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Has words and thoughts in nice disorder set,
And takes a memorandum to forget.

Thus vain, not knowing what adorns or blots,
Men forge the patents that create them sots.
As love of pleasure into pain betrays,
So most grow infamous thro' love of praise.
But whence for praise can such an ardour rise,
When those who bring that incense we despise?
For such the vanity of great and small,

Contempt goes round, and all men laugh at all.

Nor can ev'n satire blame them; for, 'tis true,
They have most ample cause for what they do.
O fruitful Britain! doubtless thou wast meant
A nurse of fools to stock the continent.

Tho' Phœbus and the Nine for ever mow,
Rank folly underneath the scythe will grow ;
The plenteous harvest calls me forward still,
Till I surpass in length my lawyer's bill,

A Welch descent, which well paid heralds damn,
Or, longer still, a Dutchman's epigram.
When, cloy'd, in fury I throw down my pen,
In comes a coxcomb, and I write again.
See Tytirus, with merriment possest,

Is burst with laughter ere he hears the jest:
What need he stay? for when the joke is o'er,
His teeth will be no whiter than before.

Is there of these, ye Fair! so great a dearth,
That you need purchase monkeys for your mirth?
Some vain of paintings, bid the world admire;
Of houses some; nay, houses that they hire:
Some (perfect wisdom!) of a beauteous wife,
And boasts, like Cordeliers, a scourge for life.
Sometimes, thro' pride, the sexes change their airs;
My lord has vapours, and my lady swears.
Then, stranger still! on turning of the wind,
My lord wears breeches, and my lady's kind.
To shew the strength and infamy of pride,
By all 'tis follow'd, and by all deny❜d.
What numbers are there which at once pursue
Praise, and the glory to contemn it too?
Vincenna knows self-praise betrays to shame,
And therefore lays a stratagem for fame;
Makes his approach in Modesty's disguise,
To win applause, and takes it by surprise.
"To err," says he, " in small things, is my fate.”
You know your answer, He's exact in great.

"My style," says he, "is rude and full of faults,"
"But, oh! what sense! what energy of thoughts!"
That he wants algebra he must confess;
"But not a soul to give our arms success.'
"Ah! that's an hit indeed," Vincenna cries
"But who in heat of blood was ever wise?

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"I own 'twas wrong, when thousands call'd me back, "To make that hopeless, ill-advis'd attack;

"All say 'twas madness, nor dare I deny:
"Sure never fool so well deserv'd to die."
Could this deceive in others, to be free,
It ne'er Vincenna! could deceive in thee,
Whose conduct is a comment to thy tongue,
So clear, the dullest cannot take thee wrong:
Thou on one sleeve wilt thy revenues wear,
And haunt the court, without a prospect there.
Are these expedient for renown? confess
Thy little self, that I may scorn thee less.

Be wise, Vincenna, and the court forsake;
Our fortunes there nor thou, nor I, shall make.
Ev'n men of merit, ere their point they gain,
In hardy service make a long campaign;
Most manfully besiege their patron's gate,
And oft repuls'd, as oft attack the great
With painful art, and application warm,
And take at last some little place by storm,
Enough to keep two shoes on Sunday clean,
And starve upon discreetly in Sheer-lane.
Already this thy fortune can afford,

Then starve without the favour of my lord.
'Tis true great fortunes some great men confer,
But often, ev'n in doing right, they err:

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From caprice, not from choice, their favours come;
They give, but think it toil to know to whom :
The man that's nearest, yawning, they advance;
'Tis inhumanity to bless by chance.

If Merit sues, and Greatness is so loath
To break its downy trance, I pity both.

I grant at court Philander, at his need,
(Thanks to his lovely wife) finds friends indeed:
Of ev'ry charm and virtue she's possess❜d:
Philander thou art exquisitely bless'd:
The public envy! now, then, 'tis allow'd
The man is found who may be justly proud :
But, see! how sickly is Ambition's taste?
Ambition feeds on trash, and loathes a feast;
For, lo! Philander, of reproach afraid,
In secret loves his wife, but keeps her maid.

Some nymphs sell reputation, others buy,
And love a market where the rates run high.
Italian music's sweet, because 'tis dear;
Their vanity is tickled, not their ear:
Their tastes would lessen if the prices fell,
And Shakespeare's wretched stuff do quite as well:
Away the disenchanted fair would throng,
And own that English is their mother tongue.
To show how much our northern tastes refine,
Imported nymphs our peeresses outshine:

While tradesmen starve, these Philomels are gay; For gen'rous lords had rather give than pay.

Behold the masquerade's fantastic scene! The legislature join'd with Drury-lane! When Britain calls, th' embroider'd patriots run, And serve their country—if the dance is done. "Are we not then allow'd to be polite?" Yes, doubtless; but first set your notions right. Worth of politeness is the needful ground; Where that is wanting, this can ne'er be found. Triflers not ev'n in trifles can excel;

'Tis solid bodies only polish well.

Great, chosen Prophet! for these latter days,
To turn a willing world from righteous ways!
Well, H-r, dost thou thy master serve,
Well has he seen his servant should not starve:
Thou to his name hast splendid temples rais'd,
In various forms of worship seen him prais'd;
Gaudy devotion, like a Roman, shown,

And sung sweet anthems in a tongue unknown.
Inferior off'rings to thy god of vice
Are duly paid, in fiddles, cards, and dice;
Thy sacrifice supreme an hundred maids!
That solemn rite of midnight masquerades!
If maids the quite exhausted Town denies,
An hundred head of cuckolds may suffice.

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