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Each drinks at Will the Toast, and

pays

alone
The Homage of a Bumper to his own.
No Cares of Pelf, to mar the Scene of Joy,
Nor blund'ring Politics our Thoughts employ ;
We leave, contented, to the courtly Rout,
When in, to triumph, and complain, when

OUT.
Far better Converse fills our circling Time,
Where Knowledge shines, and Ignorance is a

Crime;
If fplendid Wealth, or Goodness, can impart
A purer Transport to the feeling Heart;
If Fashion wisely guide the worldly Breast,
To chuse for Friends the richest as the best;
From Virtue's Source if conscious Rapture flow,
Or Pleasure form our Happiness below.

While thus we chat, the Vicar of the Place
Unbends our grave Philosophy of Face;
Fond of his Jeft, and fearless of the Great,
He paints the Blessings of the Chaplain's State.

A Country Vicar in his homely House,
Pleas'd with his Lot, and happy in his Spouse,
With simple Diet, at his frugal Board,
Once entertain'd the Chaplain of a Lord :
He gave him (all he could) a little Fish,
With Sauce of Oysters, in no Silver Dish;
And, for the craving Stomach's sure Relief,
The Glory of old England, rare Roast-Beef,

Horse.

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Horse-radish, and Potatoes, Ireland's Pride;
A Pudding too the prudent Dame supply'd :
Their cheering Beverage was a Pint of Port,
(Though small the Quantum) of the better Sort;
But Plenty of good Beer, both small and stout,
With Wine of Elder, to prevent the Gout.
The Vicar hop'd, by such a various 'Treat,
To tempt his Scarf-embellish'd Friend to eat;
With nicest Bits provok'd his Guest to dine,
He carv'd the Haddock, and he fery'd the Wine;
Content his own sharp Stomach to regale
With plain substantial Roast-Meat and mild Ale.
Our courtly Chaplain, you may well suppose,
At such old-fashion'd Commons cursd his Nose ;
He try’d in vain to piddle, and, in brief,
Pith'd at the Pudding, and declin’d the Beef.
At length, their homely Dinner finish'd quite,
Thus to the Vicar spoke the Priest polite :

• How can my Brother, in this paltry Town,
• Live undistinguish'd, to the World unknown?
* And not exalt his towering Genius higher,
* Than here to herd with Country Clown -

Squire ?
Stunn'd with the Discord of hoarse cawing

Rooks,
• The Roar of Winds, the Dissonance of Brooks,
( Which discontented through the Valley stray,
• Plaintive and murmuring at their long Delay.

• Come,

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Come, come with Me, nor longer here abide', “You've Friends in Town, and I will be your

Guide : * Soon to your Share some Dignity will fall, • At least a Sine-Cure, perhaps a Stall.'

These weighty Reasons sway'd the Vicar's Mind, To Town he hied, but left his Wife behind :Next Levee-Day he waited on his Grace, With hundreds more, who bow'd to get a Place; Shov'd in the Crowd, he stood amaz'd to see Lords who to Baäl bent the supple Knee, And Doctors fage he could not but admire, Who stoop'd profoundly low- to rise the higher : Such Ermine, Lace, Beaux, Bishops, young and

old, 'Twas like a Cloud of Sable edg’d with Gold. By Turns his Grace the servile Train address’d, Charm'd with a Smile, or in a Whisper bless’d. Sick of the Scene, the Vicar fought the Door, Determin'd never to fee London more ; But, as his Friend had pleas'd the Hour to fix, First went to Dinner in Soho at Six. He knock'd - was usher'd to the Room of State, (My Lord abroad) and Dinner serv'd in Plate; Which, though it seem'd but common Soup and Was real Callipee and Callipash,

[Halli, (The Relicks of the gaudy Day before,) What Indians eat, and Englisomen adore.

With bright Champaign the Courtier crown'd

the Feast, Sooth'd his own Pride, and gratify'd his Guest. All this confpir’d our Stoic to controul, And warp'd the fteady Purpose of his Soul: But fond of early Hours, though light of Heart, When the first Watchman warn’d him to depart, His careful Hoft would see him cross the Square, Safe from the Coach, the Flambeau, and the Chair, As here, it seems, while meaner Mortals flept, At Riot-House were Midnight Revels kept. They clear'd the Coaches, and the Kennel cross'd; When, with their Poles, against a filthy Post Two Chair-men, Irish-born, our Vicar threw, Tore his beft Cloaths, and bruis'd him black and

blue;

Aghaft he rose, first view'd his tatter'd Vest, Then rubb’d his Shin, and thus his Friend ad

dress’d: Adieu-be Turtle, Routs, and Grandeur thine; Beef, a good Coat, and a whole Skin, be mine !' 1765.

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SATIRE VII. A Dialogue between the Poet and his Slave..

By Mr. J. DUNCOMBE: That every Man is a Slave, who is under the

Controul of bis Passions.

DAY US.
To you I long have lent a listening Ear,
Wishing to speak, but, as your Slave, forbear.

HORACE.
Say, who is there? What, · Davus, is it you?

DAVUS.
The fame, Sir ; ever to my

Mafter true : Though wise enough, yet not so wise that 2 Death In early Youth should stop my vital Breath.

HORACE. The Freedom granted by our Sires of old On 3 Saturn's Feafts enjoy ; speak uncontrould.

DAVUS. Some, by their Pasions blindly led away, Throʻthe smooth Paths of lawless Pleasure stray : Some to and fro with Course unsteady swim, And practise Vice or Virtue for a Whim. Three Rings at Morn on Priscus' 4 left Hand shone, But the same Hand at Night display'd not one. A various Dress he

every

Hour would wear : From a proud Palace he would ftrait repair

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