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Thus

In the light fantaitic toe,

And in the Ring are ever seen,
Or Rotten-Row of Magazine,

Will cramp your mufe in four-foot verfe,
And find at last your eafe your curfe.
CLIO already humbly begs

You'd give her leave to stretch her legs,
For tho' fometimes fhe takes a leap,
Yet quadrupeds can only creep.

While Namby-Pamby thus you

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Your manly genius a mere fribble,
Pinn'd down, and fickly, cannot vapour
Nor dares to spring, or cut a caper.

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Rouse then, for fhame, your ancient
Write a great work! a work of merit!
The conduct of your friend examine,
And give a PROPHECY OF FAMINE;
Or like yourself, in days of yore,
Write ACTORS, as you did before:
Write what may pow'rful friends create
And make your prefent friends all hate y
Learn not a fhuffling, fhambling, pace,
But go erect with manly grace;

For OVID fays, and pr'ythee heed it,
Os homini fublime dedit.

But if you ftill wafte all your prime
In fpinning Lilliputian rhyme,

Too long your genius will lie fallow,

And ROBERT LLOYD be ROBERT SHALLOW.

ON

( 105 )

ON RHY M

E.

EPISTLE TO A FRIEND.

A FAMILIAR

BRING
RING paper, ASH, and let me fend
My hearty fervice to my friend.

How pure the paper looks and white!
What pity 'tis that folks will write,
And on the face of candour fcrawl
With defperate ink, and heart of gall!
Yet thus it often fares with those
Who, gay and easy in their profe,
Incur ill-nature's ugly crime,
And lay about 'em in their rhyme.

No man more generous, frank and kind,
Of more ingenuous focial mind,

Than CHURCHILL, yet tho' CHURCHILL hear,
I will pronounce him too fevere,

For, whether fcribbled at or not,
He writes no name without a blot.

Yet let me urge one honeft plea, Say, is the Mufe in fault or He?

The

The man, whofe genius thirfts for praise,
Who boldly plucks, not waits the bays;
Who drives his rapid car along,

And feels the energy of fong;

Writes, from the impulse of the Muse,
What fober reason might refuse.

My Lord, who lives and writes at ease,
(Sure to be pleas'd, as fure to please)
And draws from filver-stand his pen,
To fcribble fonnets now and then;
Who writes not what he truly feels,
But rather what he flily fteals,
And patches up, in courtly phrase,
The manly fenfe of better days;
Whofe dainty Muse is only kift;
But as his dainty Lordship lift,
Who treats her like a Mistress still,
To turn her off, and keep at will;
Knows not the labour, pains, and ftrife,
Of him who takes the Mufe to Wife.
For then the poor good-natur'd man
Muft bear his burden as he can ;
And if my lady prove a fhrew,

What would you have the husband do?

Say,

( 107 )

Say, fhould he thwart her inclination
To work his own, and her vexation?
Or, giving madam all her rein,
Make marriage but a filken chain ?
Thus we, who lead poetic lives,
The hen-peck'd culls of vixen wives,
Receive their orders, and obey,

Like husbands in the common way:
And when we write with too much phlegm,
The fault is not in us, but them :
True fervants always at command,
We hold the pen, they guide the hand.

Το

Why need I urge so plain a fact
you who catch me in the act?
And fee me, (ere I've faid my grace,
That is, put SIR in proper place,
Or with epiftolary bow,

Have prefac❜d, as I fcarce know how.)
You fee me, as I faid before,

Run up and down a page or more,
Without one word of tribute due
To friendship's altar, and to YOU.
Accept, then, in or out of time,
My honeft thanks, tho' writ in rhyme.

And

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