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UCH is the Mode of these censorious Days,

The Art is loft of knowing how to praise ;
Poets are envious now, and Fools alone
Admire at Wit, because themselves have none.
Yet whatsoe'er is by vain Criticks thought,
Praising is harder much than finding fault;
In homely Pieces ev’n the Dutch excel,
Italians only can draw Beauty well.

As Strings, alike wound up, so equal prove,
That one resounding makes the other move;


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From such a cause our Satires please so much,
We sympathize with each ill-natur'd Touch,
And as the sharp Infection spreads about,
The Reader's Malice helps the Writer out.
To blame, is easy ; to commend, is bold ;
Yet, if the Muse inspires it, who can hold :
To Merit we are bound to give Applause,
Content to suffer in so just a Cause,

While in dark Ignorance we lay afraid
Of Fancies, Ghosts, and every empty Shade ;
Great HOBBS appear’d, and by plain Reason's Light
Put such fantastick Forms to shameful Flight.
Fond is their Fear, who think Men needs must be
To Vice enslavd, if from vain Terrors frce;
The Wise and Good, Morality will guide ;
And Superstition all the World beside.

In other Authors tho' the Thought be good, -Tis not sometimes so eas'ly understood ; That Jewel oft unpolish'd has remain’d, Some Words should be left out, and some explain’d;

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So that in search of Sense, we either stray,
Or else grow weary in so rough a way.
But here sweet Eloquence does always simile,
In such a choice, yet unaffected Style,
As must both Knowledge and Delight impart,
The Force of Reason, with the Flowers of Art;
Clear as a beautiful tsansparent Skin,
Which never hides the Blood, yet holds it in:
Like a delicious Stream it eyeç ran,
As smooth as Woman, but as strong as Man,

BACON himself, whose universal Wit
Does Admiration through the World beget,
Scarec more his Age's Ornament is thought,
Or greater Credit to his Country brought.

While Fanie is young, too weak to fly away,
Malice pursues her, like some Bird of Prey ;
But once on wing, then all the Quarrels cease ;
Envy her self is glad to be at peace,
Gives over, weary'd with so high a Flight,
Above her reach, and scarce within her Sight.


HOBBS to this happy Pitch arriy'd at last,
Might have look'd down with Pride on Dangers paft.
But such the Frailty is of Human Kind,
Men toil for Fame, which no Man lives to find;
Long ripening under-ground this China lics';
Fame bears no Fruit, till the vain Planter dies.

Thus Nature, tir’d with his unusual length
Of Life, which put her to her utmost Strength,
Such Stock of Wit unable to supply,
To spare her self, was glad to let him die.

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Written over a GAT E.


ERE lives a Man, who by relation

Depends upon Predestination;
For which the Learned and the Wise,
His Understanding much despise :
But I pronounce with loyal Tongue
Him in the right, them in the wrong,
For how could such a Wretch succeed?

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But that, alas, it was Decreed!



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