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Just at that time of life, when man by rule,
The fop laid down, takes up the graver fool,
He started up a fop, and, fond of show,
Look'd like another Hercules turn'd beau.
A subject, met with only now and then,
Much fitter for the pencil than the pen;
Hogarth would draw him (envy must allow)
Een to the life, was Hogarth living now.

With such accoutrements, with such a form,
Much like a porpoise just before a storm,
Onward he roll'd: a laugh prevail'd around,
E'en Jove was seen to simper; at the sound
(Nor was the cause unknown, for from his youth
Himself he studied by the glass of Truth)
He join'd their mirth, nor shall the gods condemn,
If, whilst they laugh'd at him, he laugh'd at them.
Judge Reason view'd him with an eye of grace,
Look'd through his soul, and quite forgot his face,
And, from his hand receiv'd, with fair regard
Plac'd in her other scale the name of bard.

Then (for she did as judges ought to do,
She nothing of the case beforehand knew,
Nor wish'd to know; she never stretch'd the laws,
Nor, basely to anticipate a cause,
Compell'd solicitors, no longer free,

To show those briefs she had no right to see)
Then she with equal hand her scales held out,
Nor did the cause one moment hang in doubt;
She held her scales out fair to public view,
The lord, as sparks fly upwards, upwards flew,
More light than air, deceitful in the weight;
The bard, preponderating, kept his state.
Reason approv'd, and with a voice, whose sound
Shook Earth, shook Heaven, on the clearest ground,
Pronouncing for the bards a full decree
Cried-"Those must honour them, who honour me;
They from this present day, where'er I reign,
In their own right, precedence shall obtain:
Merit rules here; be it enough that birth
Intoxicates, and sways the fools of Earth."

Nor think that here, in hatred to a lord,
I've forg'd a tale, or alter'd a record;
Search when you will (I am not now in sport)
You'll find it register'd in Reason's court.

Nor think that Envy here hath strung my lyre,
That I depreciate what I most admire;
And look on titles with an eye of scorn,
Because I was not to a title born.

By Him that made me, I am much more proud,
More inly satisfied to have a crowd

Point at me as I pass, and cry-" That's he-
A poor, but honest bard, who dares be free
Amidst corruption," than to have a train
Of flick'ring levee-slaves, to make me vain
Of things I ought to blush for; to run, fly,
And live but in the motion of my eye;
When I am less than man, my faults t' adore,
And make me think that I am something more.
Recall past times, bring back the days of old,
When the great noble bore his honours bold,
And in the face of peril, when he dar'd
Things which his legal bastard, if declar'd,
Might well discredit; faithful to his trust,
In the extremest points of justice just,
Well knowing all, and lov'd by all he knew,
True to his king, and to his country true;
Honest at court, above the baits of gain,
Plain in his dress, and in his manners plain;
Mod'rate in wealth, gen'rous but not profuse,
Well worthy riches, for he knew their use;

Possessing much, and yet deserving more,
Deserving those high honours which he wore
With ease to all, and in return gain'd fame,
Which all men paid, because he did not claim;
When the grim war was plac'd in dread array,
Fierce as the lion roaring for his prey,
Or lioness of royal whelps foredone,

In peace, as mild as the departing Sun,
A gen'ral blessing wheresoe'er he turn'd,
Patron of learning, nor himself unlearn'd;
Ever awake at Pity's tender call,

A father of the poor, a friend to all;

Recall such times, and from the grave bring back
A worth like this, my heart shall bend, or crack,
My stubborn pride give way, my tongue proclaim,
And ev'ry Muse conspire to swell his fame,
Till Envy shall to him that praise allow,
Which she cannot deny to Temple now.

This justice claims, nor shall the bard forget,
Delighted with the task, to pay that debt,
To pay it like a man, and in his lays,
Sounding such worth, prove his own right to praise.
But let not Pride and Prejudice misdeem,
And think that empty titles are my theme;
Titles, with me, are vain, and nothing worth,
I rev'rence virtue, but I laugh at birth.
Give me a lord that 's honest, frank, and brave,
I am his friend, but cannot be his slave;
Though none indeed but blockheads would pretend
To make a slave, where they may make a friend.
I love his virtues, and will make them known,
Confess his rank, but can't forget my own.
Give me a lord, who, to a title born,
Boasts nothing else, I'll pay him scorn with scorn.
What, shall my pride (and pride is virtue here)
Tamely make way, if such a wretch appear?
Shall I uncover'd stand, and bend my knee
To such a shadow of nobility,

A shred, a remnant? He might rot unknown
For any real merit of his own,

And never had come forth to public note,
Had he not worn by chance his father's coat.
To think a M worth my least regards,

Is treason to the majesty of bards.

By Nature form'd (when for her honour's sake
She something more than common strove to make,
When, overlooking each minute defect,
And all too eager to be quite correct,

In her full heat and vigour she imprest
Her stamp more strongly on the favour'd breast)
The bard (nor think too lightly that I mean
Those little, piddling witlings, who o'erween
Of their small parts, the Murphys of the stage,
The Masons and the Whiteheads of the age,
Who all in raptures their own works rehearse,
And drawl out measur'd prose, which they call verse)
The real bard, whom native genius fires,
Whom every maid of Castaly inspires,
Let him consider wherefore he was meant,
Let him but answer Nature's great intent,
And fairly weigh himself with other men,
Would ne'er debase the glories of his pen,
Would in full state, like a true monarch, live,
Nor 'bate one inch of his prerogative.

Methinks I see old Wingate frowning here,
(Wingate may in the season be a peer,
Though now, against his will, of figures sick,
He 's fore'd to diet on arithmetic,

E'en whilst he envies ev'ry Jew he meets,
Who cries old clothes to sell about the streets)

Methinks (his mind with future honours big,
His Tyburn bob turn'd to a dress'd bag wig)
I hear him cry-" What doth this jargon mean?
Was ever such a damn'd dull blockhead seen?
Majesty —bard-prerogative-Disdain
Hath got into, and turn'd the fellow's brain;
To Bethlem with him-give him whips and straw-
I'm very sensible he 's mad in law.

A saucy groom who trades in reason, thus
To set himself upon a par with us;

If this here's suffer'd, and if that there fool
May when he pleases send us all to school,
Why then our only business is outright
To take our caps, and bid the world good night.
I've kept a bard myself this twenty years,
But nothing of this kind in him appears.
He, like a thorough true-bred spaniel licks

The hand which cuffs him, and the foot which kicks;

He fetches and he carries, blacks my shoes,
Nor thinks it a discredit to his Muse;
A creature of the right cameleon hue,
He wears my colours, yellow or true blue,
Just as I wear them; 'tis all one to him,
Whether I change through conscience, or through
whim.

Now this is something like; on such a plan
A bard may find a friend in a great man;
But this proud coxcomb-zounds, I thought that all
Of this queer tribe had been like my old Paul."
Injurious thought! accursed be the tongue
On which the vile insinuation hung,
The heart where 'twas engender'd! Curst be those,
Those bards, who not themselves alone expose,
But me, but all, and make the very name
By which they're call'd, a standing mark of shame.
Talk not of custom-'tis the coward's plea,
Current with fools, but passes not with me;
An old stale trick, which Guilt hath often tried
By numbers to o'erpow'r the better side.
Why tell me, then, that from the birth of Rhyme,
No matter when, down to the present time,
As by th' original decree of Fate,
Bards have protection sought amongst the great;
Conscious of weakness, have applied to them
As vines to elms, and twining round their stem,
Flourish'd on high; to gain this wish'd support,
Een Virgil to Mæcenas paid his court?
As to the custom, 'tis a point agreed,
But 'twas a foolish diffidence, not need,
From which it rose: had bards but truly known
That strength, which is most properly their own,
Without a lord, unpropp'd, they might have stood,
And overtopp'd those giants of the wood.

But why, when present times my care engage,
Must I go back to the Augustan age?
Why, anxious for the living, am I led
Into the mansions of the ancient dead?
Can they find patrons no where but at Rome,
And must I seek Maecenas in the tomb?
Name but a Wingate, twenty fools of note
Start up, and from report Mæcenas quote;
Under his colours lords are proud to fight,
Forgetting that Maecenas was a knight ;
They mention him, as if to use his name
Was in some measure to partake his fame,
Though Virgil, were he living, in the street
Might rot for them, or perish in the Fleet.
See how they redden, and the charge disclaim-
Virgil, and in the Fleet!-Forbid it shame.

Hence, ye vain boasters, to the Fleet repair,
And ask, with blushes ask, if LLOYD is there'.
Patrons, in days of yore, were men of sense,
Were men of taste, and had a fair pretence
To rule in letters.-Some of them were heard
To read off-hand, and never spell a word;
Some of them too, to such a monstrous height
Was learning risen, for themselves could write,
And kept their secretaries, as the great
Do many other foolish things, for state.

Our patrons are of quite a diff'rent strain,
With neither sense nor taste, against the grain,
They patronize for fashion sake-no more-
And keep a bard, just as they keep a whore.
Melcombe (on such occasion I am loth
To name the dead) was a rare proof of both.
Some of them would be puzzled e'en to read,
Nor could deserve their clergy by their creed ;
Others can write, but such a pagan hand,
A Willes 3 should always at our elbow stand;
Many, if begg'd, a chancellor, of right,
Would order into keeping at first sight.
Those who stand fairest to the public view,
Take to themselves the praise to others due;
They rob the very spital, and make free
With those, alas! who've least to spare.-We see,
hath not a word to say,

Since winds and waves bore Singlespeech away.
Patrons in days of yore, like patrons now,
Expected that the bard should make his bow
At coming in, and ev'ry now and then
Hint to the world that they were more than men;
But, like the patrons of the present day,
They never bilk'd the poet of his pay.
Virgil lov'd rural ease, and, far from harın,
Mæcenas fix'd him in a neat, snug farm,
Where he might, free from trouble, pass his days
In his own way, and pay his rent in praise.
Horace lov'd wine, and, through his friend at court,
Could buy it off the key in ev'ry port;
Horace lov'd mirth, Mæcenas lov'd it too,
They met, they laugh'd, as Goy 4 and I may do,
Nor in those moments paid the least regard
To which was minister, and which was bard.

Not so our patrons-grave as grave can be,
They know themselves, they keep up dignity;
Bards are a forward race, nor is it fit
That men of fortune rank with men of wit;
Wit, if familiar made, will find her strength-
'Tis best to keep her weak and at arms-length.
"Tis well enough for bards, if patrons give,
From hand to mouth, the scanty means to live.
Such is their language, and their practice such,
They promise little, and they give not much.
Let the weak bard, with prostituted strain,
Praise that proud Scot, whom all good men disdain;
What's his reward? Why, his own fame undone,
He may obtain a patent for the run

Of his lord's kitchen, and have ample time,
With offal fed, to court the cook in rhyme;
Or (if he strives true patriots to disgrace)
May at the second table get a place,

Mr. Lloyd died in the Fleet, Dec. 15, 1764, shortly after the publication of this poem.

George Bubb Dodington, lord Melcombe. He died July 28, 1762.

3 Decypherer to the state.

* A Frenchman, secretary to Mr. Wilkes,

With somewhat greater slaves allow'd to dine,
And play at crambo o'er a gill of wine.

And are there bards, who on creation's file,
Stand rank'd as men, who breathe in this fair isle
The air of Freedom, with so little gall,
So low a spirit, prostrate thus to fall
Before these idols, and without a groan

Bear wrongs might call forth murmurs from a stone?
Better, and much more noble to abjure
The sight of men, and in some cave, secure
From all the outrages of pride, to feast
On Nature's sallads, and be free at least.
Better (though that, to say the truth, is worse
Than almost any other modern curse)
Discard all sense, divorce the thankless Muse,
Critics commence, and write in the Reviews,
Write without tremour, Griffiths cannot read;
No fool can fail, where Langhorne cau succeed.
But (not to make a brave and honest pride
Try those means first, she must disdain when
tried)

There are a thousand ways, a thousand arts,
By which, and fairly, men of real parts
May gain a living, gain what Nature craves;
Let those, who pine for more, live, and be slaves.
Our real wants in a small compass lie,
But iawless appetite with eager eye,
Kept in a constant fever, more requires,
And we are burnt up with our own desires.
Hence our dependence, hence our slav'ry springs;
Bards, if contented, are as great as Kings.
Ourselves are to ourselves the cause of ill;
We may be independent, if we will.
The man who suits his spirit to his state,
Stands on an equal footing with the great;
Moguls themselves are not more rich, and he
Who rules the English nation, not more free.
Chains were not forg'd more durable and strong
For bards than others, but they 've worn them long,
And therefore wear them still; they've quite forgot
What Freedom is, and therefore prize her not.
Could they, though in their sleep, could they but
know

The blessings which from Independence flow;
Could they but have a short and transient gleam
Of Liberty, though 'twas but in a dream;
They would no more in bondage bend their knee,
But, once made freemen, would be always free.
The Muse, if she one moment freedom gains,
Can never more submit to sing in chains.
Bred in a cage, far from the feather'd throng,
The bird repays his keeper with his song,
But if some playful child sets wide the door,
Abroad he flies, and thinks of home no more,
With love of liberty begins to burn,
And rather starves than to his cage return.

Hail, Independence-by true reason taught,
How few have known, and priz'd thee as they ought.
Some give thee up for riot; some, like boys,
Resign thee, in their childish moods, for toys;
Ambition some, some avarice misleads,
And in both cascs Independence bleeds:
Abroad, in quest of thee, how many roam,
Nor know they had thee in their reach at home;
Some, though about their paths, their beds about,
Have never had the sense to find thee out;
Others, who know of what they are possess'd,
Like fearful misers lock thee in a chest,
Nor have the resolution to produce

In these bad times, and bring thee forth for use.

Hail, Independence-though thy name 's scarce

known,

Though thou, alas! art out of fashion grown,
Though all despise thee, I will not despise,
Nor live one moment longer than I prize
Thy presence, and enjoy: by angry Fate
Bow'd down, and almost crush'd, thou cam'st,
though late,

Thou cam'st upon me, like a second birth,
And made me know what life was truly worth.
Hail, Independence-never may my cot,
Till I forget thee, be by thee forgot;
Thither, O thither, oftentimes repair;

Cotes 5, whom thou lovest too, shall meet thee there;
All thoughts, but what arise from joy, give o’cr;
Peace dwells within, and Law shall guard the door.
O'erweening bard! Law guard thy door, what
Law?

The Law of England?. -To control, and awe
Those saucy hopes, to strike that spirit dumb,
Behold, in state, Administration come,

Why let her come, in all her terrours too;
I dare to suffer all she dares to do.

I know her malice well, and know her pride,

I know her strength, but will not change my side.
This melting mass of flesh she may control
With iron ribs, she cannot chain my soul.
No-to the last resolv'd her worst to bear,
I'm still at large, and independent there.

Where is this minister? Where is the band
Of ready slaves, who at his elbow stand
To hear, and to perform his wicked will?
Why, for the first time, are they slow to ill?
When some grand act 'gainst Law is to be done,
Doth
sleep; doth bloodhound
To L——, and worry those small deer,
When he might do more precious mischief here?
Doth Webb turn tail? Doth he refuse to draw

legal warrants, and to call them Law?

run

Doth Webb, at Guildford kick'd, from Guildford

run,

is

With that cold lump of unbak'd dough, his son,
And, his more honest rival Ketch to cheat,
Purchase a burial-place where three ways meet?
Believe it not;
still,
And never sleps, when he should wake to ill;
doth lesser mischiefs by-the-by,
The great ones till the Term in petto lie;
Webb lives, and, to the strictest justice true,
Scorns to defraud the haugman of his due.

O my poor country-weak and overpower'd
By thine own sons-eat to the bone-devour'd
By vipers, which, in thine own entrails bred,
Prey on thy life, and with thy blood are fed,
With unavailing grief thy wrongs I see,
And, for myself not feeling, feel for thee.
I grieve, but can't despair-for, lo, at hand
Freedom presents a choice, but faithful band
Of loyal patriots, men who greatly dare
In such a noble cause, men fit to bear
The weight of empires; Fortune, Kank, and Sense,
Virtue, and Knowledge, leagu'd with Eloquence,
March in their ranks; Freedom from file to file
Darts her delighted eye, and with a smile
Approves her honest sons, whilst down her cheek,
As 'twere by stealth (her heart too full to speak)
One tear in silence creeps, one honest tear,
And seems to say,
"Why is not Granby here?"

5 Humphrey Cotes.

View what is present, what is past review, And my old stock exhausted, lay in new. For twice six moons (let winds, turn'd porters, bear This oath to Heav'n) for twice six moons, I swear, No Muse shall tempt me with her siren lay, Nor draw me from Improvement's thorny way: Verse I abjure, nor will forgive that friend, Who in my hearing shall a rhyme commend. It cannot be-Whether I will, or no, Such as they are, my thoughts in measure flow. Convinc'd, determin'd, I in prose begin, But ere I write one sentence, verse creeps in, And taints me through and through: by this good In verse I talk by day, I dream by night; [light, If now and then I curse, my curses chime, Nor can I pray, unless I pray in rhyme. E'en now I err, in spite of common sense, And my confession doubles my offence. [breath, Rest then, my friends-spare, spare your precious And be your slumbers not less sound than death; Perturbed spirits rest, nor thus appear To waste your counsels in a spendthrift's ear. On your grave lessons I cannot subsist, night-Nor e'en in verse become economist;

O ye brave few, in whom we still may find A love of virtue, freedom, and mankind, Go forth, in majesty of woe array'd, See, at your feet your country kneels for aid, And (many of her children traitors grown) Kneels to those sons she stil: can call her own; Seeming to breathe her last in ev'ry breath, She kneels for freedom, or she begs for deathFly then, each duteous son, each English chief, And to your drooping parent bring relief. Go forth-nor let the siren voice of Ease Tempt ye to sleep, whilst tempests swell the seas; Go forth-nor let Hypocrisy, whose tongue With many a fair, false, fatal art is hung, Like Bethel's fawning prophet, cross your way, When your great errand brooks not of delay; Nor let vain Fear, who cries to all she meets, Trembling and pale-" A lion in the streets"Damp your free spirits; let not threats affright, Nor bribes corrupt, nor flatteries delight. Be as one man-Concord success ensuresThere's not an English heart but what is yours. Go forth-and Virtue, ever in your sight, Shall be your guide by day, your guard by Go forth-the champions of your native land, And may the battle prosper in your handIt may, it must-Ye cannot be withstoodBe your hearts honest, as your cause is good.

THE JOURNEY.

SOME of my friends, (for friends I must suppose
All, who, not daring to appear my foes,
Feign great good-will, and, not more full of spite
Than full of craft, under false colours fight)
Some of my friends, (so lavishly I print)
As more in sorrow than in anger, hint
(Though that indeed will scarce admit a doubt)
That I shall run my stock of genius out,
My no great stock, and, publishing so fast,
Must needs become a bankrupt at the last.

"The husbandman, to spare a thankful soil,
Which, rich in disposition, pays his toil
More than a hundred fold, which swells his store
E'en to his wish, and makes his barns run o'er,
By long experience taught, who teaches best,
Foregoes his hopes a while, and gives it rest.
The land, allow'd its losses to repair,
Refresh'd, and full in strength, delights to wear
A second youth, and to the farmer's eyes
Bids richer crops and double harvests rise.

"Nor think this practice to the earth confin'd,
It reaches to the culture of the mind.
The mind of man craves rest, and cannot bear,
Though next in pow'r to God's, continual care.
Genius himself (nor here let Genius frown)
Must, to ensure his vigour, be laid down,
And fallow'd well: had Churchill known but this,
Which the most slight observer scarce could miss,
He might have flourish'd twenty years or more,
Though now, alas! poor man! worn out in four."
Recover'd from the vanity of youth,

I feel, alas! this melancholy truth,
Thanks to each cordial, each advising friend,
And am, if not too late, resolv'd to mend,
Resolv'd to give some respite to my pen,
Apply myself once more to books and men,

Rest then, my friends, nor, hateful to my eyes,
Let Envy in the shape of Pity rise

To blast me ere my time; with patience wait,
('Tis no long interval) propitious Fate
Shall glut your pride, and ev'ry son of phlegm
Find ample room to censure and condemn.
Read some three hundred lines, (no easy task;
But probably the last that I shall ask)
And give me up for ever; wait one hour,
Nay not so much, revenge is in your pow'r,
And ye may cry, "Ere Time hath turn'd his glass,
Lo! what we prophesied is come to pass."

Let those, who poetry in poems claim,
Or not read this, or only read to blame;
Let those, who are by fiction's charms enslav'd,
Return me thanks for half-a-crown well sav'd;
Let those, who love a little gall in rhyme,
Postpone their purchase now, and call next time;
Let those, who, void of nature, look for art,
Take up their money, and in peace depart;
Let those, who energy of diction prize,
For Billingsgate quit Flexney, and be wise;
Here is no lie, no gall, no art, no force;
Mean are the words, and such as come of course,
The subject not less simple than the lay;
A plain, unlabour'd Journey of a day.

Far from me now be ev'ry tuneful maid, I neither ask, nor can receive their aid. Pegasus turn'd into a common hack, Alone I jog, and keep the beaten track, Nor would I have the Sisters of the hill Behold their bard in such a dishabille. Absent, but only absent for a time, Let them caress some dearer son of rhyme; Let them, as far as decency permits, Without suspicion, play the fool with wits, 'Gainst fools be guarded; 'tis a certain rule, Wits are safe things, there's danger in a fool. Let them, though modest, Gray more modest

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Whilst he, fine feeling creature, all in tears,
Melts as they melt, and weeps with weeping peers;
Let them with simple Whitehead, taught to creep
Silent and soft, lay Fontenelle asleep;

Let them with Browne contrive, no vulgar trick,
To cure the dead, and make the living sick 7;
Let them in charity to Murphy give

Some old French piece, that he may steal and live;
Let them with antic Foote subscriptions get,
And advertise a Summer-house of wit.

Thus, or in any better way they please,

DEDICATION

TO CHURCHILL'S SERMONS.

Health to great Gloster-from a man unknown,
Who holds thy health as dearly as his own,
Accept this greeting-nor let modest fear
Call up one maiden blush-I mean not here
To wound with flattery-'tis a villain's art,
And suits not with the frankness of my heart.

With these great men, or with great men like these, Truth best becomes an orthodox divine,

Let them their appetite for laughter feed;

I on my journey all alone proceed.

If fashionable grown, and fond of pow'r, With hum'rous Scots let them disport their hour: Let them dance, fairy-like, round Ossian's tomb; Let them forge lies, and histories for Hume; Let them with Home, the very prince of verse, Make something like a tragedy in Erse; Under dark Allegory's flimsy veil

Let them with Ogilvie spin out a tale

Of rueful length; let them plain things obscure,
Debase what 's truly rich, and what is poor
Make poorer still by jargon most uncouth;
With ev'ry pert, prim prettiness of youth
Born of false taste, with fancy (like a child
Not knowing what it cries for) running wild,
With bloated style, by affectation taught,
With much false colouring, and little thought,
With phrases strange, and dialect decreed
By reason never to have pass'd the Tweed,
With words which Nature meant each other's foe,
Fore'd to compound whether they will or no;
With such materials, let them, if they will,
To prove at once their pleasantry and skill,
Build up a bard to war 'gainst common sense,
By way of compliment to Providence;

Let them with Armstrong, taking leave of sense,
Read musty lectures on benevolence,
Or con the pages of his gaping Day,
Where all his former fame was thrown away,
Where all but barren labour was forgot,
And the vain stiffness of a letter'd Scot;
Let them with Armstrong pass the term of light,
But not one hour of darkness; when the night
Suspends this mortal coil, when Memory wakes,
When for our past misdoings Conscience takes
A deep revenge, when by Reflection led,
She draws his curtains, and looks Comfort dead,
Let ev'ry Muse be gone; in vain he turns
And tries to pray for sleep; an Etna burns,
A more than Ætna in his coward breast,
And Guilt, with vengeance arm'd, forbids him rest:
Though soft as plumage from young zephyr's wing,
His couch seems hard, and no relief can bring.
Ingratitude hath planted daggers there,
No good man can deserve, no brave man bear.
Thus, or in any better way they please,

With these great men, or with great men like these,
Let them their appetite for laughter feed;
I on my journey all alone procced.

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And, spite of Hell, that character is mine:
To speak e'en bitter truths I cannot fear;
But truth, my lord, is panegyric here.

Health to great Gloster-nor, through love of

ease,

Which all priests love, let this address displease.
I ask no favour, not one note I crave,
And when this busy brain rests in the grave,
(For till that time it never can have rest)
I will not trouble you with one bequest;

Some humbler friend, my mortal journey done,
More near in blood, a nephew or a son,
In that dread hour executor I'll leave:
For I, alas! have many to receive,
To give but little-To great Gloster health;
Nor let thy true and proper love of wealth
Here take a false alarm-in purse though poor,
In spirit I'm right proud, nor can endure
The mention of a bribe-thy pocket's free,
1, though a dedicator, scorn a fee.
Let thy own offspring all thy fortunes share;
I would not Allen rob, nor Allen's heir.

Think not, a thought unworthy thy great soul, Which pomps of this world never could control, Which never offer'd up at Power's vain shrine, Think not that pomp and pow'r can work on mine, 'Tis not thy name, though that indeed is great, 'Tis not the tinsel trumpery of state,

'Tis not thy title, doctor though thou art,
'Tis not thy mitre, which hath won my heart.
State is a farce, names are but empty things,
Degrees are bought, and, by mistaken kings,
Titles are oft misplac'd; mitres, which shine
So bright in other eyes, are dull in mine,
Unless set off by virtue: who deceives
Under the sacred sanction of lawn sleeves,
Enhances guilt, commits a double sin ;
So fair without, and yet so foul within.
'Tis not thy outward form, thy casy mien,
Thy sweet complacency, thy brow serene,
Thy open front, thy love-commanding eye,
Where fifty Cupids, as in ambush, lie,
Which can from sixty to sixteen impart
The force of love, and point his blunted dart;
'Tis not thy face, though that by Nature's made
An index to thy soul, though there display'd
We see thy mind at large, and through thy skin
Peeps out that courtesy which dwells within;
"Tis not thy birth, for that is low as mine,
Around our heads no lineal glories shine-
But what is birth-when, to delight mankind,
Heralds can make those arms they cannot find;
When thou art to thyself, thy sire unknown,
A whole Welsh genealogy alone?

No, 'tis thy inward man, thy proper worth,

Thy rght just estimation here on Earth,
Thy lie and doctrine uniformly join'd,

And flowing from that wholesome source thy mind,

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