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HÉ MAN that loves his K ING and
And shuns each Vile Association;
That trusts his honest Deeds i'th' Light,
Nor meets in dark Cabals, by Night,
With Fools, who, after much Debate,
Get themselves hang'd, and save the State;
Needs not his Hall with Weapons store,
Nor dreads each Rapping at his Door;
(a) Integer vita, Scelerisque purus
Non eget Mauri jaculis, neque arcu,
Nec venenatis gravida Sagittis,
Fusce, pharetra :
Nor skulks iu fear of being known, sliv,
Or hides his Guilt in Parson's Gown i'ne
Nor wants, to guard his gen'rbus Hearts
The Ponyard or the poison’d Dart; logiochi
And, but for Ornament and Pride, '!! 1'.,
- A Sword of Lath might cross his side.
(6) If o'er St. James's Park he fray,
He stops not, pausing ôn his Way;..
Nor pulls. his Hat down o'er his Faces
Nor starts, looks back and mends his Pades
Or if he rambles to the Tow'rg
He knows no Crime, and dreads no Pow'r; .
But thence returning, free as Wind,
Smiles at the Bars he left behind.).
(c) Thus, as I loiter'd t'other Day,
Humming ev'ry Month was Mayot
And thoughtless how my Time' I fquanderd,
From Whitehall thro' the Cockpit wander'd,
A Messenger, with furly Eye,
View'd me quite round, and yet pafs'd by.
(b) Sive per Syrtes iter veftuosas,
Sive fa&turus per inhospitalem
Cauca fim, vel que loca fabulofus
(s) Namque me Silva lupüs in Sabina
Dum meam canto Lalagens do ultra
Terminum curis vagor expeditus,
(1) No Sharper-Look or rougher Mein
In Scottish Highlands e'er were seen;
Nor Ale and Brandy ever bred
More pimpled Cheeks or Nofe more red;
And yet with both Hands in my Breaft,
Careless I walkid, nor Thun'd the Beaft.
(e) Place me among an hundred Spies,
Let all the Room be Ears' and Eyes;
Or search my Pocket-Books and Papers,
No Word or Line Shall give me Vapours.
Send me to Whigs as true and hearty,
As ever pity'd poor Mathey ;
Tds isd be there,
Or RnWe in the Chair,
(f) Or send me to a Club of Tory's! 1.
That damn and curse at Marlbro's Glory's,
And drink —but süre none such there are!
The Devil, the Pope, and Rebel Mr;
Yet still my Loyalty I'll boast,
King GEORGE shall ever be my TOAST,
Unbrib'd, his Glorious Cause I'll own,
And fearless fcorn each Traytor's Frown.
Upen the Death of Dr. SMITH, Vicem Master of Trinity-College, CAMBRIDGE. As with soft Numbers when the Thracian tra
From the cold Arms of Death to raise his Brides Sooth'd by his Charms th' Infernals heard him mown, And Death too smiling bid the Nymph return; So too could you, Great Shade, the Fates afswage, In gentler Notes elude their baffled Rage; No less Effects thy skilful Hand might have, And thy own Voice recal thee from the Grave; But thy fair Virtue does such Hopes conceive, That it rejects the LIFE thy Voice could give.