Imatges de pàgina
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How chearfully the Hawkers cry

A Satyr, and the Gentry buy!

While my hard--labour'd Poem pines
Unfold upon the Printer's Lines.

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A GENIUS in the Rev'rend Gown,
Muft ever keep its Owner down
'Tis an unnatural Conjunction,
And spoils the Credit of the Function.
Round all your Brethren caft your Eyes;

Point out the furest Men to rise,

That Club of Candidates in Black,
The leaft deferving of the Pack;
Afpiring, factious, fierce, and loud;
With Grace and Learning unendow'd:
Can turn their Hands to ev'ry Jobb,
The fittest Tools to work for Bobb:
Will fooner coin a Thousand Lies

Than fuffer Men of Parts to rife:
They crowd about Preferment's Gate,

And prefs you down with all their Weight.
And, as of old, Mathematicians

Were by the Vulgar thought Magicians;

So,

So, Academick dull-Ale-drinkers

Pronounce all Men of Wit, Free-thinkers.

WIT, as the Chief of Virtue's Friends,
Difdains to ferve ignoble Ends.
Obferve what Loads of ftupid Rhymes
Opprefs us in corrupted Times :

What Pamphlets in a Court's Defence
Shew Reason, Grammar, Truth, or Sense?
For, though the Mufe delights in Fiction,
She ne'er inspires against Conviction.
Then keep your Virtue still unmixt;
And let not Faction come betwixt.
By Party-steps no Grandeur climb at;
Tho' it would make you England's Primate :

Firft learn the Science to be dull,

You then may foon your Conscience lull

If not, however feated high,

Your Genius in your Face will fly.

WHEN Jove was, from his teeming Head, Of Wit's fair Goddess brought to Bed,

There follow'd at his lying-in

For After-birth, a Sooterkin;

Which, as the Nurfe purfu'd to kill,
Attain'd by Flight the Muses Hill:

There in the Soil began to root,

And litter'd at Parnaffus' Foot.
From hence the Critick-Vermin fprung,
With Harpy Claws, and pois'nous Tongue;
Who fatten on poetick Scraps;

Too cunning to be caught in Traps.

Dame Nature, as the learned fhow,

Provides each Animal its Foe:

Hounds hunt the Hare, the wily Fox
Devours your Geefe, the Wolf your Flocks

Thus Envy pleads a natʼral Claim

To perfecute the Mufes Fame;

On Poets in all Times abufive,
From Homer down to Pope inclufive.

YET what avails it to complain?
You try to take Revenge in vain.
A Rat your utmost Rage defies
That fafe behind the Wainscot lies.
Say, did you ever know by Sight
In Cheese an individual Mite?

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Shew me the fame numerick Flea,

That bit your Neck but Yesterday:
You then may boldly go in Quest
To find the Grub-Street Poet's Neft.
What Spunging-house in dread of Jail
Receives them while they wait for Bail?
What Alley are they nestled in,

To flourish o'er a Cup of Gin?

Find the laft Garrét where they lay ;
Or Cellar, where they ftarve to-Day!

Suppose you had them all trepann'd
With each a Libel in his Hand

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Or call 'em Rogues, or get 'em kickt:
These they have often try'd before ;
You but oblige 'em fo much more:
Themselves would be the first to tell,
To make their Trafh the better fell,

You have been libell'd---Let us know
What Fool officious told you fo.
Will you regard the Hawker's Cries,
Who in his Titles always lies?

Whate'er

Whate'er the noify Scoundrel fays,

It might be something in your Praise :
And, Praise bestow'd in Grub-ftreet Rhymes,
Would vex one more a thoufand Times.
"Till Criticks blame, and Judges praise;
The Poet cannot claim his Bays.
On me, when Dunces are fatyrick,
I take it for a Panegyrick.

Hated by Fools, and Fools to hate,
Be that my Motto, and my Fate:

AN

Excellent new BALLAD; or the true English* Dean to be hanged for a Rape.

Written in the YEAR 1730.

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And in all they do for us fo kindly do mean, A Bleffing upon them, have fent us this Year,

For the Good of our Church a true English Dean.

VOL. II.

T

Sawbridge, Dean of Fernes, lately deceased.

A ho

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