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In vain th’ observer eyes the builder's toil,
In this one paflion man can strength enjoy,
Old Politicians chew on wisdom paft,
Behold a rev’rend fire, whom want of grace Has made the father of a nameless race, Shov'd from the wall perhaps, or rudely pressid By his own son, that passes by unbless'd : 235 Still to his wench he crawls on knocking knees, And envies ev'ry sparrow that he fees.
A falmon's belly, Helluo, was thy fate; The doctor call'd, declares all help too late :
VER, 227. Here honest Nature ends as she begins.] Human nature is here humourously called boneft, as the impulse of the ruling passion (which she gives and cherifhes) makes her more and more impatient of disguise.
VER. 235. Lanesb’row] An ancient Nobleman, who continued this practice long after his legs were disabled by the gout. Upon the death of Prince George of Denmark, he demanded an audience of the Queen, to advise her to pre: serve her health and dispel her grief by Dancing,
Mercy ! cries Helluo, mercy on my foul ! 240 “Is there no hope! - Alas !--then bring the jowl.”
The frugal Crone, whom praying priefts attend, Still strives to fave the hallow'd taper's end, Collects her breath, as ebbing life retires, For one puff more, and in that puff expires. 245 “ Odious ! in woollen ! 'twould a faint provoke, (Were the last words that poor Narciffa spoke) “ No, let a charming Chintz, and Brussels lace
Wrap my cold limbs, and shade my lifeless face : “ One would not, fure, be frightful when one's dead And — Betty-give this Cheek a little Red.”
251 The Courtier smooth, who forty years had thin'd An humble servant to all human kind, Just brought out this, when scarce his tongue could
ftir, “ If-where I'm going — I could serve you, Sir?”
I give and I devise (old Euclio said, 256 And fighd)
lands and tenements to Ned. Your money, Sir ? “My money, Sir, what all ? " Why,--if I muft-(then wept) I give it Paul.
VER. 242. The frugal Crore,] A fact toid him, of a Lady at Paris.
The last Words that poor Narcisa spoke] This ftory, as well as the others, is founded on fact, though the author had the goodness not to mention the names. Several attribute this in particular to a very celebrated Actress, who, in detestation of the thought of being buried in woollen, gave these her last orders with her dying breathe
The Manor, Sir!-" The Manor! hold, he cry'd,
- and dy'd. And you! brave COBHAM, to the latest breath 262 Shall feel your ruling passion strong in death: Such in those moments as in all the past, “Oh, save my Country, Heav'n!” shall be your laft.