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By the Same.

HOE'ER with curious eye has rang'd
Through Ovid's tales, has feen


How Jove, incens'd, to monkies chang'd
A tribe of worthless men.

Repentant foon th' offending race
Intreat the injur'd pow'r,

To give them back the human face,
And reason's aid restore.

Jove, footh'd at length, his ear inclin'd,
And granted half their pray'r;
But t' other half he bade the wind

Difperfe in empty air.


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Scarce had the thund'rer giv'n the nod
That fhook the vaulted skies,
With haughtier air the creatures ftrode,
And stretch'd their dwindled fize.



The hair in curls luxuriant now

Around their temples spread; The tail that whilom hung below, Now dangled from the head.

The head remains unchang'd within,
Nor alter'd much the face;

It still retains its native grin,
And all its old grimace.

Thus half transform'd and half the fame,
Jove bade them take their place,
(Reftoring them their ancient claim)
Among the human race.

Man with contempt the brute furvey'd,
Nor would a name beftow;

But woman lik'd the motley breed,
And call'd the thing a Beau.


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UÆ te fub tenerâ rapuerunt, Pæta, juventâ,
O utinam me crudelia fata vocent;
Ut linquam terras invifaque lumina folis,

Utque tuus rurfum corpore fim pofito.
Tu cave Lethæo contingas ora liquore,

Et citò venturi fis memor, oro, viri.
Te fequar obfcurum per iter: dux ibit eunti
Fidus amor, tenebras lampade difcutiens.


HEE, Pæta, death's relentless hand
Cut off in earliest bloom,

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Oh! had the fates for me ordain'd
To fhare an equal doom;

With joy this bufy world I'd leave,
This hated light refign,
To lay me in the peaceful grave,
And be for ever thine :


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Do thou, if Lethe court thy lip,
To tafte its ftream forbear:
Still in thy foul his image keep,
Who haftes to meet thee there.

Safe o'er the dark and dreary fhore,

In queft of thee I'll roam,
Love with his lamp fhall run before,
And break the circling gloom.


VERSES fent to Dean SWIFT on his Birth-day, with PINE'S HORACE finely bound,

Written by Dr. J. SICAN,

[HORACE fpeaking.]


OU'VE read, Sir, in poetic ftrain,
How Varus and the Mantuan fwain
Have on my birth-day been invited
(But I was forc'd in verfe to write it)
Upon a plain repast to dine,

And taste my old Campanian wine;

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But I, who all punctilio's hate,

Though long familiar with the great,

Nor glory in my reputation,

Am come without an invitation,

And though I'm us'd to right Falernian,
I'll deign for once to tafte Iernian;
But fearing that you might difpute
(Had I put on a common fuit,)
My breeding and my politeffe,
I vifit in a birth-day dress;
My coat of pureft Turkey-red,
With gold embroid'ry richly spread;
To which, I've fure as good pretenfions,
As Irish lords who starve on pensions.
What though proud ministers of state
Did at your antichamber wait;

What though your Oxfords, and your St. Johns,
Have at your Levee paid attendance;
And Peterborough and great Ormond,
With many chiefs who now are dormant,
Have laid afide the general's ftaff
And public cares, with you to laugh;
Yet I fome friends as good can name,
Nor less the darling fons of fame;


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