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To send a Poet such a Gift as this,
Is like a Suit in Forma Pauperis.
All we can pay is empty worthless Rhymes,
And they are like false Mettle in these Times;
Tho" Time has been, when Rhymes were precious

Poets in Rome were Company for KINGS;
But Rome and Britain differ in Applause,
We've no Mecenas here to plead our Cause ;
Here MER I T farves, änd Wir negle&ted lies,
Our Fav'rites all, except themselves, despise ;
Here, each to fill the mighty Coffer aims,
To build his House much finer than his Dame's;.
All he will take, but not a Penny give,
Nor value how the Poor and Tradesmen live.
Then, why to Courtiers wilt thou be fo free,
Since, should'st thou want, they'll never Succour thee?
But far from me are those High Courtiers Rules,
Let fordid Souls admire th' Ambitious Fools.
I love the Mutés Friends, those Gen'roús few,
Which keep the Ancient Virtuous Paths in View,
None has a juster Claim to those than You.
We tap'd the CYDER, and we drank your Health,
And wil it heartily with store of Wealth.
My Heart and Soul with grateful Ardour burn,

git But Thanks is all the Poet can return. CYDER's to NECTA R* turn’d. Or fo I think it, Then pray make faste to Town, and help to drink it.

I am, Sir, &c.

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ET us Sing and be Merry, Dance, Joke, and

With Claret and Hautboy, Theorbo and

.., 2 ssh is 13). SUT?!..!
The changeable World to our Joy is unjust, in 153"
All Treasure's uncertain, then down with your Duft,
In Frolicks dispose your Pounds, Shillings and Pences
For we shall be nothing an Hundred Years hence.

II. viitoare 21:03 197! Yes! 3: We'll Sport and be free with Frank; Betty, and Dolly, Haye Lobsters and Oysters to cure Melancholly;

Fish Dinners will make a Man skip like a Flea,
.-Dame Venus her self was born of the Sea,
With her and with Bacchus we'll tickle our Sense,
For we sąall be paft it an Hundred Years hence,


The beautiful Lass that has all Eyes upon her,
Whofe Honefty sells for an Haut-guft of Honour,
Whose Lightness and Brightness do caft such a Splendor,
That none are thought fit, but the Stars to attend 'her,
Tho now the is geareful and fweet to the Senfe,
Will be damnable Mouldy an Hundred Years hence.


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The Uferer that in the Hundred takes Twentys.
Who wants in his Wealth, and pines in his Plenty,
Lays up for a Time that he never shall fee, svi
The Year of One Thousands Eight Hundred, and Three,
Shall hayo chang'd all his Bags his Houses and Rents,
To a Worm-oaten Coffin an Hundred Years hence,


The Chancery Lawyer who by Conscience thrives,
By spinningra Syit to the length of three Liyes::


A Suit which his Client does wear out in Slavery,
Whilft the Pleader makes Conscience a Cloak for his

Can boast of his Cynning but in the Present Tense,
For non eft. Inuentus an Hundred Years hence.

i !!! Puserot . VI.
0+2 13:

Then, why Ibould we turmoil in Cares and in Fears,
And turn our Repose into Sighing and Tears?
Let us eat, drink and play, e'er the Worms do corrupt


For 1 say thats Post Mortem eft nulla Voluptas.
Let us, deal with ous Damsels, that we may from thence
Haye Broods to succeed us an Hundred Years hence,


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I never could find Satisfa&tion

upon Your Dreams of a Bliss when you're cold as a Stone ; The Sages may call us, Drunkards, Gluttons and Wen

chers, But we find such Morfels upon their own Trenchers ; Poor Abigal, Hannah, and Sifter Prudence, Will Simper to Nothing'an Hundred Years hence. “ 2... 191

L., 71059 sitors


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The ignorant Quack, who, his Fees to inlarge; and..
Kills People with License, and at their own Charge,
Who heaps up a Mass of ill-gotten Wealth,
From the Dregs of the Pisspot, and Ruins of Health;
Tho' Treasures of Health he pretends to dispence,
Shall be turnid into Mummy an Hundred Years hence

This incisiviilaw it is bad

IX, in 73 ci'i

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The Butterfly Courtier, that Pageant of State,'::
The Mousetrap of Honour, and Maygame of Fate,23 13 I
With all his Ambition, Intrigues, and his Tricks, b?!
Muft die like a Clown, and drop into Styx,
His Plots against Death are too Nender a Fence,
He'll be quite out of Fashion an Hundred Years hence,

11:2 2.'s

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The Poet himself, that so loftily Sings,
As he scorns any Subject but Hero's and KINGS,
Must to the Caprices of Fortune submit,
And be counted a Fool, tho' a Master of Wit;
Thus Beauty, Wit, Wealth, Law, Learning and Sense,
Will all come to Nothing an Hundred Years hence.


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