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Yet failing there he keeps his freedom ftill, ici!
Forc'd to live happily against his willi-
'Tis not his fault, if too much wealth and power in
Break not his boasted quict ev'ry hour. 55 19:30

And little Sid, for fimile renown'd, 1971
Pleasure has always fought, but never found :: 7.1%
Though all his thoughts on wine and women fally is
His are so bad, he sure ne'er thinks at all.130: 1914
The flesh he lives upon is rank and ftrong; 2. tveni
His meat and mistresses are kept too longo din
Bnt sure we all mistake this pious man, 1 zi s 15
Who mortifies his perfon all he can:
What we uncharitably take for fin,
Are only rules of this odd capuchin;
For never hermit, under grave pretence,
Has liv'd more contrary to common sense;
And 'tis a miracle, we may fuppose,
No naftinefs offends his skillful sofe ; 1:
Which from all flink can with peculiar art 17

Extract perfume, and essence from a f-:-
Expecting supper is his great delight;
He tols all day but to be drunk at night :
Then o'er his cups this night-bird chirping fits,
Till he takes Hewet and Jack Hall for wits.

Rochester I despise for want of wit,
Though thought to have a tail and cloven feet;
For, while he mischief means to all mankind,
Himself alone the ill effects does find :


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And so like witchesjuftly fuffers-fhamé,
Whose harmless malice is so much the fame.
False are his words, affected is his wit;
So often he does aim, clofeldom hit ;
To ev'ry face he cringes while he speaks,
But when the back is turn'd the head he breaks ;
Mean in each action, lewd in ev'ry limb,
Manners themselves are mifchievous in him;
A proof that chance alone makes ev'ry creature
A very Killigrew, without good-nature.
For what a Bessus has he always liv'd,
And his own kickings notably contriv'd!
For there's the folly that's ftill mix'd with fear,
Cowards more blows than any hero bear ;
Of fighting sparks some may their pleasures fay,
But 'tis a bolder thing to run away :
The world may yet forgive him all his ill,
For ev'ry fault does prove his penance ftill:
Falsely he falls into fome dang'rous noose,
And then as meanly labours to get loosc:
And life foinfamous is better quitting,
Spent in base injury and low submitting.
I'd like to have left out his poetry ;
Forgot by all almost as well as me.
Sometimes he has some humour, never wit :
And if it rarely, very rarely, hit,



'Tis under so much rally rubbish laid,

To find it out's the cinderwoman's trade;
Who, for the wretched zeinnants of a fire,
Muit rol all day in alhes and in mire..
So lewdy duil bis idle works appear,
The wreiched texts deserve no comments here;
Where one poor thought fometimes, left all alone,
For a whole page of dulness mull atone.

How vain a thing is man, and how unwise ;
Ev’n he, who would himself the iños despise !
I, who so wife and humble feem to be,
Now my own vanity and pride can't see,
While the world's nonsense is so tharply shewn,
We pull down others but to raise our own :
That we may angels feem, we paint thém elves,
And are but fatires to set up our felves.
I (who have all this while been finding fault,
Ev’n with my master, who first satire taught ;
And did by that deferibe the talk so hard,
It seems Aupendous and above reward)
Now labour with unequal force to climb
That lofty hill, unreach'd by former time
'Tis just that I should to the bottom fall.;
Learn to write well, or not to write at all.

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AIL, mildly-pleasing Solitude,

Companion of the wife and good :
But from whose holy piercing eye,
The herd of fools and villains fly.

Oh! how I love with thee to walk,
And listen to thy whisper'd talk,
Which innocence and truth imparts,
And melts the most obdurate hearts.

A thousand shapes you wear with ease,
And fill in ev'ry shape you please.
Now wrapt in fome mysterious dream,
A lone philosopher you seem n;
Now quick from hill to vale you fly,
And now you sweep the vaulted sky,
A shepherd next you haunt the plain,
And warble forth your oaten strain ;
A lover now, with all the

Of that sweet passion in your face :
Then, calm’d to friendship, you assume
The gentle-looking Hartford's bloom,


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As, with her Mufidora, she
(Her Musidora fönd of thee)
Amid the long withdrawing valeg.
Awakes the rival'd nightingale.

Thine is the balmy breath of morn,
Just as the dew-bent rofe is born
And while meridian fervors beat,
Thine is the woodland dumb retreats.

But chief, when evening scenes decay,
And the faint landscape swims away,
Thine is the doubtful foft decline, u: A
And that beit hour of musing thinega na Vi

Descending angels bless thy train,
The virtues of the fage and swain;
Plain innocence, in white array'd,
Before thee lifts her fearless head out
Religion's beams around thee thine, a
And cheer thy glooms with lighi divine:
About thee sports sweet Liberty;
And rapt Urania fings to thee.

Oh, let'me pierce thy secret cell.
And in thy deep recelles dwell.
Perhaps from Norwood's oak-clad hilly
When meditation has her fill,

Where London's spiry, turrets rise ;
1. Think of its crimes, its cares, its pain,

Then shield me in the woods again.

I just may

my careless eyes

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