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XI.

Yet Speech, ev’n there, fubmiffively withdraws

[Cause; i From Rights of Subjects, and the Pear Men's

[Laws. Then pompous Silence reigns, and fills the noisie

XII.

Past Services of Friends, good Deeds of Foes,

What Fav'rites gain, and what th’Exchequer Fly the forgetful World, and in thy Arms repose.

[owes,

XIII.

The Country Wit, Religion of the Town, The Courtier's Learning, Policy o'th' Gown, Are beft by thee exprefs’d, and shine in thee alone.

XIV.

The Parson's Cant, the Lawyer's Sophistry,

Lord's Quibble, Critick’s Jeft; all end in thee, All rest in Peace at laft, and fleep eternally.

TO

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Egone ye Criticks, and restrain your Spite,

Codrus writes on, and will for ever write'; The teaviest Mufe the swiftest Course has gone, As Clocks rün fafteft when' moft Lead is on. What tho' no Bees around your Cradle flew, Nor on your Lips diltild their golden Dew? Yet have we oft discover'd in their stead, A Swarm of Drones, that buzz about your Head. When you, like Orpheus,ftrike the warbling Lyre, Attentive Blocks stand round you, and admire.

Wit,

La

Wit, past thro' thee, no longer is the same,
As Meat digested takes a diff'rent Name;
But Sense must sure thy fafest Plunder be,
Since no Reprizals can be made on thee.
Thus thou may'st Rise, and in thy daring Flight
(Tho' ne'er so weighty) reach a wondrous height;
So, forc'd from Engines, Lead it self can fly,
And pondrous Slugs move nimbly thro’ the Sky.
Sure Baviùs copy'd'Mavius to the full,
And Cherilus taught Codrus to be dull ;
Therefore, dear Friend, at my Advice give o'er
This needlefs Labour, and contend no more,
To prove ä dull Succession to be true,
Since 'tis enough we find it fo in You.

IS

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SINCE

SIR,
INCE our Ifis filently deplores

[Shores; The Bard who spread her Fame to distant Since nobler Pens their mournful Lays suspend; My honest Zeal, if not my Verse, commend, Forgive the Poet, and approve the Friend.

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Your Care had long his fleeting Life restrain’d, One Tablé fed you, and one Bed contain'd; For his dear Sake long reslefs Nights you bore,

7 While rat’ling Coughs his heaving Vessels tore, Much was his Pain, but your Affliction more. Oh! had no Summons from the noify Gown Calld thee, unwilling, to the nauseous Town, Thy Love had o'er the dull Disease prevail'd, Thy Mirth had cur’d where baffled Physick faild; But since the Will of Heav'n his Fate decreed, To thy kind Care my worthless Lines succeed; Fruitless our Hopes, tho' pious our Essays, Yours to preserve a Friend, and mine to praise.

Oh! might I paint him in Miltonian Verse, With Strains like those he lungon Glofter's Herse; But with the meaner Tribe I'm forc'd to chime, And wanting Strenth to rise, descend to Rhyme.

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