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That very Cæsar born in Scipio's days,
In this one paffion man can strength enjoy,
225 Consistent in our follies and our sins, Here honeft Nature ends as the begins.
Old Politicians chew on wisdom past, And totter on in bus'ness to the last; As weak, as earnest; and as gravely out, 230 As fober Lanesb'row dancing in the goat.
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 press’d By his own son, that passes by unbless's : 235
VER. 227. Here hones Nature ends as the begins.] Human nature is here humourously called honest, as the impulse of the ruling passion (which she gives and cherishes) makes her more and more impatient of disguise.
Ver. 231. Laneso’row.] An ancient Nobleman, who continued this practice long after his legs were disabled by the gout. Upon the death of Prince Greorge of Denmark, he demanded an audience of the Queen, to advise her to preserve her health and dispel her grief by Dancing,
Still to his wench he crawls on knocking knees,
A salmon's belly, Helluo, was thy fate;
Mercy! cries Helluo, mercy on my soul! 240 “ Is there no hope ? - Alas !--then bring the jowl."
The frugal Crone, whom praying priests attend, Still tries to save 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 Saint provoke. (Were the last words that poor Narcisla spoke) “ No, let a charming Chintz, and Brussels lace Wrap my cold limbs, and shade
lifeless face: “ One would not, sure, befrightful when one's dead“ And-Betty-give this Cheek a little Red.” 251
The Courtier smooth, who forty years had shin'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, Şir ?”
VER. 242. The frugal Crone,] A fact told him, of a Lady at Paris.
VER. 247. -The laft words that poor Narcisla spoke] This ftory, as well as the cthers, is founded on fact, tho' 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 breath.
“ I give and I devise (old Euclio faid, 256 And figh’d)
my lands and tenements to Ned. Your
money, Sir ?" My money, Sir, what all? “ Why,-if I must-(then wept) I give it Paul. “ The Manor, Sir?-_" The Manor ! hold, he cry'd, “ Not that,--I cannot part with that”-and dy'd.
And you ! brave COBHAM, to the lateft breath 262 Shall feel your ruling passion ftrong in death : Such in those moments as in all the past, “ Oh, save my Country, Heav'n !" shall be your last.