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Each drinks at Will the Toast, and
While thus we chat, the Vicar of the Place
A Country Vicar in his homely House,
Horse-radish, and Potatoes, Ireland's Pride;
• How can my Brother, in this paltry Town,
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
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.
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.
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
Hour would wear : From a proud Palace he would ftrait repair