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DEAR Col'nel, Cobham's and your country's
Friend! You love a Verse, take such as I can send. A Frenchman comes, presents you with his Boy, Bows and begins— This Lad, Sir, is of Blois : “ Observe his. Ihape how clean! his locks how curld! " My only son, I'd have him see the world : “ His French is pure; his Voice too--you shall hear. " Sir he's your Nave, for twenty pounds a year. " Mere wax as yet, you fashion him with ease, " Your Barber, Cook, Upholst'rer, what you please : " A perfect genius at an Op'ra fong
To say too much, might do my honour wrong. " Take him with all his virtues, on my word : 46 His whole ambition was to serve a Lord:
" But, Sir, to you, with what would I not part? " Tho' faith I fear, 'twill break his mother's heart. " Once (and but once) I caught him in a lye, " And then, unwhipp'd, he had the grace to cry; “ The fault he has I fairly shall reveal, " (Could you o'erlook but that) it is, to steal.”
If, after this, you took the graceless lad,
Consider then, and judge me in this light;
In Anna's Wars, a Soldier, poor and old,
" Go on, my friend (he cry’d) see yonder walls ! “ Advance and conquer ! go where glory calls! “ More honours, more rewards, attend the brave." Don't you remember what reply you gave? “ D'ye think me, noble Gen’ral such a Sot? • Let him take castles who has ne'er a groat.”
Bred up at home, full early I begun To read in Greek the wrath of Peleus' son. Besides, my father taught me from a lad, The better art to know the good from bad : (And little fure imported to remove, To hunt for Truth in Maudlin's learned grove.) But knottier points we knew not half so well, Depriv'd us soon of our paternal Cell; And certain Laws, by suff'rers thought unjust, Deny'd all posts of profit or of truit: Hopes after hopes of pious Papists fail'd, While mighty William's thund'ring arm prevail'd, For right Hereditary tax'd and fin'd, He stuck to poverty with peace of mind; And me, the Muses help'd to undergo it;, Convict a Papist he, and I a Poet. But (thanks to Homer)since I live and thrive, Indebted to no Prince or peer alive, Sure I should want the care of ten Monroes, If I would scribble, rather than report.
Years foll'wing years, steal fomething ev'ry days At last they steal us from ourselves av.zy; In one our Frolics, our Amusemenis vind, In one a Mistress drops, in one a frivid,
This fubtle Thief of life, this paltry Time,
But after all, what would you have me do?
But grant I may relapse, for want of grace,
And raise his mind above the mob he meets."