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Inftead of poring on a book,
Your rev'rence thus, with like fuccefs (Nor is your fkill or labour lefs), When bent upon fome smart lampoon, Will tofs and turn your brain till noon; Which, in its jumblings round the skull, Dilates and makes the veffel full: While nothing comes but froth at first, You think your giddy head will burst: But fqueezing out four lines in rhime, Are largely paid for all your time.
But you have rais'd your generous mind To works of more exalted kind. Palladio was not half fo fkill'd in The grandeur or the art of building. Two temples of magnific fize Attract the curious trav'ler's eyes,
That might be envy'd by the Greeks;
Ye, who frequent this hallow'd scene, Be not ungrateful to the dean; But duly, ere you leave your station, Offer to him a pure libation Or of his own, or* Smedley's lay, Or billet-doux, or lock of hay: And, O! may all who hither come, Return with unpolluted thumb.
Yet, when your lofty domes I praise, I figh to think of ancient days.
See the character hereafter.
Permit me then to raise my style,
Thee, bounteous goddefs Cloacine,
When Saturn rul'd the fkies alone (That golden age to gold unknown), This earthly globe to thee affign'd Receiv'd the gifts of all mankind. Ten thousand altars Smoaking round Were built to thee with off'rings crown'd: And here thy daily vot'ries plac'd Their facrifice with zeal and hafte : The margin of a purling stream Sent up to thee a grateful steam (Though sometimes thou wert pleas'd to wink,
If Naiads fwept them from the brink).
The crocus and the daffodil,
But when at laft ufurping Jove Old Saturn from his empire drove ; Then gluttony with greafy paws Her napkin pinn'd up to her jaws, With watry chaps, and wagging chin, Brac'd like a drum her oily fkin; Wedg'd in a fpacious elbow-chair, And on her plate a treble share, As if the ne'er could have enough, Taught harmless man to cram and stuff. She fent her prieft in wooden fhoes From haughty Gaul to make ragoos; Inftead of wholfome bread and cheese, To drefs their foops and fricaffees; And, for our home-bred British cheer, Botargo, catfup, and caveer.
This bloated harpy fprung from hell Confin'd thee, goddess, to a cell: Sprung from her womb that impious line, Contemners of thy rites divine. First, lolling floth in woollen cap Taking her after-dinner nap: Pale dropfy with a fallow face, Her belly burft, and flow her pace: O 3
And lordly gout, wrapt up in furr;
Ye great ones, why will ye disdain To pay your tribute on the plain? Why will you place in lazy pride Your altars near your couches fide? *When from the homelieft earthen ware Are fent up offerings more fincere, Than where the haughty dutchefs locks Her filver vafe in cedar-box.
Yet fome devotion ftill remains Among our harmless northern swains †,
* Vide Virgil and Lucretius. + The north of Ireland. Whofe