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What punishment would you inflict?
Or call 'em rogues, or get 'em kickt?
Thefe they have often try'd before;
You but oblige 'em fo much more:
Themfelves would be the firft to tell,
To make their trafh the better fell.

Let us know,

You have been libell'd--
What fool officious told you fo?
Will you regard the hawker's cries,
Who in his titles always lies?
Whate'er the noify fcoundrel fays,
It might be fomething in your praise :

And praife bestow'd on Grubftreet rhymes
Would vex one more a thousand times.
Till critics blame, and judges praife,

The poet cannot claim his bays.
On me, when dunces are fatiric,
I take it for a panegyric.

Hated by fools, and fools to hate,
Be that my motto, and my fate.

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On

DREAM S.

An Imitation of PETRONIUS.

Written in the year 1724.

Somnia quæ mentes ludunt volitantibus umbris, &c.

T

Hofe dreams, that on the filent night intrude,
And with falfe flitting fhades our minds de-

lude,

Jove never fends us downward from the skies;
Nor can they from infernal mansions rife;
But are all mere productions of the brain,
And fools confult interpreters in vain.

For, when in bed we reft our weary limbs,
The mind unburden'd fports in various whims;
The bufy head with mimic arts runs o'er
The fcenes and actions of the day before.

The drowfy tyrant, by his minions-led,
To regal rage devotes fome patriot's head.
With equal terrors, not with equal guilt,
The murd'rer dreams of all the blood he fpilt.

The foldier fmiling hears the widow's cries.
And ftabs the fon before the mother's eyes.
With like remorfe his brother of the trade,
The butcher, fells the lamb beneath his blade.

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The statesman rakes the town to find a plot, And dreams of forfeitures by treafon got. Nor lefs Tom t- d man, of true ftatefinan mold, Collects the city-filth in fearch of gold.

Orphans around his bed the lawyer fees, And takes the plaintiff's and defendant's fees. His fellow pick-purfe, watching for a job, Fancies his fingers in the cully's fob.

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The kind phyfician grants the hufband's pray'rs, Or gives relief to long-expecting heirs. The fleeping hangman ties the fatal noofe, Nor unfuccefsful waits for dead mens fhoes.

The grave divine with knotty points perplext, As if he was awake, nods o'er his text : While the fly mountebank attends his trade, Harangues the rabble, and is better paid.

The hireling fenator of modern days.

Bedaubs the guilty great with neafeous praise :

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And

And Dick the fcavenger with equal grace

Flirts from his cart the mud in W-1-le's face.

To STELLA, vifiting me in my fickness, October 1727.

PALLAS, obferving Stella's wit,

Was more than for her fex was fit,
And that her beauty, foon or late.
Might breed confufion in the ftate,
In high concern for humankind,
Fix'd honour in her infant mind.

But, (not in wranglings to engage
With fuch a ftupid vitious age),
If honour I would here define,
It answers faith in things divine.
As natʼral life the body warms,
And, fcholars teach, the foul informs;
So honour animates the whole,

And is the fpirit of the foul.

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ΙΟ

Thofe num'rous virtues which the tribe

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Of tedious moralists describe,

And by fuch various titles call,
True honour comprehends them all.
Let melancholy rule fupreme,
Choler prefide, or blood, or phlegm,
It makes no difference in the cafe,
Nor is complexion honour's place,

But, left we fhould for honour take
The drunken quarrels of a rake;
Or think it feated in a fcar,

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Or on a proud triumphal car,

Or in the payment of a debt

We lofe with fharpers at Picquet ;

Or

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In points of honour to be try'd,

All paffions must be laid afide:
Afk no advice, but think alone;
Suppofe the question not your own :
How fhall I act? is not the cafe ;
But how would Brutus in my place?
In fuch a caufe would Cato bleed?
And how would Socrates proceed?
Drive all objections from your mind,
Elfe you relapfe to humankind;
Ambition, avarice, and luft,

And factious rage, and breach of trust,
And flatt'ry tipt with nauseous fleer,
And guilty fhame, and fervile fear,
Envy, and cruelty, and pride,
Will in your tainted heart prefide.
Heroes aud heroines of old

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By honour only were inroil'd

Among their brethren in the skies,

To which (though late) fhall Stella rise.

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What indignation in her mind
Against inflavers of mankind!
Bale kings, and ministers of state,
Eternal objects of her hate.

che thinks that nature ne'er defign'd

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Can

Courage to man alone confin'd :

Can cowardice her fex adorn.

Which most expofes ours to fcorn?
She wonders where the charm appears
In Florimel's affected fears;
For Stella never learn'd the art
At proper times to feream and start;
Nor calls up all the houfe at night,
And fwears the faw a thing in white.
Doll never flies to cut her lace,
Or throw cold water in her face,
Because fhe heard a fudden drum,
Or found an earwig in a plum.

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Her hearers are amaz'd from whence

Proceeds that fund of wit and fenfe;

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While gracefulness its art conceals,

Breaks like the fun behind a cloud;

Which, though her modefty would fhroud,

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And yet through ev'ry motion steals.
Say, Stell, was Prometheus blind,
And, forming you, mistook your kind?
No, 'twas for you alone he ftole
The fire that forms a manly foul;
Then, to complete it every way,
He moulded it with female clay :
To that you owe the nobler flame,
To this the beauty of your frame.
How would ingratitude delight,
And how would Cenfure glut her fpight,
If I fhould Stella's kindness hide
In filence, or forget with pride?
When on my fickly couch I lay,
Impatient both of night and day,
Lamenting in unmanly ftrains,
Call'd ev'ry pow'r to eafe my pains;
Then Stella ran to my relief
With chearful face, and inward grief;
And, though by heav'n's severe decree
She fuffers hourly more than me,

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