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Yet such as owe the law their ears,
We find employ'd as engineers :
This view my forward zeal fo shocks,
In vain they hold the money-box.
At such a conduct which intends

vicious such virtuous ends,
I laugh off Spleen, and keep my pence
From spoiling Indian innocence.

Yet philosophic love of ease
I suffer not to prove disease,
But rise up in the virtuous cause
Of a free press, and equal laws.
The press restrain'd! nefandous thought !
In vain our fires have nobly fought :
While free from force the press remains,
Virtue and Freedom cheer our plains,
And Learning largesses bestows,
And keeps uncensur'd open house.
We to the nation's publick mart
Our works ot wit, and schemes of art
And philofophic goods this way,
Like water carriage cheap convey.
This tree, which knowledge so affords,
Inquisitors with flaming swords
From lay-approach with zeal defend,
Left their own paradise should end.
The press from her fecündous womb
Brought forth the arts of G

ece and Rome;


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Her offspring, kill'd in logic war,
Truth's banner way'd in openi


The monster Superftition fled,
And hid in shades its Gorgon head;
And lawless pow'r; the long-kept field,
By reason quell’d, was forc'd to yield.
This nurse of arts, and freedom's fence
To chain, is treason against fenfe ;
And, Liberty, thy thousand tongues
None filence, who design no wrongs ;
For those, that use the gag's restraint;
First rob, before they stop complaint.

Since disappointment galls within,
And subjugates the foul to Spleen,
Moft schemes; as money-snares, I hate,
And bite not at projector's bait.
Sufficient wrecks appear each day,
And yet fresh fools are cast away.
Ere well the bubbled can turn round,
Their painted vefsel runs aground ;
Or in deep seas it oversets
By a fierce hurricane of debts ;
Or helm-directors in one trip,
Freight first embezzled, fink the ship.
Such was of late à corporation,
The brazen serpent of the nation,
Which when hard accidents distress’d,
The poor

must look at to be bleit,

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And thence expect, with paper seal'd
By fraud and us’ry, to be heal'd.

I in no foul-consumption wait
Whole years at levees of the great,
And hungry hopes regale the while
On the spare diet of a smile.
you may

see the idol ftand
With mirror in his wanton hand ;
Above, below, now here, now there
He throws about the sunny glare :
Crowds pant, and press to seize the prize,

delusion of their eyes.
When Fancy tries her limning skill
To draw and colour at her will,
And raise and round the figures well,
And Thew her talent to excel,
I guard my heart, left it should woo
Unreal beauties Fancy drew,
And disappointed, feel despair
At loss of things, that never were.

When I lean politicians mark
Grazing on æther in the park ;
Who e'er on wing with open

Fly at debates, expresses, votes,
Just in the manner swallows use,
Catching their airy food of news ;
Whose latrant ftomachs oft moleft
The deep-laid plans their dreams fuggeft ;

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Or see some poet penfive fit,
Fondly mistaking Spleen for Wit;
Who, tho' fort-winded, ftill will aim
To found the epick trumph of Fame ;
Who still on Phoebus' smiles will doat,
Nor learn conviction from his coat;
I bless my stars, I never knew
Whimsies, which close pursu'd, undo,
And have from old experience been
Both parent and the child of Spleen.
These subjects of Apollo's ftate,
Who from false fire derive their fate,
With airy purchases undone
Of lands, which none lend money on,
Born dull, had follow'd thriving ways,
Nor lost one hour to gather bays.
Their fancies first delirious grew,
And scenes ideal took for true.
Fine to the fight Parnassus lies,
And with false prospects cheats their eyes ;
The fabled gods the poets fing,
A season of perpetual spring,
Brooks, flow'ry fields, and groves of trees,
Affording sweets and fimiles,
Gay dreams inspir'd in myrtle bow'rs,
And wreaths of undecaying flow'rs,
Apollo's harp with airs divine,
The facred musick of the Nine,


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Views of the temple rais'd to Fame,
And for a vacant nitch proud aim,
Ravish their souls, and plainly shew
What Fancy's sketching power can do.
They will attempt the mountain steep,
Where on the top, like dreanis in sleep,
The Muses revelation shew,
That find men crack'd, or make them fo

You friend, like me, the trade of rhyme
Avoid, elab'rate waste of time,
Nor are content to be undone,
To pass for Phobus' crazy fon.
Poems, the hop-grounds of the brain,
Afford the most uncertain gain ;
And lottries never tempt the wise
With blanks so many to a prize,
I only tranfient visits pay,
Meeting the Muses in my way,
Scarce known to the fastidious dames,
Nor skill'd to call them by their names,
Nor can their passports in these days,
Your profit warrant, or your praise.
On poems by their dictates writ,
Criticks, as sworn appraisers, fit,
And mere upholst'rers in a trice
On gems and painting fet a price.
These tayl’ring artists for our lays
Invent cramp'd rules, and with strait stays


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