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But wanting Strength t' uphold his ill made

Choice, Sets up with Lewdness, Blasphemy and Noise ; There at bis Mrs. Feet a Lover lies, And for a Tawdry painted Baby dies; Falls on his knees, adores; land is afraid Of the vain Idol he bimself has made : These, and a Thousand Fools unmention'd

Hate Poets all, becaufe they Poets fear;
Take heed (they cry) yonder mad Dog will bite;
He cares not whom he falls on in his fit
Come but in's way and straight a new Lampoon
Sball fpread your mangled Fame about the

But why am I this Bug bear to you all ?
My Pen is dip'd in no such bitter Gall.

He that can rail at one he calls his Friend,
Or hear him (abfent) wrong'd, and not de-

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66 fend,

Who for the sake of some Ill-natur d Jefts,
Tells what he should conceal, invents the

“ To fatal Mid-night Quarrels can betray

His brave Companion, and then run away, Leaving him to be murder'd in the Street,

it off with some Buffoon Conceit; “ This, this is he you should beware of all, “ Yet him a Pleasant, Witty Man, you call; To whet

your dull Debauches up and down, You seek him as top Fidler of the Tomn:


Then put

But if I laugh when the Court-Coxcombs shơi
To see the Booby Sotus dance Provoe ;
Or chattering

Porks from the Side-boxc grin, Trickt like a Lady's Monkey new made clean: To me the Name of Railer straight you give, Call me a Man that knows not how to live:

But Wenches to their Keepers true thall turn Stale Maids of Honour proffer'd Husbands scorn, Great States-men Flattery and Clinches hate, And long in Office, die without Estate Against a Bribe, Court-Judges shall decide; The City Knavéry want, the Clergy Pride: E'er that black Malice in my Rhimes you find, That wrongs a Worthy Mán, or hurts a Friends But then perhaps you'll say, Why do you write, What you think hạrthless Mirth, the World

thinks Spight. OLE. Why should your Fingers itch to have a lash At Simius the Buffoon, or Cully Bath? What is't to you, if Alidore's fine Whore, Lies with some Fop, whilst he's shut out of Doori Consider pray, that dangʻrous Weapon, Wit, ; Frightens a Million, when a few you bit: Whip but a Curt, as you ride thro' a Toron, And strait his Fellow Currs the Quarrel own; Each Knave, or Fool that's Conscious of a · Crime,

Hi, Tho' he scapes now, looks for't another time.

Sir, I confefs all you have said is true, But who has not some Folly to pursue ? Miloturnd Quixot, fancy'd Battles, Fights, When the fifth Bottle had encreas'd the Lights,

War, War, like Dirt Pies, our Hero Paris forms, Which desperate Beffus without Armour storms. Cornus, the kindest Husband e'er was born, Still Courts the Spark that does his Brows adorn; Invites him home to Dine, and fills bis Vein's With the hot Blood which his dear Doxy drains.

Grandio thinks himself a Bear Garcon, Goggles his Eyes, writes Letters up and down, And with his faucy Love plagues all the Town; While pleas'd to have his Vanity thus fed, He's caught with G- that old Hag, a Bed. But shou'd Lall the crying Follies tell, That rouse the sleeping Satyr from his Cell, I to my Reader shou'd as tedious prove As that old Spark Albanus making Love; Or florid Roscius, when with some smooth Flam, He gravely on the Publick strives to sham.

Hold then my Muse, 'tis time to make an end, Least taxing others, thou chy felf offend. The World's a Wood, in wbich all lose their way, Though by a different path each goes affray.

TIMON, SATYR, in Imitation of

Monsieur Boleau, upon several Pallages in some new Plays then Afted upon

the Stage. By the Duke of Buckingham, and the Earl of


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Hat, Timon, does Old Age begin te

approach, That thus thou droops under a Nights debauch?


Haft thou loft deep to needy Rogues on Tick,
Who ne'er could pay, and must be paid next Week?

Timan. Neither alas! but, a dull dining Sot
Seiz'd me i'ch' Mall, who just my name had got;
He runs upon me, cries, Dear Rogue, I'm thine,
With me some Wits of my Acquaintance Dine.
I tell him I'm engaged; but as a Whore,
With Modesty enslaves her Spark the more,
The longer I deny'd, the more he prest,
At last I e'en consent to be his Goelt;
He takes me in his Coach, and as we go,
Pulls out a Libel of a Sheet or two;
Infipid as the Praise af Pious Queens,
Of Shadwell's unaslisted former Scenes

3 Which he admir'd and prais'd at ev'ry Line At last it was so farp, it must be mine: I vowd I was no more a Wit than he, Unpractis'd, and unblest in Poetry: A Song to Phyllis I perhaps mightmake, And never Rbimd, but for my Mistress fake : I envy'd no Man's Fortune, nor his Fame, Nor ever thought of a Revenge fo tame. He knew my Stile, he Swore, and 'twas in vain, Thus to deny the Iflue of my Brain. Choak'd with his Flattery, Ino answer make, But filent leave him to his Dear Mistake. Of a well-meaning Fool I'm most affraid, Who fillily repeats what was well faid. But this is not the worst, when he came home, He askt, 'are Sedley, Buckhurst, Savil come? No, but there were above Halfwit and Huff, Kickum, and Dingboy. Ob! that's well enough;

uli. They re

They're all brave Fellows, cries mine Hoft, lets

Dine, I long to have my Belly full of Wine. They'll smartly Write, and Fight, I dare assure

you, They're Men l'faith; Tam Marte

quam Mecurie. I saw my Error, but 'twas then too late, No Means, nor Hopes appear'd for a Retreat: Well, we Salute, and each Man takes bis Seat. Boy, cries my Sot, Is my Wife ready yet? A Wife, good Gods! a Fop, and Bullies too! For one poor Meal, what must I undergo? In comes my Lady strait, she had been Fair, Fit to give Love, and to prevent Despair ; But Age, Beauty's incurable Disease, Had left her more Desire, than Power to please. As Cocks will strive, altho’their Spurs be gone, She with her One bleer Eye to smite began ; Tho' nothing else, She (in despight of time) Preserv'd the Affectation of her Prime : However you begun, she brought in Love, And hardly from that Subject would remove: We chanc'd to speak of the FrenchKing's Success, MyLady wonder'd much how Heaven could bless A Man that lov'd Two Women at one time; But more, how he to them excus'd his Crime. She asked Huff, If Love's Flame be e'er felt? He answer'd bluntly, Do you think I'm Gelt? She at his Plainness (mild, then turn d to me, Love in young Minds precedes ev’n Poetry ; You to that Passion can no Stranger be, But Wits are given to Inconstancy.



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