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* To you (th' all-envy'd gift of Heaven) Th' indulgent gods, unask'd, have given Á form complete in every part,

And, to enjoy that gift, the art.

What could a tender mother's care
Wish better, to her favourite heir,
Than wit, and fame, and lucky hours,
A stock of health, and golden showers,
And graceful fluency of speech,
Precepts before unknown to teach?

Amidst thy various ebbs of fear;
And gleaming hope, and black defpair,
Yet let thy friend this truth impart,
A truth I tell with bleeding heart,
(In justice for your labours past)
That every day shall be your last;
That every hour life renew


Is to your injur'd country due.
In fpight of fears, of mercy fpight,
My genius ftill must rail, and write.


Di tibi formam,
Di tibi divitias dederant, artemque fruendi.
+ Quid voveat dulci nutricula majus alumno,
Quam fapere, & fari poffet quæ fentiat, & cui
Gratia, fama, valetudo contingat abunde,

non deficiente crumena ?

Inter fpem, curamque, timores inter & iras. || Omnem crede diem tibi diluxiffe fupremum. Me pinguem, & nitidum bene curata cute vises, "Cum ridere voles Epicuri de grege porcum.

Bb 2





Hafte to thy Twickenham's fafe retreat,

And mingle with the grumbling great:
There, half devour'd by spleen, you'll find
The rhyming bubbler of mankind;
There (objects of our mutual hate)
We'll ridicule both church and state,



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