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Whilft Pope for comic humour fam'd,
Shall live when Clive no more is nam'd.

Your wisdom I suppose can't bear
About dull pantomime to hear ;
Nor would you have a single word
Of Harlequin, and wooden sword,
Of dumb shew, fools tricks, and wry faces,
And wit which lies all in grimaces,
Nor should I any thing advance
Of new invented comic dance.

Callous, perhaps, to things like there,
Would it your worship better please,
That I, more loaden than the camels,
Should crawl in philosophic trammels ?
Should I attack the stars, and stray
In triumph o'er the milky way,
And like the Titans try to move
From seat of empire royal Jove,
Then spread my terrors all around,
And his Satellites confound,
Teach the war far and wide to rage,
And ev'ry star by turns engage?
The danger we should share between us,
You fight with MARS and I with VENUS.


Or should I rather, if I cou'd,
Talk of words little understood,
Centric, eccentric, epicycle,
Fine words the vulgar ears to tickle!
A vacuum, plenum, gravitation,
And other words of like relation,
Which may agree with studious men,
But hurt my teeth, and gag my pen ;
Things of such grave and serious kind
Puzzle my head and plague my mind;
Besides in writing to a friend
A man may any nonsense fend,
And the chief merit to impart,
The honest feelings of his heart,




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Worth is excis'd, and Virtue pays
A heavy Tax for barren praise,

A friend to universal Man,
Is universal good your plan?
God may perhaps your project bless,
But man shall strive to thwart success.
Tho' the grand scheme thy thoughts pursue,
Bespeak a noble generous view,
Where CHARITY o’er all presides,
And Sense approves what VIRTUE guides,
Yet wars and tumults will commence,
For Rogues hate virtue, Blockheads sense,

Believe me, Opposition grows
Not always from our real foes,
But (where it feldom ever ends)
From our more dangerous seeming friends,
I hate not foes, for they declare,
'Tis War for War, and dare who dare ;


But your sly, sneaking, worming souls,
Whom FRIENDSHIP fcorns, and Fear controuls,
Who praise, support, and help by halves,
Like Heifers, neither Bulls nor Calves;
Who, in Hypocrisy's disguise,
Are truly as the Serpent wife,
But cannot ALL the precept love,
And be as harmless as the Dove.
Who hold each charitable meeting,
To mean no more than good sound eating,
While each becomes a hearty fellow
According as he waxes mellow,
And kindly helps the main design,
By drinking its success in wine ;
And when his feet and senses reel,
Totters with correspondent zeal ;
Nay, would appear a patron wise,
But that his wisdom's in disguise,
And would harangue, but that his mouth,
Which ever hates the fin of drowth,
Catching the full perpetual glass,
Cannot afford a word to pass.

Such, who like true Churchwardens eat, Because the Parish pays the treat,


And of their bellyful secure,
O'erfee, or over-look the poor,
Who would no doubt be wond'rous just,
And faithful Guardians of their trust,
But think the deed might run more clever
To them and to their Heirs for ever,
That Charity, too apt to roam,
Might end, where she begins, at home;
Who make all public good a trade,
Benevolence a mere parade,
And Charity a cloak for fin,
To keep it snug and warm within ;
Who fatter, only to betray,
Who promise much and never pay,
Who wind themselves about your heart
With hypocritic, knavish art,
Tell you what wondrous things they're doing,
And undermine you to your ruin ;
Such, or of low or high estate,
To speak the honest truth, I hate :
I view their tricks with indignation,
And loath each fulsom protestation,
As I would loath a whore's embrace,
Who smiles, and smirks, and stroaks my face,
And all fo tender, fond and kind,
As free of body, as of mind,


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