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ESIGN’D to live, prepar'd to die,

I Vith not one fin, but poetry,
This day Tom's fair account has run
(Without a blot) to eighty one.
Kind Boyle, before his poet, lays
A table, with a cloth of bays;
And Ireland, mother of sweet singers,
Presents her harp still to his fingers.
The feast, his tow'ring genius marks
In yonder wild goose and the larks !
The mushrooms shew his wit was sudden!
And for his judgment, lo a pudden!
Roast beef, tho' old, proclaims him stout,
And grace, altho' a bard, devout.


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Ver. 6. A table] He was invited to dine on his birth. day with this Nobleman, who had prepared for him the entertainment of which the bill of fare is here fet down.

Ver. 8. Presents her harp] 'The Harp is generally wore on the Irish Linen ; such as Table-cloths, etc.




May Tom, whom heav'n sent down to raise
The price of prologues and of plays,
Be ev'ry birth-day more a winner,
Digest his thirty-thousandth dinner ;
Walk to his grave without reproach,
And scorn a rascal and a coach.



Ver. 16. The price of prologues and of plays,] This alludes to a story Mr. Southern told about the same time, to Mr. P. and Mr. W. of Dryden ; who, when Southern first wrote for the fage, was so famous for his Prologues, that the players would act nothing without that decoration. His usual price till then had been four guineas : But when Southern came to him for the Prologue he had bespoke, Dryden told him he must have fix guineas for it; “ which (said he) young man, is out of no difre

spect to you, but the Players have had my goods too cheap.” - We

We now look upon these Prologues with the lame admiration that the Virtuosi do on the Apothecaries' pots painted by Raphael.


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