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From Carthage brought, the sword I'll send That help'd queen Dido to her end : The snake-skin, which, you may believe, The serpent cast who tempted Eve; A fig-leaf apron, 'tis the same Which Adam wore to hide his shame; But now wants darning; sir, beside, The jaw by which poor Abel died; A whetstone worn exceeding small, Which Time hath whet his teeth withal. The pigeon stuft, which Noah sent To tell which way the waters went→→→ A ring I've got of Sampson's hair, The same which Dalilah did wear. St. Dunstan's tongs, as story goes, That pinch'd the Devil by the nose. The very shaft, as all may see, Which Cupid shot at Antony: And, what beyond them all I prize, A glance of Cleopatra's eyes. Some strains of eloquence which hung, In Roman times, on Tully's tongue; Which long conceal'd and lost had lain, 'Till Cowper found them out again! Then I've (most curious to be seen) A scorpion's bite to cure the spleen. As Moore cures worms in stomach bred, I've pills cure maggots in the head; With the receipt how you may make 'em, To you I leave the time to take 'em.

I've got a ray of Phoebus' shine,
Found in the bottom of a mine;
A lawyer's conscience, large and clear,
Fit for a judge himself to wear.

I've choice of nostrums how to make
An oath which churchmen will not take.
In a thumb-vial you shall see,
Close-stopt, some drops of honesty :
Which, after searching kingdoms round,
At last was in a cottage found.
I ha'n't collected any care,

Of that there's plenty every where:
But, after wondrous labor spent,
I've got three grains of rich content.
It is my wish, it is my glory,
To furnish your nicknacatory:

I only beg, that when you show 'em;
You'll fairly tell to whom you owe 'em ;
Which will your future patients teach
To do, as has done, your's

T. H.




WELL, this poetic itch creeps on,
Dodsley adopts you all his own:
First Phoebe gave the luckless hint ;
Now your Epistles flare in print;
This week, on every stall they lie
Display'd; the next beneath a pye;
Instead of purple and the coif,

Curll prints your works, and writes your life.
If Maevius scribble, 'tis to feed

A bard inspir'd by daring need:

But, having wherewithal to dine,
What vengeance damns thee to the Nine ?
You write to please-a task indeed!-
Taste differs, just as men who read:
This loves an easy line, and that
Deems all that is not glaring, flat.

Some, wit and thought can scarce endure ;
Swift is too vulgar, Pope obscure;

Whim, Weather, Envy, Party, Spite,
Sit heavy on the tribe that write;
Sad lot of authors! vain your toil
Away with all your midnight oil,
Your charity to human kind;
Who holds a taper to the blind?
A poet, wrapt in song sublime,
Suits not our sublunary clime;
Few are endued with eagle eyes,
To mark his progress through the skies;
And when he wings his lofty flight,

He perishes from vulgar sight.

Yet, spite of folly or caprice,
Suppose ('tis but hypothesis)
Your Muse could win her way to praise,
And Chesterfield approve the lays;
Now sudden wreaths your temples crown,
Proclaim'd a poet-about town,

Thee, toasts admire, and peers caress;
Frail and fallacious happiness!
Peers treat their poets as their whores,
Enjoy, then turn them out of doors;
For wit (if always in your power)
Is but a cordial for an hour:
Shown like a fresh imported ape,
you set the town agape;
Beaux, belles, and captains, form a ring,
To see the new facetious thing;

This happy Minion of the Nine,

We wonder when he means to shine;

Fool! would you prattle, tête-à-tête,
With all the fair and all the great :
Mark whom their favors are bestow'd on,
Cibber, and Heidegger, and Boden.
Poets are arbiters of fame :

True, but who loves or fears a name?

Is it for fame Sir

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For fame that

Such hate a poet, or despise ;

Their prospect in oblivion lies.

Search far and wide where Virtue dwells,
In camps, or colleges, or cells.
Heroes alike, and bards, instead
Of panegyric, sigh for bread.
Or call forth all the powers of fable,
Describe a statesman just and able,
Who, skill'd in play, disdains to pack ;
What will you gain? the butt of sack?
Let Colley sing, in numbers meet,
Our leagues and wars, and Spithead fleet:
Satire be thine, a flowery field,
Yet has a serpent oft conceal'd.

A jury finds your words in print,
But Curlls interpret what is meant.
Grant it were safe, not Oldham's storm
Of satire, could a soul reform.
To curb the time, can poets hope?
Peter but sneers, though lash'd by Pope.
Would you from dice or pox reclaim,
Brand this or that flagitious name:

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