His Fame muft live till his DISPENS 'RY Doom, For That's his Epitaph, and That's his Tomb.

To an Old Bed-Maker, who had fcanda lix'd Me; imitated from BUCHANAN.

N vain, Old Dipfas, you'd asperse my Fame,

In vain with Praises I'd adorn your Name;

Your Satire's vain, my Panegyrick too,

For no One credits, either Me, or You.

AULUS and CALENUS, imitated from BUCHANAN.

I

Gave Calenus once a civil Dun,

He, Courtier-like, cry'd-Prithee getThee gone. The Sum was- O-Ten Thousand Sefterces; Thus us'd, I went to Aulus for Advice.

He bad me profecute, and fwore it was

Nothing more juft: So undertook the Cause.

When fome Ten Years he'd had th' Affair in Hand,

For Ten times Ten he makes a fmall Demand.
Ten times T

Left the Remainder of my Caufe fhou'd wafte Th' unequal Stock both of my Days and Cheft ; What thou'd I do? I found without a Pause, I left my Lawyer, and I drop'd my Cause. Sure to be Deaf whene'er Calenus ties

His Honour, or when Aulus fhall advise.

D'ye ask which most I'd fiun?— My Story tells,
A

CALENUS gives me Words, but AULUS fells.

On

On the Degrading of the late Duke of

H

ORMOND.

Owe'er 'tis well! thus much we gain,

While ftrugling with our mighty Foes;

We can imagin'd Vict'ries feign
To weigh 'gainst real Overthrows.

In vain to diftant Regions They
For fhelter from us fwiftly fly;
If Life we can't, we'll take away
Their Honour, and give Infamy.

Deluded Senfe! Do's Honour lie

In Swords and Belts, which we admire ;

High fix'd, with gilded Pageantry,

In fome Cathedral's dufty Choir.

F 2

If fo- There's nought to Merit due,
Who, for this filken Honour ftrives,
Needs Weavers, Painters only woo;
Since by their Pow'rs alone he lives.

By Them in gaudieft Colours painted,

His fhining Honours can't be marr❜d: He, till by Time the Colours tainted, May measure Honour by the Yard.

As each declining Year fhall die
And fully thefe, Their Beauty lost,
He then, as heretofore, may buy

New Honours at his proper Coft.

If painted Silk you'll not allow
Is Honour's felf, but Effigy;
How then can Honour dying bow,

When That we treat with Infamy ?

True

True: Conjurers, when they effay

To torture little Infants Hearts,

Their near Refemblance form in Clay,
Which stuck with Pins the Grief imparts.

But we no fuch fuch Pow'r detest,
Nor have it we may plainly fee,
Since even Those our Ease infest,
Who've oft been burnt in Effigy.

'Tis but a Breath we Honour call,
And loftieft Titles are no more;
Our Breaths we can't, much less recall
Another's, paft fome Years before.

Thofe Honours then muft ftill remain,
Which once the Royal Tongue confers;
A Man by Actions base may fain,

But cannot loose 'em, tho' he errs.

As