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Yet, were he Heathen, Turk, or Jew, What is there in it strange or new? For, let us hear the weak pretence, His brethren find to take offence; Of whom there are but four at most; Who know there is a Holy Ghost : The rest, who boast they have conferr'd it, Like Paul's Ephesians, riever heard it; And, when they gave it, well 'tis known, They gave what never was their own.
Rundle a bishop! well he may; He's still a Christian more than they.
We know the subject of their quarrels; The man has learning, sense, and morals.
There is a reason still more weighty; 'Tis granted he believes a Deity. Has every circumstance to please us, Though fools may doubt his faith in Jesus. But why should he with that be loaded, Now twenty years from court exploded, And is not this objection odd From rogues who ne'er believed a God? For liberty a champion stout, Though not so Gospelward devout, While others, hither sent to save us, Come but to plunder and enslave us; Nor ever own'd a power divine, But Mammon, and the German line.
Say, how did Rundle undermine 'em?
Who show'd a better jus divinum?
From ancient canons would not vary,
But thrice; refus’d episcopari
Our bishop's predecessor, Magus,
Would offer all the sands of Tagus;
Or sell his children, house, and lands,
For that one gift, to lay on hands :
But all his gold could not avail
To have the spirit set to sale.
• His spirits of a sudden fail'd him ;
He stopp'd, and could not tell what aild him.
What was the message I receiv'd ?
Why certainly the captain rav'd ?
To dine with her! and come at three!
Impossible! it can't be me.
Or may be I mistook the word;
My lady—it must be my lord.
My lord's abroad; my lady too:
What minst th' unhappy doctor do?
“ Is captain Cracherode here, pray?""No."
“ Nay, then 'tis time for me to go.”
Am I awake, or do I dream?
I'm sure he call'd me by my name;
Nam'd me as plain as he could speak;
And yet there inust be some mistake.
Why, what a jest should I have been,
Had now my lady been within !
What could'I've said? I'm mighty glad
She went abroad-she'd thought me mad,
The hour of dining now is past :
Well then, I'll e'en go home and fast;
And, since I'scap'd being made a scoff,
I think I'm very fairly off.
My lady now returning home,
Calls, “i Cracherode, is the doctor come?"
He had not heard of him-“ Pray see,
'Tis now a quarter after three."
The captain walks about, and searches
Through all the rooms, and courts, and arches;
Examines all the servants round,
In vain--no doctor's to be found,
My lady could not choose but wonder:
“ Captain, I fear you've made some blunder:
But pray, to-morrow go at ten,
I'll try his manners once again;
Íf rudeness be th' effect of knowledge,
My son shall never see a college."
The captain was a man of reading, And much good sense, as well as breeding; Who, loath to blame, or to incense, Said little in his own defence. Next day another message brought : The doctor, frighten'd at his fault, Is dress'd, and stealing through the crowd, Now pale as death, then blush'd and bow'd, Panting-and faltering-humm'd and ha'd, “ Her ladyship was gone abroad; The captain too he did not know Whether he ought to stay or go;" Begg'd she'd forgive him. In conclusion, My lady, pitying his confusion, Calld her good nature to relieve him ; Told him, she thought she might believe him; And would not only grant his suit, But visit him, and eat some fruit; Provided, at a proper time He told the real truth in rhyme: "Twas to no purpose to oppose, She'd hear of no excuse in prose. The doctor stood not to debate, Glad to compound at any rate; So, bowing, seeningly complied; Though, if he durst, he had denied. But first, resolv'd to show his taste, Was too refin’d to give a feast : He'd treat with nothing that was rare, But winding walks and purer air; Would entertain without expense, Or pride or vain magnificence: For well he knew, to such a guest The plainest meals must be the best. To stomachs clogg'd with costly fare Simplicity alone is rare; While high, and pice, and curious meats Are really but vulgar treats.
Instead of spoils of Persian looms,
The costly boast of regal rooms,
Thought it more courtly and discreet
To scatter roses at her feet;
Roses of richest die, that shone
With native lustre, like her own:
Beauty that needs no aid of art
Through every sense to reach the heart:
The gracious dame, though well she knew
All this was much beneath her due,
Lik'd every thing—at least thought fit
To praise it par manière d'acquit.
Yet she, though seeming pleas'd, can 't bear
The scorching sun, or chilling air;
Disturb'd alike at both extremes,
Whether he shows or hides his beams :
Though seeming pleas'd at all she sees,
Starts at the ruffling of the trees,
And scarce can speak for want of breath,
In half a walk fatigued to death.
The doctor takes his hint from hence,
T'apologize his late offence:
“ Madam, the mighty power of use
Now strangely pleads in my excuse :
If you unus'd have scarcely strength
To gain this walk's untoward length;
If, frighten'd at a scene so rude,
Through long disuse of solitude;
If, long confin'd to fires and screens,
You dread the waving of these greens ;
you, who long have breath'd the fumes
Of city fogs and crowded rooms,
Do now solicitously shun
The cooler air and dazzling sun;
If his majestick eye you flee,
Learn hence t'excuse and pity me.
Consider what it is to bear
The powder'd courtier's witty sneer;
To see th' important man of dress
Scoffing my college awkwardness;
To be the strutting cornet's sport,
To run the gauntlet of the court,
Winning my way by slow approaches,
Through crowds of coxcombs and of coaches,
From the first fierce cockaded sentry,
Quite through the tribe of waiting gentry;
To pass so many crowded stages,
And stand the staring of your pages;
And after all, to crown my spleen,
Be told - You are not to be seen :'
you are, be forc'd to bear
The awe of your majestick air.
And can I then be faulty found,
In dreading this vexatious round?
Can it be strange, if I eschew
A scene so glorious and so new?
Or is he criminal that flies
The living lustre of your eyes?
THE DEAN'S MANNER OF LIVING.
On rainy days alone I dine
Upon a chick and pint of wine.
On rainy days I dine alone,
And pick my chicken to the bone :
But this my servants much enrages,
No scraps remain to save board wages,
In weather fine I nothing spend,
But often spunge upon a friend:
Yet, where he's not so rich as I,
I pay my club, and so good b'ye.