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BOOK I.

EPISTLE VII. ·

IMITATED IN THE MANNER OF DR. SWIFT.

'TIS true, my Lord, I gave my word,
I would be with you, June the third;
Chang'd it to August, and in short)
Have kept it as you do at court.
You humour me when I am sick,
Why not when I am splenetick?
In town, what objects could I meet?
The shops shut up in ev'ry street,
And fun'rals black'ning all the doors,
And yet more melancholy whores :
And what a dust in ev'ry place?
And a thin court that wants your face,
And fevers raging up and down,

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And W* and H** both in town!

"The Dog-days are no more the case." 'Tis true, but Winter comes apace:

Then southward let your bard retire,

Hold out some months 'twixt sun and fire, the first warm weather,

see,

And shall
you
Me and the butterflies together.

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My Lord, your favours well I know;

"Tis with distinction you bestow;

And not to ev'ry one that comes,

Just as a Scotsman does his plums.

"Pray take them, Sir.-Enough's a feast:

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"Eat some, and pocket up the rest.”.

What, rob your boys? those pretty rogues!
"No, Sir, you'll leave them to the hogs."

Thus fools with compliments besiege ye,
Contriving never to oblige ye.

Scatter your favours on a fop,
Ingratitude's the certain crop;

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And 'tis but just, I'll tell ye wherefore,

You give the things you never care for.
A wise man always is or shou'd

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Be mighty ready to do good:

But makes a difference in his thought

Betwixt a guinea and a groat.

Now this I'll say, you'll find in me

A safe companion, and a free;

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But if you'd have me always near

A word, pray, in your Honour's ear.

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And all that voluntary vein,

As when Belinda rais'd

my strain.

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A weasel once made shift to slink

In at a corn-loft thro' a chink;
But having amply stuff'd his skin,
Could not get out as he got in:
Which one belonging to the house
('Twas not a man, it was a mouse)

Observing, cry'd, "You 'scape not so,
"Lean as you came, Sir, you must go."
Sir, you may spare your application,
I'm no such beast, nor his relation;
Nor one that temperance advance,
Cramm'd to the throat with ortolans:
Extremely ready to resign

All that

may make me none of mine. South-sea subscriptions take who please, Leave me but liberty and ease.

'Twas what I said to Craggs and Child,
Who prais'd my modesty, and smil❜d.
Give me, I cry'd, (enough for me)
My bread, and independency!
So bought an annual rent or two,
And liv'd-just as you see I do;
Near fifty, and without a wife,

I trust that sinking fund, my life.

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бо

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70

Can

VER. 67. Child,] Sir Francis Child, the banker.

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Can I retrench? Yes, mighty well,

Shrink back to my paternal cell,
A little house, with trees a-row,
And, like its master, very low.

There dy'd my father, no man's debtor,
And there I'll die, nor worse nor better.
To set this matter full before ye,
Our old friend Swift will tell his story.

"Harley, the nation's great support,"

But you may read it, I stop short.

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BOOK II.

SATIRE VI.

The first Part imitated in the Year 1714, by Dr.
SWIFT; the latter Part added afterwards.

I'VE often wish'd that I had clear
For life, six hundred pounds a year,
A handsome house to lodge a friend,
A river at my garden's end,
A terras-walk, and half a rood
Of land, set out to plant a wood.

Well, now I have all this and more,

I ask not to encrease my store;

• But here a grievance seems to lie,

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• All this is mine but till I die ;

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I can't but think 'twould sound more clever,

• To me and to my heirs for ever.

• If I ne'er got or lost a groat,

• By any trick, or any fault;
And if I pray by reason's rules,
And not like forty other fools :

As thus, "Vouchsafe, oh gracious Maker!
"To grant me this and t'other acre :
"Or, if it be thy will and pleasure,
"Direct my plow to find a treasure:"

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• But

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