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LOGICIANS have but ill defin'd
As rational the human mind:
Reason, they fay, belongs to man,
But let them prove it if they can.
Wife Aristotle and Smiglefius,

By ratiocinations fpecious,

Have ftrove to prove with great precision, With definition and divifion,

Homo eft ratione preditum;

But for my foul I cannot credit 'em,
And muft in fpite of them maintain,
That man and all his ways are vain;
And that this boafted lord of nature
Is both a weak and erring creature;
That instinct is a furer guide
Than reason, boasting mortal's pride;
And that brute beafts are far before 'em-

Deus eft anima brutorum.

Who ever knew an honest brute

At law his neighbour profecute,
Bring action for assault and battery,
Or friend beguile with lies and flattery?
O'er plains they ramble unconfin'd,
No politics disturb their mind;
They eat their meals, and take their sport,
Nor know who's in or out at court;

They never to the levee go

To treat as dearest friend a foe;

They never importune his grace,
Nor ever cringe to men in place;
Nor undertake a dirty job,
Nor draw the quill to write for Bob.
Fraught with invective, they ne'er go
To folks at Pater-nofter-row:
No judges, fidlers, dancing-mafters,
No pick-pockets, or poetasters,
Are known to honest quadrupeds;
No fingle brute his fellows leads.
Brutes never meet in bloody fray,
Nor cut each other's throats for pay.
Of beasts, it is confefs'd, the ape
Comes nearest us in human shape;
Like man, he imitates each fashion,
And malice is his ruling paffion:
But both in malice and grimaces,
A courtier any ape furpaffes.
Behold him, humbly cringing, wait
Upon the minister of state:
View him foon after, to inferiors,
Aping the conduct of superiors-
He promises with equal air,

And to perform takes equal care.
He in his turn finds imitators-

At court, the porters, lacqueys, waiters, Their masters' manners ftill contract,

And footmen lords and dukes can act. Thus, at the court, both great and small Behave alike for all ape all.



GOOD people all, of every fort,
Give ear unto my song;

And if you find it wonderous short,
It cannot hold you long.

In Islington there was a man,
Of whom the world might say,
That ftill a godly race he ran-

Whene'er he went to pray.

A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes;
The naked every day he clad-

When he put on his cloaths.

And in that town a dog was found,
As many dogs there be―

Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, And curs of low degree.

This dog and man at first were friends-
But when a pique began,

The dog, to gain his private ends,
Went mad, and bit the man.

Around, from all the neighbouring streets,
The wondering neighbours ran,
And swore the dog had loft his wits,
To bite fo good a man.

The wound it feem'd both fore and fad

To every christian eye;

And while they fwore the dog was mad, They swore the man would die.

But foon a wonder came to light,
That shew'd the rogues they ly'd—
The man recover'd of the bite,

The dog it was that dy’d.



GOOD people all, with one accord,

Lament for madam Blaize,
Who never wanted a good word-
From those who spoke her praise.

The needy feldom pafs'd her door,
And always found her kind;
She freely lent to all the poor-
Who left a pledge behind.

She ftrove the neighbourhood to please, With manners wond'rous winning, And never follow'd ́wicked ways— Unless when she was finning.

At church, in filks and fatins new,
With hoop of monstrous fize;
She never flumber'd in her pew→→
But when the fhut her eyes.

Her love was fought, I do aver,

By twenty beaux and more;
The king himself has follow'd her-
When she has walk'd before.

But now her wealth and finery fled,
Her hangers-on cut short all;

The doctors found, when she was dead—
Her laft diforder mortal.

Let us lament, in forrow fore,

For Kent-street well may say,

That had the liv'd a twelvemonth moreShe had not dy'd to-day.



SURE 'twas by Providence defign'd,

Rather in pity, than in hate,
That he should be, like Cupid, blind,
To fave him from Narciffus' fate.


WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly,

And finds too late that men betray, What charm can foothe her melancholy,, What art can wash her guilt away? The only art her guilt to cover,

To hide her fhame from every eye, To give repentance to her lover,

And wring his bofom-is, to die.

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