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And if these strains some nobler Muse excite,
I'll glory in the verse I did not write.

So weak are humankind by Nature made,
Or to such weakness by their vice betray'd,
Almighty Vanity! to thee they owe
Their zest of pleasure, and their balm of woe.
Thou, like the sun, all colours dost contain,
Varying, like rays of light, on drops of rain:
For ev'ry soul finds reasons to be proud,
Tho' hiss'd and hooted by the pointing crowd.
Warm in pursuit of foxes and renown,
Hippolitus demands the sylvan crown*;
But Florio's fame, the product of a show'r,
Grows in his garden, an illustrious flow'r!
Why teems the earth? why melt the vernal skies?
Why shines the sun? to make Paul Diack† rise.
From morn to night has Florio gazing stood,
And wonder'd how the gods could be so good;
What shape! what hue! was ever nymph so fair?
He dotes! he dies! he, too, is rooted there.
O solid bliss! which nothing can destroy,
Except a cat, bird, snail, or idle boy.

In Fame's full bloom lies Florio down at night,
And wakes next day a most inglorious wight;

*This refers to the First Satire.

f The name of a tulip.

The tulip's dead! See thy fair sister's fate,
OC! and be kind ere 'tis too late.

Nor are those enemies I mention'd all;
Beware, O Florist! thy ambition's fall.
A friend of mine indulg❜d this noble flame,
A Quaker serv'd him, Adam was his name;
To one lov'd tulip oft the master went,
Hung o'er it, and whole days in rapture spent ;
But came, and miss'd it one ill-fated hour:

He rag'd! he roar'd! "What demon cropt my

flow'r !"

Serene, quoth Adam, “Lo! 'twas crush'd by me;
"Fall'n is the Baal to which thou bow'dst thy knee."
But all men want amusement, and what crime
In such a paradise to fool their time?

None; but why proud of this? to fame they soar;
We grant they're idle, if they'll ask no more.
We smile at florists, we despise their joy,
And think their hearts enamour'd of a toy ;
But are those wiser whom we most admire,
Survey with envy, and pursue with fire?

What's he who sighs for wealth, or fame, or pow'r?
Another Florio doting on a flow'r ;

A short-liv'd flow'r, and which has often sprung
From sordid arts, as Florio's out of dung.

With what, O Codrus! is thy fancy smit?
The flow'r of learning, and the bloom of wit.

Thy gaudy shelves with crimson binding glow,
And Epictetus is a perfect beau.

How fit for thee, bound up in crimson too,
Gilt, and, like them, devoted to the view?
Thy books are furniture. Methinks 'tis hard
That science should be purchas'd by the yard,
And T-n, turn'd upholsterer, send home
The gilded leather to fit up thy room.

If not to some peculiar end assign'd,
Study's the specious trifling of the mind,
Or is at best a secondary aim,

A chase for sport alone, and not for game.
If so, sure they who the mere volume prize,
But love the thicket where the quarry lies.

On buying books Lorenzo long was bent,
But found at length that it reduc'd his rent;
His farms were flown; when, lo! a sale comes on,
A choice collection! what is to be done?

He sells his last, for he the whole will buy ;

Sells ev'n his house; nay, wants whereon to lie:

So high the gen'rous ardour of the man

For Romans, Greeks, and Orientals, ran.

When terms were drawn, and brought him by the.

clerk,

Lorenzo sign'd the bargain-with his mark.
Unlearned men of books assume the care,

As eunuchs are the guardians of the fair.

Not in his authors' liveries alone

Is Codrus' erudite ambition shown:
Editions various, at high prices bought,

Inform the world what Codrus would be thought;
And to this cost another must succeed,

To pay a sage who says that he can read;
Who titles knows, and indexes has seen,

But leaves to- -what lies between

Of pompous books who shuns the proud expense,
And humbly is contented with their sense.
O! whose accomplishments make good
The promise of a large-illustrious blood,
In arts and manners eminently grac❜d,
The strictest honour! and the finest taste!
Accept this verse, if satire can agree
With so consummate an humanity.

By your example would Hilario mend,

How would it grace the talents of my friend,
Who, with the charms of his own genius smit,
Conceives all virtues are compris'd in wit!
But time his fervent petulence may cool,
For tho' he is a wit he is no fool.

In time he'll learn to use, not waste, his sense,
Nor make a frailty of an excellence.

He spares nor friend nor foe, but calls to mind,
Like Doomsday, all the faults of all mankind.

What tho' wit tickles, tickling is unsafe, If still 'tis painful while it makes us laugh. Who, for the poor renown of being smart, Would leave a sting within a brother's heart? Parts may be prais'd, goodnature is ador'd; Then draw your wit as seldom as your sword, And never on the weak, or you'll appear As there no hero, no great genius here. As in smooth oil the razor best is whet, So wit is by politeness sharpest set: Their want of edge from their offence is seen; Both pain us least when exquisitely keen. The fame men give is for the joy they find; Dull is the jester when the joke's unkind. Since Marcus, doubtless, thinks himself a wit, To pay my compliment what place so fit? His most facetious letters* came to hand, Which my First Satire sweetly reprimand: If that a just offence to Marcus gave,

Say, Marcus! which art thou, a fool or knave ; For all but such with caution I forbore;

That thou wast either I ne'er knew before :

I know thee now, both what thou art, and who; No mask so good but Marcus must shine thro'; False names are vain, thy lines their author tell; Thy best concealment had been writing well:

* Letters sent to the Author signed Marcus:

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