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Logicians have but ill definid As rational the human mind : Reason, they say, belongs to man, But let them prove it if they can. Wise Aristotle and Smiglesius, By ratiocinations specious, Have strove to prove with great precision, With definition and division, Homo eft ratione preditum; But for my soul I cannot credit 'em, And must in spite of them maintain, That man and all his ways are vain; And that this boasted lord of nature Is both a weak and erring creature; That instinct is a surer guide Than reason, boasting mortal's pride; And that brute beasts are far before 'emDeus eft anima brutorum. Who ever knew an honest brute At law his neighbour prosecute, Bring action for asault 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 coạrt; 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-masters,
No pick-pockets, or poetasters,
Are known to honest quadrupeds ;
No single brute his fellows leads.
Brutes never meet in bloody fray,
Nor cut each other's throats for pay.
Of beasts, it is confess'd, the ape
Comes nearest us in human shape;
Like man, he imitates each fashion,
And malice is his ruling passion:
But both in malice and grimaces,
A courtier any ape surpasses.
Behold him, humbly cringing, wait
Upon the minister of state:
View him soon 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 still 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 Illington there was a man,

Of whom the world might say, That still 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 lost his wits,

To bite so good a man.

The wound it seem'd both fore and fad

To every christian eye;
And while they swore the dog was mad,

They swore the man would die.
But soon 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 pass’d her door,

And always found her kind;
She freely lent to all the poor -

Who left a pledge behind.
She strove the neighbourhood to please,

With manners wond'rous winning,
And never follow'd' wicked ways

Unless when she was sinning.
At church, in silks and satins new,

With hoop of monstrous size;
She never flumber'd in her pew

But when she shut her eyes.

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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 last disorder mortal.
Let us lament, in sorrow fore,

For Kent-street well may say,
That had she liv'd a twelvemonth more-

She had not dy'd to-day.




Sure 'twas by Providence design'd,

Rather in pity, than in hate,
That he should be, like Cupid, blind,

To save him from Narcissus' fate.


When lovely woman stoops to folly,

And finds too late that men betray, What charm can soothe her melancholy,

What art can walh her guilt away? The only art her guilt to cover,

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

And wring his bosom-is, to die.

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