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Tis not thy Title, Doctor tho' thou art, 'Tis not thy Mitre, which hath won my heart.' State is a farce, Names are but empty Things, Degrees are bought, and, by mistaken kings, Titles are oft misplac'd , Mitres, which shine So bright in other eyes, are dull in mine, Unless set off by Virtue ; who deceives Under the sacred sanction of Lawn-sleeves, Enhances guilt, commits a double sin; So fair without, and yet so foul within. 'Tis not thy outward form, thy easy mein, Thy sweet complacency, thy brow serene, Thy open front, thy Love-commanding eye, Where fifty Cupids, as in ambush, lie, Which can from sixty to sixteen impart The force of Love, and point his blunted dart ; 'Tis not thy Face, tho’ that by Nature's made An index to thy soul, tho' there display'd We see thy mind at large, and thro’ thy skin Peeps out that Courtesy which dwells within ; 'Tis not thy Birth—for that is low as mine, Around our heads no lineal glories shine-But what is Birth, when, to delight mankind, Heralds can make those arms they cannot find; When Thou art to Thyself, thy Sire unknown, A Whole, Welch Genealogy Alone ?

No, 'tis thy isward Man, thy proper Worth,
Thy right just Eftimation here on earth,
Thy Life and Doctrine uniformnly join'd,
And Aowing from that wholsome source thy mind,
Thy known contempt of Persecution's rod,
Thy Charity for Man, thy Love of God,
Thy Faith in Christ, so well approvd’mongst men,
Which now give life, and utt'rance to my pen.
Thy Virtue, not thy Rank, demands my lays ;
'Tis not the Bishop, but the Saint I praise.
Rais’d by that Theme, I soar on wings more strong, ,
And burst forth into praise with-held too long.

Much did I wish, e'en whilft I kept those sheep, Which, for my curse, I was ordain’d to keep; Ordain'd, alas ! to keep thro' need, not choice, Those sheep which never heard their shepherd's voice, Which did not know, yet would not learn their way, Which stray’d themselves, yet griev'd that I should

stray, Those sheep, which my good Father (on his bier Let filial duty drop the pious tear) Kept well, yet starv'd himfelf, e'en at that time, Whilft I was pure, and innocent of rime, Whilft, facred Dullness ever in my view, Sleep at my bidding crept from pew to pew,

Much did I wish, tho' little could I hope,
A Friend in him, who was the Friend of Pope.

His hand, said I, my youthful steps shall guide, And lead me safe where thousands fall beside ; His Temper, his Experience shall controul, And hush to peace the tempest of my soul; His Judgment teach me, from the Critic school, How not to err, and how to err by rule ; Instruct me, mingling profit with delight, Where Pope was wrong, where SHAKESPEARE was

not right; . Where they are justly prais’d, and where thro’whim, How little's due to them, how much to him. Rais’d’bove the Navery of common rules, Of Common-Sense, of modern, antient schools, Those feelings banish’d, which mislead us all, Fools as we are, and which we Nature call, He, by his great example, might impart A better something, and baptize it Art; He, all the feelings of my youth forgot, Might shew me what is Taste, by what is not ; By him supported, with a proper pride, I might hold all mankind as fools beside ; He (should a World, perverse and peevish grown, Explode his maxims, and affert their own,

Might teach me, like himself, to be content,
And let their folly be their punishment;
Might, like himself, teach his adopted Son,
'Gainst all the World, to quote a WARBURTON.


Pool that I was, could I so much deceive My soul with lying hopes; could I believe That He, the servant of his Maker sworn, The servant of his Saviour, would be torn From their embrace, and leave that dear employ, The cure of souls, his duty and his joy, For toys like mine, and waste his precious time, On which so much depended, for a rime ? Should He forsake the task he undertook, Desert his flock, and break his pastral crook ? Should He (forbid it Heav'n) so high in place, So rich in knowledge, quit the work of Grace, And, idly wand'ring o'er the Muse's hill, Let the salvation of mankind stand still ?

Far, far be that from Thee-yes, far from Thee Be such revolt from Grace, and far from me The Will to think it-Guilt is in the ThoughtNot so, Nof so, hath WARBURTON been taught, Not so learn’d Christ-Recall that day, well-known, When (to maintain God's honour and his own)

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He call’d Blasphemers forth-Methinks I now
See stern Rebuke enthroned on his brow,
And arm’d with tenfold terrours—from his tongue,
Where fiery zeal, and Christian fury hung,
Methinks I hear the deep-ton'd thunders roll,
And chill with horrour ev'ry sinner's soul-
In vain They strive to fly—Aight cannot save,
And Potter trembles even in his grave-
With all the conscious pride of innocence,
Methinks I hear him, in his own defence,
Bear witness to himself, whilst all Men knew,
By Gospel-rules, his witness to be true.

O Glorious Man, thy zeal I must commend,
Tho' it depriv'd me of my dearest friend.
The real motives of thy anger known,
Wilkes must the justice of that anger own;
And, could thy bosom have been bar'd to view,
Pitied himself, in turn had pitied you.

Bred to the law, You wisely took the gown, Which I, like Demas, foolishly laid down. Hence double strength our Holy Mother drew;

Me she got rid of, and made prize of you, · I, like an idle Truant, fond of play,

Doting on toys, and throwing gems away,

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