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All that I Will, I can; but then, I Will
As Reason bids; I meditate no Ill :
And pleas'd with Things that in my Level lie,
Leave it to Madmen o'er the Clouds to fly.

But this is all Romance, a Dream to you,
Who Fence and Dance, and keep the Court in view.
White Staffs and Truncheons, Seals and golden Keys,
And silver Stars your tow'ring Genius please.
Such manly Thoughts in ev'ry Infant rise,
Who daily for some Tinsel Trinket crys.
Go on, and prosper, Sir; but first from me
Learn your own Temper, for I know you Free.

can be honest; but you cannot Bow
And cringe beneath a supercilious Brows
You cannot Fawn, your stubborn Soul recoils
At Baseness; and your Blood too highly Boils.
From Nature some submissive Tempers have,
Unkind to you, she form'd you not á Slave.
A Courtier must be fupple, full of Guile,
Must learn to Praise, to Flatter, to Revile
The Good, the Bad; an Enemy, a Friend;
To give false Hopes, and on falfe Hopes depend.
Go on, and prosper, Sir; but learn to hide
Your upright Spirit; 'twill be constru'd Pride.
The Splendor of a Court is all a Cheata
You must grow Servile, e'er you can grow Great.


Besides, your ancient Patrimony wasted,
Your Youth worn out, your Schemes of Grandeur blastedi
You may perhaps retire in Discontent,
And curse

your Patron for no ftrange Event:
The Patron will his Innocence protest,
And frown in earneft, tho' he smild in jeft.

Man-only from Himself can suffer Wrong;
His Reason fails, as his Desires grow strong
Hence, wanting Ballast, and too full of Sail,
He lies expos'd to ev'ry rising Gale.
From Youth to Age, for Happiness, he's bounds
He splits on Rocks, or runs his Bark aground;
Or, wide of Land, a desert Ocean views,
And, to the last, the Aying Port pursues's
Yet at the last, the Port he does not gain,
And, dying, finds too late, he liy'd in vain.

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E, CUPID, KING, whose Arbitrary

Our Kindred Deities on high obey,

Whofe Pow'r invades the deep Inferaal
Awes the grim King, and all the bloodless Ghosts,
Whose Shrines the busy World for ever grace
With Vot'ries num'rous, as their Mortal Race.


To all who to our ALTARS duly bend,
WE, Cytherea's Son, our self commend,
And to our Subjects hearty Greetings fend.

Be it to all, and every person known,"
That high Complaints are offer'd to our Throne;
The FE.MA LE Sex in gen’ral send their Grief,
Ask our Afliftance, and demand Relief.
Their smooth Petitions in a moving Strain,
Of Man's Ingratitude, and Guilt, complain:
In one Part, Lies and Perjuries abound,
Here Censures blacken, and there Satyrs wound.
Nor is there one of all the softer Tribe,
Whose Hand, or Mark does not her Grief subscribe;
For at the bottom of the Page I find,
By Matron, Spinster, Dutchess, Cookmaid, -Sign'd.

But no Complaints fo much affect our Rest,
And with Compassion touch our Royal Breaft,
As those which from a little island came,
Of our Dominions, which they BRITAIN name,
They say, that there the rank infected Soil
Shoots up in Harvests of successful Guile;
That Men so perfect play the fubtle Part,
And honeft Nature's so difguis'd by Art,
That their Breasts tremble with diffembling Sighs,
And Tears suborn'd seem karting from their Eyes.

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Thus, their feign'd Woes the kind Believer wound,
While no true Sorrow at the Heart is found.

There pale and wan the Lover's Looks appear,
All full of humble Hope, and awful Fear,
Their Speech with winning Eloquence ensnares,
Soften'd with Vows, and fanctify'd with Pray’rs.
They cry, their Suff 'rings are too great to bear,
And if unheeded by the cruel FAIR,
They talk of dying on the Spot they stand,
Of the sharp Knife, and executing Hand,

Ah, Lady mine, (the rapt'rous Lover crys) “ Here by thy self I swear, by those bright Eyes, “ That from this Moment, to the parting Grave, I am thy humbleft, thy sincerest Slaye. « Nor think this Slave can so ungen'rous prove, As to divulge the Secret of thy Love; si Sooner thy self shall tell thy own Disgrace, " And strive to blast the Beauties of thy Face, “ Than my falfe Tongue against my Heart rebel, " Or seize me Furies! and confound me Hell!

Full hard it is to search the fecret Part,
And pierce the cover'd Foldings of the Heart.
Words footh our Ear, and Persons please our Eye,
But none the Truth can by Appearance try.


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