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A woman now may live, tho' past her prime,
Bankrupt of deities, with all their train,
See, at his beck, all Nouns renouncing sense,
To bless a nation, see Charlotta come, 'Twas Anson, and not Neptune, brought her home. A single Nereid stirr'd not from below, The duce a conch did e'er one Triton blow;
But, in revenge she plough'd her subject main,
With every virtue 'tending in her train.
Hark, 'tis a people's universal voice,
That bless, while they approve their Sov'reign's
On such a theme, my Lord, might one extend Far as one would, nor strictest Truth offend,
'Twere only proper epithets to find,
Thus from the lunar hills some other Nile, Swoln with new stores from snows that melt the while, Stretches his current on to fiercer suns,
And glads a thousand nations as he runs,
Till having reach'd, proud of his long career,
Fall'n cherub; Simile! who erst divine,
Thus to plain Narrative confin'd alone,
With Milton, Epic drew its latest breath,
Soft Elegy has dried up all her tears,
My Lord, a little patience further still, To "Wit is gone," by way of codicil; Who but will say the thing that hears me tell?The man mistakes-Lord Melcombe's very well, Suppose I said-O could I! War is done, Means it there's no such thing, as sword, or gun? Party and Faction dead, whoever grants,
Means he that every man has what he wants?
A Court, my Lord, and Minister to hit,
Of Ministers what mighty matters tell?
Add we to what we've said, this little more, That all that can be wrote, is wrote before;
That pool of knowledge fish'd, poach'd, dragg'd and drain'd,
Till nothing bigger than a grig remain'd;
If they can hook a news-paper essay,
But while we're on this subject, 'tis worth thinking, How little salt has kept this world from stinking; 'Tis the same wit, at different times alive, Sunk at Whitehall, to rise up at Queenhithe.
Born in whatever clime, whatever age, We trace it first from the Athenian stage, Where Liberty a little licence claim'd,
There, just as somewhere else, that shan't be nam'd;
Much for itself, because abusive more;
Two threads of Scandal to one thread of Wit:
And flash his lightnings round on every side,
What was the burst directly over head, So loud its echo, now its fires so red,
Tho' oft thro' Time's thick cloud the trembling
We only catch, but miss the vivid beam;
While half-seen thoughts, like meteors, twinkle light, And draw their lucid trails athwart the night.
Hither, unto their fountain, other stars Repairing, swell their own peculiars, By tincture or reflection; Lucian hence, His golden urn replenish'd, and long since Rabelais from both his urinal drew full; From him, and them, Swift crowded his close-stool. Howe'er it came, with the strange passion stung, To raise his choicest fruit on rankest dung; Fully convinc'd his jessamine and rose Smelt sweetest, planted by his little house : Yet still some cleaner parts distinguish'd lay, Like cherry-stones upon a child's c-c--.
The nasty lines, my Lord, demand excuse, Happ❜ly the times are free from that abuse : Our decent manners all obsceneness flout, And Wit is at one entrance quite shut out.