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But as his Gold he weigh’d, grim Death in spight,
Caft in hiş Dart, which made three Moydores light;
And as he saw his darling Money fail,
Blew his last Bțeath to fịnk the lighter Scale,

He, who so long was current, 'twould be strange If he fhou'd now be cry'd down since his Change.

The Sexton shall green Sods on thee beltow :
Alas the Sexton is thy Banker now!
A dismal Banker must that Banker be,
Who gives no Bills, but of Mortality.

The E P I TA PH,

B

ENEATH this uerdant Hillock lies

Demar the Wealthy, and the Wise.
His Heirs, that be might Safely reft,
Have put bis Carcass in a Chest:
The very Chest, in which, they say,
His other Self, bis Money, lay.

And if bis Heirs continue kind
To that dear Self be left behind,
I dare believe, that Four in Five
Will think bis better Self alive.

To

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TO STELLA, who collected and

transcribed his POEMS.

Written in the Year 1720.

A

S when a lofty Pile is rais'd,

We never hear the Workmen prais’d,
Who bring the Lime, or place the Stones;
But all admire Inigo Jones:
So if this Pile of scatter'd Rhymes
Should be approved in After-times;
If it both pleases and endures,
The Merit and the Praise are yours

Thou Stella, wert no longer young,
When first for thee my Harp I strung;
Without one Word of Cupid's Darts,
Of killing Eyes, or bleeding Hearts :
With Friendship and Esteem poffeft,
I ne'er admitted Love a Guest.

In all the Habitudes of Life, The Friend, the Mistress, and the Wife, Variety we still pursue, In Pleasure seek for something new : Or else, comparing with the rest, Take Comfort; that our own is beft: (The best we value by the worst, As Tradesmen shew their Trash at first :) But his Pursuits are at an End, Whom Stella chuses for a Friend.

а

A Poet, starving in a Garret;
Conning old Topicks like a Parrot, :
Invokes his Mistress and his Muse,
And stays at home for want of Shoes :
Should but his Muse descending drop
A Slice of Bread, and Mutton-Chop,
Or kindly when his Credit's out,
Surprize him with a Pint of * Stout;
Or patch his broken Stocking Soals;
Or send him in a Peck of Coals;
Exalted in his mighty Mind
He flies, and leaves the Stars behind;

a

Counts

* A Cant Word for Strong-Beer,

Counts all his Labours amply paid,
Adores her for the timely Aid.

Or, should á Porter make Enquiries
For Chloe, Sylvie, Phillis, Iris ;
Be told the Lodging, Lane, and Sign;
The Bow'rs that hold those Nymphs divine ;
Fair Chloe would perhaps be found
With Footmen tippling under Ground;
The charming Sylvia beating Flax,
Her Shoulders mark'd with bloody Tracks ;
Bright Phillis mending ragged Smocks;
And radiant Iris in the Pox.

These are the Goddesses enrolld
În Curl's Collections, new and old,
Whose scoundrel Fathers would not know 'em;
If they should meer 'em in a Poem.

а

True Poets can depress and raise ;
Are Lords of Infamy and Praise :
They are not fcurrilous in Satire,
Nor will in Panegyrick flatter.
Unjustly Poets we asperse;
Truth shines the brighter, clad in Verse:

And

And all the Fictions they pursue,
Do but infinuate what is true.

Now, should my Praises owe their Truthi
To Beauty, Dress, or Paint, or Youth,
What Stoicks call without our power;
They could not be insur'd an Hour :
'Twere grafting on an annual Stock,
That must our Expe&tation mock,
And making one luxuriant Shoot,
Die the next Year for want of Root :
Before I could

my

Verses bring, Perhaps you're quite another Thing.

So Mevius, when he drain'd his Skull
To celebrate some Suburb Trull;
His Similies in Order set,
And ev'ry Crambo he could

get; Had

gone through all the common Places,
Worn out by Wits who rhyme on Faces;
Before he could his Poem close,
The lovely Nymph had lost her Nose.

Your Virtues safely I commend; They on no Accidents depend:

Let

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