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Some fly, like Pendulums, from Good to Evil,
And in that Point are madder than the Devil :
For they

To what will these vile Maxims tend?
And where, sweet Sir, will your Reflections end?

In You.

In Me, you Knave ? Make out your Charge.

You praise low-living, but you live at large.
Perhaps you scarce believe the Rules you teach,
Or find it hard to practise what you preach.
Scarce have you paid one idle Journey down,
But, without Business, you're again in Town.
If none invite you, Sir, abroad to roam,
Then-Lord, what Pleasure 'tis to read at home!
And fip your two Half-pints with great Delight
Of Beer at Noon, and muddled Port at Night.
From* Encombe, John comes thund'ring at the Door,
With, Sir, my Master begs you to come o'er,
• To pass these tediousHours, these Winter Nights,

Not that he dreads Invasions, Rogues, or Sprites." Strait for your two beft Wigs aloud you call, This stiff in Buckle, that not curl'd at all. * And where, you Rascal, are the Spurs,' you cry; • And O! what Blockhead laid the Buskins by ?"

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* The Seat of John Pitt, Esquire, in Dorsetfire.
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On your old batter'd Mare you'll needs be gone,
(No Matter whether on four Legs or none)
Splash, plunge and stumble as you fcour the Heath,
All swear at Morden 'tis on Life or Death :
Wildly through Wareham Streets you scamper on,
Raise all the Dogs and Voters in the Town;
Then fly for fix long dirty Miles as bad,
That Corfe and Kingston Gentry think you mad.
And all this furious Riding is to prove
Your high Respect, it seems, and eager Love :
And yet that mighty Honour to obtain,
Banks, Shaftesbury, Dodington, may send in vain.
Before you go, we curse the Noise you make,
And bless the Moment that you turn your Back,
As for myself, I own it to your Face,
I love good Eating, and I take my Glass :
But fure 'tis strange, dear Sir, that this should be
In You Amusement, but a Fault in Me.
All this is bare refining on a Name,
To make a Difference where the Fault's the

My Father sold me to your Service here,
For this fine Livery and four Pounds a Year.
A Livery you should wear as well as I,
And this i'll prove --- but lay your Cudgel by.
You serve your Paffions. Thus, without a Jeft,
Both are but Fellow-fervants at the best.
Yourself, good Sir, are play'd by your Defires,
A mere tall Puppet dancing on the Wires.


Who, at this Rate of talking, can be free?

The brave, wise, honeft Man, and only He.
All else are Slaves alike, the World around,
Kings on the Throne, and Beggars on the Ground,
He, Sir, is Proof to Grandeur, Pride, or Pelf,
And (greater still) is Master of himself:
Not to-and-fro by Fears and Factions hurl'd,
But loose to all the Interests of the World :
And while that World turns round, entire and whole
He keeps the sacred Tenor of his Soul ;
In every Turn of Fortune still the same,
As Gold unchang’d, or brighter from the Flame:
Collected in himself, with godlike Pride,
He sees the Darts of Envy glance aside;
And, fix'd like Atlas, while the Tempests blow,
Smiles at the idle Storms that roar below.
One such you know, a Layman, to your Shame,
And yet the Honour of your Blood and Name.
If you can such a Character maintain,
You too are free, and I'm your Slave again,

But when in Hemfkirk's Pi&tures you delight, More than myself, to see two Drunkards fight, Fool, Rogue, Sot, Blockhead,' or such Names,

are mine; Yours are, ' a Connoisseur,' or deep Divine.' V'in chid for loving a luxurious Bit, The sacred Prize of Learning, Worth, and Wit :

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And yet some sell their Lands these Bits to buy;
Then, pray, who suffers most from Luxury ?
I’m chid, 'tis true; but then I pawn no Plate,
I seal no Bonds, I mortgage no Eftate.

Besides, high Living, Sir, must wear you out
With Surfeits, Qualms, a Fever, or the Gout,
By some new Pleasures are you still engrofs'd,
And when you save an Hour, you think it loft.
To Sports, Plays, Races, from your Books you run,
And like all Company, except your own.
You hunt, drink, sleep, or (idler still) you rhyme:
Why?—but to banish Thought, and murder Time.
And yet that Thought, which you discharge in
Like a foul loaded Piece, recoils again. (vain,

Tom, fetch a Cane, a Whip, a Club, a Stone

For what?

PoE т.
A Sword, a Pistol, or a Gun:
I'll shoot the Dog.


Lord! who would be a Wit? He's in a mad, or in a rhyming Fit.

PoE т. Fly, fly, you Rascal, for your Spade and Fork ; For once I'll set your lazy Bones to work. Fly, or I'll send you back without a Groat To the bleak Mountains where you first were caught.


The Author of this Imitation was educated at Win.
chefter School. When he was near the Head of it, he
gave up, as an Exercise after the Holidays, a poetical
Version of the ten Books of Lucan. He was Fellow of
New-College, Oxford, and afterwards Rector of Pimpern,
near Blandford, in Dorsetshire. He is well known to the
learned World as the Translator of Vidu's Art of Poetry,
and Virgil's Æneid. The former would have been more
useful, had it been illustrated with Notes. He also pub.
lished a Volume of occasional Poems. The above Imi-
tation, and some others in this Collection, were printed
since his Decease. He was related to the Pitts of Dorset-
fire, who have so eminently distinguished themselves in
Parliament, and to Dr. Lowtb.

One of Mr. Pitt's learned Friends wrote the following
Lines on his Translation of Vida :

Vida no more the long Oblivion fears,
Which hid his Virtues through a Length of Years ;
Ally'd to thee, he lives again ; thy Rhymes
Shall friendly bear him down to latest Times,
And do his injur'd Reputation Right;
While in thy Work, with such Success, unite
His Strength of Judgment, and his Charms of Speech,
That Precepts please, and Music seems to teach.


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