VII. With thee in private modest Dulness lies, And in thy bofom lurks in Thought's disguise; Thou varnisher of Fools, and cheat of all the Wise! VIII. Yet thy indulgence is by both confeft; IX. Silence, the knave's repute, the whore's good name, The only honour of the wishing dame; Thy very want of tongue makes thee a kind of Fame. X. But couldft thou feize fome tongues that now are free, How Church and State should be oblig'd to thee ! At Senate, and at Bar, how welcome wouldst thou be! XI. Yet speech ev'n there, fubmiffively withdraws, From rights of subjects, and the poor man's caufe: Then pompous Silence reigns, and ftills the noify Laws. XII. Past services of friends, good deeds of foes, What Favourites gain, and what the Nation owes, Fly the forgetful world, and in thy arms repofe. XIII. The country wit, religion of the town, The parfon's cant, the lawyer's fophiftry, E. OF VI. E. OF DORSET. ARTEMISI A. THOUGH Artemifia talks, by fits, Haughty and huge as High-Dutch bride, Are oddly join'd by fate: On her large fquab you find her spread, That lies and ftinks in state. She wears no colours (fign of grace) All white and black befide: And mafculine her ftride. So have I feen, in black and white A ftately, worthlefs animal, That plies the tongue, and wags the tail, 5 ΤΟ 15 20 PHRYNE. PHRY NE. P HRYNE had talents for mankind, Open she was, and unconfin'd, Like fome free port of trade; Merchants unloaded here their freight, Her learning and good-breeding fuch, In diamonds, pearls, and rich brocades, So have I known those Infects fair Still vary shapes and dyes ; Still gain new Titles with new forms; 10 5 15 20 VOL. I. A a DR. VII. DR. SWIFT. The Happy Life of a COUNTRY PARSON. ARSON, these things in thy poffeffing PARSO Are better than the Bishop's bleffing. A Wife that makes conferves; a Steed He that has thefe, may pass his life, Toast Church and Queen, explain the News, And shake his head at Doctor Swift. A FARE May knock up whores alone. To drink and droll be Rowe allow'd Farewell Arbuthnot's raillery And Garth, the beft good chriftian he, Lintot, farewell! thy bard muft go; Farewel, unhappy Tonfon! Heaven gives thee, for thy lofs of Rowe, Why should I ftay? Both parties rage; The wits in envious feuds engage; |