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Oh! not with half that warmth and life,
With which he kiss'd Amphitryon's wife.

Well then, things handsomely were fervid :
My mistress for the strangers carv’d.
How strong the beer, how good the meat,
How loud they laugh’d, how much they cat,
In epic sumptuous would appear;
Yet thall be pass'd in silence here :
For I should grieve to have it said,
That, by a fine description led,
I made my episode too long,
Or tir'd my friend, to grace my song.

The grace-cup serv’d, the cloth away,
Jove thought it time to thew his play:
Landlord and landlady, he cried,
Folly and jesting laid aside,
That ye thus hofpitably live,
And strangers with good chear receive,
Is mighty grateful to your betters,
And makes e’en gods themfelves your

To give this thesis plainer proof,
You have to-night beneath your

A pair of gods (nay never wonder):
This youth can fly, and I can thunder.
I'm Jupiter, and he Mercurius,
My page, my son indeed, but fpurious.
Form then three wishes, you and Madam ;
And sure as you already had 'em,
The things defir'd, in half an hour,
Shall all be here, and in your power.


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Thank you, great gods, the woman says:
Oh! may your altars ever blaze !
A Ladle for our filver-dish
Is what I want, is what I wish.
A Ladle ! cries the man, a Ladle !
Odzooks, Corisca, you have pray'd ill;
What should be great, you turn to farce ;
I wish the Ladle in your a-

With equal grief and shame, my Muse
The sequel of the Tale pursues ;
The Ladle fell into the room,
And stuck in old Corisca's bum.
Our couple weep two wishes past,
And kindly join to form the last;
To ease the woman's aukward pain,

the Ladle out again.

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HIS commoner las worth and parts,

Is prais’d for arms, or lov'd for arts :
His head aches for a coronet :
And who is bless’d that is not great ?

Some fenfe, and more estate, kind Heaven.
To this well-lotted peer has given :
What then? He must have rule and sway:
And all is wrong, till he's in play.

The miser must make up his plumb,
And dares not touch the hoarded suin;
The sickly dotard wants a wife,
To draw off his last dregs of life.


Against our peace we arm our will :
Amidst our plenty, something still
For horses, houses, pictures, planting,
To thee, to me, to him, is wanting.
The cruel something unpoffefs’d
Corrodes, and leavens all the reft.
That sounething, if we could obtain,
Would soon create a future pain :
And to the coffin, from the cradle,
'Tis all a Wish, and all a Ladle.


Written at PARIS, 1700.
In the Beginning of Robe's GEOGRAPHY,
O all that William rules, or Robe

Describes, great Rhéa, of thy globe;
When or on post-horse, or in chaise,
With much expence, and little ease,
My destin’d miles I shall have gone,
By Thames or Maese, by Po or Rhone,
And found no foot of earth my own;
Great Mother, let me once be able
To have a garden, house, and stable ;
That I may read, and ride, and plant,
Superior to desire or want ;
And as health fails, and years increase,
Sit down, and think, and die, in peace.
Oblige thy favourite undertakers
To throw me in but twenty acres :


This number sure they may allow;
For patture ten, and ten for plow :
'Tis all that I could wish or hope,
For me and John, and Nell and Crop.

Then, as thou wilt, dispose the rest
(And let not Fortune spoil the jest)
To those who, at the market rate,
Can barter honour for estate.

Now, if thou grant'st me any request,
To make thy votary truly blest,
Let curst revenge and saucy pride
To fome bleak rock far off be tied;
Nor e'er approach my rural seat,
To tempt me to be base and great.

And, Goddess, this kind office done,
Charge Venus to command her son
(Where-ever else fhe lets him rove)
To shun my house, and field, and grove :
Peace cannot dwell with Hate or Love.

Hear, gracious Rhéa, what I fay :
And thy petitioner shall pray.


Written in the Beginning of Me z E R A Y's History of FRANCE.

WHATE'ER thy countrymen have donc,

By law and wit, by sword and gun,
In thee is faithfully recited :
And all the living world, that view
Thy work, give thee the praises due,
At once instructed and delighted.

II, Yet

Yet for the fame of all these deeds
What beggar in the Invalides,

With lameness broke, with blindness fmitten,
Wish'd ever decently to die,
To have been either Mezeray,
Or any monarch he has written?

It 's strange, dear author, yet it true is,
That, down from Pharamond to Louis,

All covet life, yet call it pain;
All feel the ill, yet shun the cure :
Can sense this paradox endure ?

Resolve me, Cambray, or Fontaine.

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The man,


graver tragick known (Though his best part long since was done),

Still on the stage desires to tarry : And he, who play'd the Harlequin, After the jest still loads the scene,

Unwilling to retire, though weary.

Written in the Nouveaux Interêts des


B LEST be the princes, who have fought

For pompous names, or wide dominion ;
Since by their error we are taught,
That happiness is but opinion !


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