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Nay, had honest TOM SOUTHERN but been within

call

But at last he grew wanton, and laugh'd at them all:

And fo fpying one who came only to gaze,
A hater of verfe, and defpifer of plays;
To him in great form, without any delay,
(Tho' a zealous FANATICK) prefented the bay.

All the wits stood astonish'd, at hearing the God
So gravely pronounce an election fo odd:
And tho' PRIOR and POPE only laugh'd in his face,
Most others were ready to fink in the place.

Yet fome thought the vacancy open was kept,
Concluding the bigot would never accept:
But the hypocrite told them, he well understood,
Tho' the function was wicked, the ftipend was good.

At laft in rufh'd EUSDEN, and cry'd,

Who fhall

have it, 'But I, the true laureat, to whom the king gave it?" APOLLO begg'd pardon, and granted his claim; But vow'd tho', till then he ne'er heard of his name.

On the TIMES.

S1

WINCE in vain our parfons teach,
Hear, for once, a poet preach.

Vice has lost its very name,

Skill and coz'nage thought the fame;
Only playing well the game.

Foul contrivances we fee
Call'd but ingenuity;
Ample fortunes often made
Out of frauds in ev'ry trade,
Which an aukward child afford
Enough to wed the greatest lord.
The miser starves to raise a fon;
But, if once the fool is gone,
Years of thrift fcarce serve a day,
Rake-hell fquanders all away.
Husbands fneaking for a place,
Or toiling for their pay;
While the wives undo their race
By petticoats and play :
Breeding boys to drink and dice,
Carrying girls to comedies,

Where ma-ma's intrigues are shown,

Which ere long will be their own.

Having first at fermon flept,

Tedious day is weekly kept

By worfe hypocrites, than men,
Till Monday comes to cheat agen.
Ev'n among the noblest-born,
Moral virtue is a scorn;
Gratitude, but rare at best;
And fidelity a jeft.

All our wit but party-mocks;
All our wifdom, raising stocks:
Counted folly to defend

Sinking fide, or falling friend.
Long an officer may serve;

Prais'd and wounded, he may starve:
No receipt to make him rife,

Like inventing loyal lyes.
We, whofe ancestors have shin'd

In arts of peace, and fields of fame,

To ill and idleness inclin'd,

Now are grown a publick fhame.
Fatal that inteftine jar,

Which produc'd our civil war!
Ever fince, how fad a race!
Senfelefs, violent, and bafe!

On the Duke of York banished to Bruffels.

Feel a ftrange impulfe, a ftrong defire,

(For what vain thoughts will not a muse inspire?) To fing on lofty fubjects, and to raise

My own low fame, by writing JAME S's praise.
Oft have we heard the wonders of his youth;
Obferv'd thofe feeds of fortitude and truth;
Which fince have spread fo wide, fo wondrous high,
The good distress'd beneath that shelter lie.

In arms more active than ev'n war requir'd,
And in the midst of mighty chiefs admir'd.
Of all Heav'n's gifts, no temper is fo rare,
As fo much courage, mix'd with so much care.
When martial fire makes all the fpirits boil,
And forces youth to military toil;

No wonder it should fiercely then engage;
Women themselves will venture in a rage:
But in the midst of all that furious heat,
While fo intent on actions brave and great,
For other lives to feel such tender fears,
And careless of his own, to care for theirs;
Is that composure which a hero makes,

And which illuftrious YORK alone partakes,

*

With that great man whose fame has flown fo far, Who taught him first the noble art of war.

*The Marefchal de Turenne.

Oh wondrous pair! whom equal virtues crown ; Oh worthy of each other's vaft renown!

None but TURENNE with YORK could glory fhare,
And none but YORK deserve so great a master's care.
Scarce was he come to bless his native isle,
And reap the foft rewards of glorious toil,
But like ALCIDES, ftill new dangers call
His courage forth, and ftill he vanquish'd all.

At fea, that bloody fcene of boundless rage,
Where floating caftles in fierce flames engage,
(Where MARS himself does frowningly command,
And by lieutenants only fights at land)

For his own fame howe'er he fought before,
For England's honour yet he ventur'd more.

In those black times, when faction raging high, Valour and innocence were forc'd to fly,

With YORK they fled; but not depreft his mind;
Still, like a diamond in the duft, it shin'd.
When from afar his drooping friends beheld
How in distress he ev'n himself excell'd;
How to his envious fate, his country's frown,
His brother's will, he facrific'd his own;

They rais'd their hearts, and never doubted more
But that juft Heav'n would all our joys restore.
So when black clouds furround heav'n's glorious face,
Tempestuous darknefs cov'ring all the place;
If we difcern but the least glimm'ring ray
Of that bright orb of fire which rules the day;
The chearful fight our fainting courage warms;
Fix'd upon that, we fear no future harms.

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