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* To you (th' all-envy'd gift of Heaven) Th' indulgent gods, unask'd, have given Á form complete in every part,

And, to enjoy that gift, the art.

What could a tender mother's care
Wish better, to her favourite heir,
Than wit, and fame, and lucky hours,
A stock of health, and golden showers,
And graceful fluency of speech,
Precepts before unknown to teach?

Amidst thy various ebbs of fear;
And gleaming hope, and black defpair,
Yet let thy friend this truth impart,
A truth I tell with bleeding heart,
(In justice for your labours past)
That every day shall be your last;
That every hour life renew

you

Is to your injur'd country due.
In fpight of fears, of mercy fpight,
My genius ftill must rail, and write.

*

Di tibi formam,
Di tibi divitias dederant, artemque fruendi.
+ Quid voveat dulci nutricula majus alumno,
Quam fapere, & fari poffet quæ fentiat, & cui
Gratia, fama, valetudo contingat abunde,

non deficiente crumena ?

Inter fpem, curamque, timores inter & iras. || Omnem crede diem tibi diluxiffe fupremum. Me pinguem, & nitidum bene curata cute vises, "Cum ridere voles Epicuri de grege porcum.

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Hafte

Hafte to thy Twickenham's fafe retreat,

And mingle with the grumbling great:
There, half devour'd by spleen, you'll find
The rhyming bubbler of mankind;
There (objects of our mutual hate)
We'll ridicule both church and state,

35

CON

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