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Which makes thy writings lean on one side still, And, in all changes, that way bends thy will. Nor let thy mountain-belly make pretence Of likeness; thine’s a tympany of sense. A tun of man in thy large bulk is writ, But sure thou’rt but a kilderkin of wit. Like mine, thy gentle numbers feebly creep; Thy Tragic Muse gives smiles, thy Comic sleep. With whate'er gall thou sett'st thyself to write, Thy inoffensive satires never bite. 200 In thy felonious heart though venom lies, It does but touch thy Irish pen, and dies. Thy genius calls thee not to purchase fame In keen Iambics, but mild Anagram. Leave writing Plays, and chuse for thy command Some peaceful province in Acrostic land: There thou may’st wings display, and altars raise, And torture one poor word ten thousand ways: Or if thou would'st thy diff'rent talents suit, Set thy own songs, and sing them to thy lute. 2 Io He said; but his last words were scarcely heard; For Bruce and Longvil had a trap prepard, And down they sent the yet-declaiming bard. Sinking, he left his drugget robe behind, Borne upwards by a subterranean wind: The mantle fell to the young prophet's part, With double portion of his father's art.

THE MEDAL.

A SATIRE AGA INST SEDITION,

Per Graium populos mediaeque per Elidris urbem,
Ibat ovans, Divumque sibi poscebat honorem.

Of all our antic sights and pageantry,
Which English idiots run in crowds to see,
The Polish Medal bears the prize alone,
A monster, more the favorite of the Town
Than either fairs or theatres yet have shown.
Never did Art so well with Nature strive,
Nor ever idol seem so much alive;
So like the man, so golden to the sight,
So base within, so counterfeit and light;
One side is fill'd with title and with face,
And, lest the King should want a regal place,
On the reverse a tow'r the town surveys,
O'er which our mounting sun his beams displays.
The word, pronounc'd aloud by shrieval voice,
Laetamur, which, in Polish, is Rejoice.
The day, month, year, to the great act are join'd,
And a new canting holiday design'd.
Five days he sat, for every cast and look,
Four more than God to finish Adam took:
But who can tell what essence angels are.

Or how long Heav'n was making Lucifer?
Volume II. R

Virg.

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26

O, could the style that copy'd ev'ry grace,
And plough’d such furrows for an eunuch face,
Could it have form'd his ever-changing will,
The various piece had tir'd the graver's skill I
A martial hero first, with early care,
Blown, like a pigmy by the winds, to war;
A beardless chief, a rebel ere a man,
So young his hatred to his prince began.
Next this, how wildly will ambition steer : 30
A vermin, wriggling in th' usurper's ear;
Bart’ring his venal wit for sums of gold,
He cast himself into the saint-like mould;
Groan'd, sigh'd, and pray'd, while godliness was gain,
The loudest bagpipe of the squeaking train.
But, as 'tis haid to cheat a juggler's eyes,
His open lewdness he could ne'er disguise.
There split the saint; for hypocritic zeal
Allows no sins but those it can conceal.
Whoring to scandal gives too large a scope: 40
Saints must not trade, but they may interlope.
Th'ungodly principle was all the same,
But a gross cheat betrays his partner's game.
Besides, their pace was formal, grave, and slack;
His nimble wit outram the heavy pack:
Yet still he found his fortune at a stay,
Whole droves of blockheads choaking up his way:
They tock, but not rewarded, his advice;
Villain and wit exact a double price,

Pow'r was his aim; but thrown from that pretence,
The wretch turn'd loyal in his own defence,
And malice reconcil’d him to his prince.
Him, in the anguish of his soul, he serv’d,
Töewarded faster still than he deserv’d.
Behold him now exalted into trust,
His counsels oft convenient, seldom just.
E’en in the most sincere advice he gave,
He had a grudging still to be a knave.
The frauds he learnt in his fanatic years,
Made him uneasy in his lawful gears: Go
At best, as little honest as he could,
And, likewhite witches, mischievously good.
To his first bias, longingly, he leans.
And rather would be great by wicked means.
Thus, fram'd for ill, he loos'd our triple hold,
Advice unsafe, precipitous, and bold:
From hence those tears, that Ilium of our woe,
Who helps a pow'rful friend fore-arms a foe.
What wonder if the waves prevail sofar,
When he cut down the banks that made the bar? 7o
Seas follow but their nature, to invade;
But he by art our native strength betray’d. *
So Samson to his foe his force confest,
And, to be shorn, lay slumb'ring on her breast:
But, when this fatal counsel, found too late,
Expos'd its author to the public hate;

Pryden.] - Rij

When his just sov’reign, by no impious way,
Could be seduc’d to arbitrary sway;
Forsaken of that hope, he shifts his sail,
Drives down the current with a pop'lar gale, 80
And shews the fiend confess'd without a veil.
He preaches to the crowd that pow'r is lent,
But not convey'd, to kingly government;
That claims successive bear no binding force;
That coronation-oaths are things of course:
Maintains the multitude can never err,
And sets the people in the Papal chair.
The reason's obvious, Int’rest never lies;
The most have still their int’rest in their eyes;
The pow'r is always theirs, and pow'r is ever wise.
Almighty crowd! thou shorten'st all dispute, 9t
Pow'r is thy essence, wit thy attribute;
Nor faith nor reason make thee at a stay,
| Thou leap'st o'er all eternal truths in thy Pindaric way !
Athens, no doubt, did righteously decide,
When Phocion and when Socrates were try’d;
As righteously they did those dooms repent;
Still they were wise whatever way they went;
Crowds err not, though to both extremes they run,
To kill the father and recall the son. loo
Some think the fools were most, as times went then,
But now the world's o'erstock'd with prudent men.
The common cry is e'en Religion's test;
The Turk's is, at Constantinople, best ;

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