'd !"
Oh blast it, South-winds ! till a stench exhale
Rank as the ripeness of a rabbit's tail.
By what Criterion do you eat, d'ye think,
If this is priz'd for sweetness, that for stink ?
When the tir'd glutton labours thro' a treat,
He finds no relish in the sweetest meat,
He calls for something bitter, something four,
And the rich feast concludes extremely poor :
Cheap eggs, and herbs, and olives still we fec;
Thus much is left of old Simplicity!
The Robin-red-breast till of late had rest,
And children facred held a Martin's nest,
Till Becca-ficos sold so dev'lish dear
To one that was, or would have been, a Peer.
Let me extol a Cat, on oisters fed,
l'll have a Party at the Bedford-head;
Or ev'n to crack live Crawfish recommend ;
I'd never doubt at Court to make a Friend.

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'Tis yet in vain, I own, to keep a pother.
About one vice, and fall into the other :
Between Excess and Famine lies a mean;
Plain, but not fordid ; tho' not splendid, clean.

Avidien, or his Wife (no matter which,
For him you'll call a dog, and her a bitch)
Sell their presented partridges, and fruits,
And humbly live on rabbits and on roots :
One half-pint bottle serves them both to dine,
And is at once their vinegar and wine.
But on some lucky day (as when they found
A loft Bank bill, or heard their son was drown'd)
At such a feast, old vinegar to spare,
Is what two souls so gen'rous cannot bear :
Oil, tho' it fink, they drop by drop impart,
But fowse the cabbage with a bounteous heart.

He knows to live, who keeps the middle state, And neither leans on this side, nor on that ; Nor stops, for one bad cork, his butler's pay, Swears, like Albutius, a good cook away ; Nor lets, like Naevius, ev'ry error pass, The musty wine, foul cloth, or greasy glass.

Now hear what blessings Temperance can bring : (Thus faid our friend, and what he faid i sing) First Health : The stomach (cramm'd from ev'ry dish, A tomb of boild and roast, and flesh and fish, Where bile, and wind, and phlegm, and acid jar, And all the man is one intestine war) Remembers of the School-boy's simple fare, The temp’rate Neeps, and spirits light as air. YOL, III.

N

How pale, each Worshipful and Rev'rend guest Rise from a Clergy, or a City fealt! What life in all that ample body, fay? What heav'nly particle inspires the clay? The Soul subsides, and wickedly inclines To feem but mortai, ev'n in found Divines.

On morning wings how active springs the Mind That leaves the load of yesterday behind ? How cafy ev'ry labour it pursues ? How coming to the Poet ev'ry Muse? Not but we may exceed, fome holy time, Or tir’d in search of Truth, or search of Rhyme; ill health some just indulgence may engage; And more the sickness of long life, Old age; For fainting Age what cordial drop remains, If our intemp’rate Youth the vessel drains ?

Our fathers prais'd rank Ven'son. You suppose, Perhaps, young men! our fathers had no nose. Not fo: a Buck was then a week's repast, And 'twas their point, I ween, to make it last; More pleas'd to keep it till their friends could come, Than eat the sweetest by themselves at home. Why had not I in these good times my birth, Ere coxcomb pyes or coxcombs were on earth?

Unworthy he, the voice of Fame to hear, That sweetest music to an honest ear; (For "faith, Lord Fanny! you are in the wrong, The world's good word is better than a song) Who has not learn'd, fresh sturgeon and ham-pye Are no rewards for want, and infamy!

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