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EPISTLE V.

To the same, on ber leaving the Town after the Corona ion, 1715.

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As some fond virgin, whom her mother's care
Drags from the Town to wholesome country air,
Just when she learns to roll a melting eye,
And hear a spark, yet think no danger nigh;
From the dear man unwilling she must sever,
Yet takes one kiss before she parts for ever;
Thus from the world fair Zephalinda flew,
Saw others happy, and with sighs withdrew;
Not that their pleasures caus'd her discontent;
She sigh'd not that they stay'd, but that she went. 10
She went to plain work, and to purling brooks,
Old-fashion'd halls, dull aunts, and croaking rooks:
She went from opera, park, assembly, play,

To morning walks, and pray'rs, three hours a-day;
To part her time, 'twixt reading and bohea,

To muse, and spill her solitary tea,

Or o'er cold coffee trifle with a spoon,

Count the slow clock, and dine exact at noon;
Divert her eyes with pictures in the fire,
Hum half a tune, tell stories to the squire;
Up to her godly garret after sev❜n,

There starve and pray, for that's the way to heav'n.
Some squire, perhaps, you take delight to rack,
Whose game is Whist, whose treat a toast in sack;
Who visits with a gun, presents you birds,
Then gives a smacking buss, and cries---no words!

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VERBATIM FROM BOILEAU.

Un jour, dit un auteur, &c.

ONCE (says an author, where I need not say)
Two trav'llers found an oyster in their way:
Both fierce, both hungry, the dispute grew strong,
While, scale in hand, Dame Justice pass'd along.
Before her each with clamour pleads the laws,
Explain'd the matter, and would win the cause.
Dame Justice weighing long the doubtful right,
Takes, opens, swallows it, before their sight.
The cause of strife remov'd so rarely well,
There take, (say's Justice) take ye each a shell.
We thrive at Westminster on fools like you:,
'Twas a fat oyster---live in peace---Adieu.

Answer to the following question of Mrs. Howe.
WHAT is prud'ry?

'Tis a beldam,

Seen with wit and beauty seldom.

'Tis a fear that starts at shadows;

'Tis (no, 'tis n't) like Miss Meadows.

'Tis a virgin hard of feature,

Old, and void of all good nature;
Lean and fretful; would seem wise,
Yet plays the fool before she dies.
'Tis an ugly envious shrew

That rails at dear Lapell and you.

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Mine as a foe profess'd to false pretence,

Who think a coxcomb's honour like his sense;
Mine as a friend to ev'ry worthy mind;

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And mine as man, who feel for all mankind.
F. You're strangely proud.

P. So proud, I am no slave;

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So impudent, I own myself no knave;

So odd, my country's ruin makes me grave.
Yes, I am proud: I must be proud to see
Men not afraid of God, afraid of me;
Safe from the bar, the pulpit, and the throne,
Yet touch'd and sham'd by ridicule alone.

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O sacred weapon! left for truth's defence,

Sole dread of folly, vice, and insolence!
To all but heav'n-directed hands deny'd,

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The Muse may give thee, but the gods must guide:
Rev'rent I touch thee! but with honest zeal,
To rouse the watchman of the public weal,
To Virtue's work provoke the tardy hall,
And goad the prelate slumb'ring in his stall.
Ye tinsel insects! whom a court maintains,
That counts your beauties only by your stains,
Spin all your cobwebs o'er the eye of day,
The Muse's wing shall brush you all away:
All his Grace preaches, all his Lordship sings,
All that makes saints of queens, and gods of kings;
All, all but truth, drops dead-born from the press,
Like the last Gazette, or the last Address.

When black Ambition stains a public cause,
A monarch's sword when mad Vain-glory draws,

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Not Waller's wreath can hide the nation's scar,

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Not Boileau turn the feather to a star.

Not so when diadem'd with rays divine,

Her priestess Muse forbids the good to die,
And opes the temple of Eternity.

There other trophies deck the truly brave
Than such as Anstis casts into the grave;
Far other stars then * and ** wear,

Touch'd with the flame that breaks from Virtue's

[shrine,

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And may descend to Mordington from Stair; (Such as on Hough's unsully'd mitre shine,

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Or beam, good Digby! from a heart like thine.)
Let Envy howl, while heav'n's whole chorus sings.
And bark at honour not conferr'd by kings;
Let Flatt'ry, sick'ning, see the incense rise,
Sweet to the world, and grateful to the skies:
Truth guards the poet, sanctifies the line,
And makes immortal, verse, as mean as mine.
Yes, the last pen for freedom let me draw,
When truth stands trembling on the edge of law.
Here, last of Britons! let your names be read:
Are none, none living? let me praise the dead,
And for that cause which made your fathers shine,
Fall by the votes of their degen'rate line.

F. Alas! alas! pray end what you began,
And write next winter more Essays on Man.

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EPISTLE I.

To Robert, Earl of Oxford, and Lord Mortimer.* SUCH were the notes thy once lov'd poet sung Till death, untimely, stopp'd his tuneful tongue. Oh, just beheld and lost! admir'd and mourn'd! With softest manners, gentlest arts, adorn'd! Bless'd in each science! bless'd in ev'ry strain! 5 Dear to the Muse! to Harley dear---in vain!

For him thou oft' hast bid the world attend, Fond to forget the statesman in the friend; For Swift and him despis'd the farce of state, The sober follies of the wise and great; Dext'rous the craving, fawning, crowd to quit, And pleas'd to 'scape from flattery to wit.

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Absent or dead, still let a friend be dear,
(A sigh the absent claims, the dead a tear)
Recall those nights that clos'd thy toilsome days, 15
Still hear thy Parnell in his living lays,

Who, careless now of int'rest, fame, or fate,
Perhaps forgets that Oxford ere was great ;
Or deeming meanest, what we greatest call,
Beholds thee glorious only in thy fall.

And sure if aught below the seats divine,
Can touch immortals, 'tis a soul like thine;

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*Sent to the Earl of Oxford, with Dr. Parnell's Poems, published by our author after the said Earl's imprisonment in the Tower, and retreat, into the coun¬ try, in the year 1721.

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