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I only wear it in a land of Hectors,

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Thieves, Supercargoes, Sharpers, and Directors,
Save but our Army! and let Jove incrust
Swords, pikes, and guns, with everlasting rust.
Peace is my dear delight—not FLEURY's more;
But touch me, and no Minister so fore.
Whoe'er offends, at fome unlucky time
Slides into verfe, and hitches in a rhyme,
Sacred to Ridicule his whole life long,
And the fad burthen of fome merry fong.

Slander or Poifon dread from Delia's rage,

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Hard words or hanging, if your Judge be Page,
From furious Sappho fcarce a milder fate,
P-x'd by her love, or libell'd by her hate.
Its proper pow'r to hurt, each creature feels; 85
Bulls aim their horns, and Affes lift their heels;
'Tis a Bear's talent not to kick but hug;
And no man wonders he's not stung by Pug.
So drink with Walters, or with Chartres eat,

They'll never poifon you, they'll only cheat. 90

Then, learned Sir! (to cut the matter short) Whate'er my fate, or well or ill at Court, Whether Old age, with faint but chearful ray, Attends to gild the Ev'ning of my day,

Or Death's black wing already be display'd, 95 To wrap me in the universal shade;

Whether the darken'd room to muse invite,

Or whiten'd wall provoke the skew'r to write;

In durance, exile, Bedlam, or the Mint,
Like Lee or Budgell, I will rhyme and print. 100
F. Alas young man! your days can ne'er be long,
In flow'r of age you perish for a fong!
Plums and Directors, Shylock and his Wife,
Will club their Tefters, now, to take your life.

P. What? arm'd for Virtue when I point the pen,
Brand the bold front of fhameless guilty men;
Dash the proud Gamefter in his gilded car;
Bare the mean Heart that lurks beneath a Star;
Can there be wanting, to defend Her caufe,
Lights of the Church, or Guardians of the Laws?
Could penfion'd Boileau lash in honest strain 111
Flatt'rers and Bigots ev'n in Louis' reign?
Could Laureate Dryden Pimp and Fry'r engage,
Yet neither Charles nor James be in a rage?
And I not strip the gilding off a Knave,
Unplac'd, unpenfion'd, no man's heir, or flave?
I will, or perish in the gen'rous caufe;
Hear this, and tremble! you, who 'scape the Laws.
Yes, while I live, no rich or noble knave

Shall walk the world, in credit, to his

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grave. 120 To VIRTUE ONLY and HER FRIENDS A FRIEND, The World befide may murmur, or commend. Know, all the distant din that world can keep Rolls o'er my Grotto, and but fooths my fleep. There, my retreat the beft Companions grace, Chiefs out of war, and Statesmen out of place. There ST. JOHN mingles with my friendly bowl The Feast of Reason, and the Flow of Soul:

And HE*, whofe lightning pierc'd th'Iberian Lines, Now forms my Quincunx, and now ranks my Vines, Or tames the Genius of the ftubborn plain, 131 Almoft as quickly as he conquer'd Spain.

Envy must own, I live among the Great,
No Pimp of pleasure, and no fpy of state,
With eyes that pry not, tongue that ne'er repeats,
Fond to spread friendships, but to cover heats;
To help who want, to forward who excel;
This, all who know me, know; who love me, tell;
And who unknown defame me, let them be
Scribblers or Peers, alike are Mob to me.

This is my plea, on this I reft my cause-
What faith my Council, learned in the laws?

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F. Your plea is good; but ftill I fay, beware! Laws are explain'd by Men-fo have a care. It stands on record that in Richard's times

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A man was hang'd for very honeft rhymes.
Confult the ftatute: quart. I think, it is,
Edwardi fext. or prim. et quint. Eliz.
See Libels, Satires-here you have it-read.
P. Libels and Satires! lawless things indeed!
But grave Epiftles, bringing Vice to light,
Such as a King might read, a Bishop write,
Such as Sir ROBERT would approve-

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F. Indeed?

The Cafe is alter'd-you may then proceed;
In fuch a caufe the Plaintiff will be hifs'd,
My Lords the Judges laugh, and you're dismiss'd.

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Earl of Peterborough.

A PROLOGUE

то A PLAY FOR MR. DENNIS'S BENEFIT,

IN 1733, WHEN HE WAS OLD, BLIND,
AND IN GREAT DISTRESS, A LIT-

TLE BEFORE HIS DEATH.

BY THE SAME.

As when that Hero, who in each Campaign,
Had brav'd the Goth, and many a Vandal slain,
Lay Fortune-ftruck, a fpectacle of Woe!
Wept by each Friend, forgiv'n by every Foe;
Was there a gen'rous, a reflecting mind,

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But pitied BELISARIUS old and blind?
Was there a Chief but melted at the Sight?
A common Soldier, but who clubb'd his Mite?
Such, fuch emotions fhould in Britons rife,
When prefs'd by want and weakness DENNIS lies;
Dennis, who long had warr'd with modern Huns,
Their Quibbles routed, and defy'd their Puns;
A defp'rate Bulwark, sturdy, firm, and fierce
Against the Gothic fons of frozen verse :
How chang'd from him who made the boxes groan,
And shook the stage with thunders all his own!

Stood up to dash each vain Pretender's hope,
Maul the French Tyrant, or pull down the Pope!
If there's a Briton then, true bred and born,
Who holds Dragoons and wooden shoes in scorn;
If there's a Critic of distinguish'd rage;

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If there's a Senior, who contemns this age;
Let him to-night his just affistance lend,
And be the Critic's, Briton's, Old Man's Friend.

EPITAPH S.

BY THE SAME.

ON JAMES CRAGGS, ESQ.

IN WESTMINSTER-ABBEY.

STATESMAN, yet friend to truth! of foul fincere,

In action faithful, and in honour clear!
Who broke no promise, ferv'd no private end,
Who gain'd no title, and who loft no friend;
Ennobled by himself, by all approv❜d,

Prais'd, wept, and honour'd by the Muse he lov’d.

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