XI.

Yet Speech, ev'h there, fubmiffively withdraws [Cause;

From Rights of Subjects, and the Poor Man's

[Laws.

Then pompous Silence reigns, and ftills the noifie

XII.

Past Services of Friends, good Deeds of Foes,

What Fav'rites gain, and what th' Exchequer

Lowes,

Fly the forgetful World, and in thy Arms repose,

XIII.

The Country Wit, Religion of the Town, The Courtier's Learning, Policy o'th' Gown, Are best by thee exprefs'd, and fhine in thee alone.

XIV.

The Parfon's Cant, the Lawyer's Sophistry,' Lord's Quibble, Critick's Jeft; all end in thee, All reft in Peace at laft, and fleep eternally. ST

то

B

Egone ye Criticks, and refrain your Spite,

Codras writes on, and will for ever write; The heaviest Mufe the swifteft Course has gone, As Clocks run fafteft when moft Lead is on. What tho' no Bees around your Cradle flew, Nor on your Lips diftill'd their golden Dew? Yet have we oft discover'd in their stead, A Swarm of Drones, that buzz'd about your Head. When you, like Orpheus, ftrike the warbling Lyre, Attentive Blocks stand round you, and admire.

Wit, past thro' thee, no longer is the fame,
As Meat digested takes a diff'rent Name;
But Sense must sure thy fafeft Plunder be,
Since no Reprizals can be made on thee.
Thus thou may'ft Rife, and in thy daring Flight
(Tho' ne'er fo weighty) reach a wondrous height;
So, forc'd from Engines, Lead it felf can fly,
And pondrous Slugs move nimbly thro' the Sky.
Sure Bavius copy'd Mavius to the full,

And Charilus taught Codrus to be dull;

Therefore, dear Friend, at my Advice give o'er
This needlefs Labour, and contend no more,
To prove a dull Succeffion to be true,
Since 'tis enough we find it fo in You.

A

SIN

S. The Bard

[Shores;

The Bard who spread her Fame to distant Since nobler Pens their mournful Lays fufpend; My honest Zeal, if not my Verfe, commend,

Forgive the Poet, and approve the Friend.

Your Care had long his fleeting Life restrain'd, One Table fed you, and one Bed contain'd; For his dear Sake long restless Nights you bore, While rat❜ling Coughs his heaving Veffels tore, Much was his Pain, but your Affliction more. Oh! had no Summons from the noify Gown Call'd thee, unwilling, to the naufeous Town, Thy Love had o'er the dull Disease prevail'd, Thy Mirth had cur'd where baffled Phyfick fail'd ; But fince the Will of Heav'n his Fate decreed, To thy kind Care my worthless Lines fucceed; Fruitless our Hopes, tho' pious our Effays, Yours to preserve a Friend, and mine to praise.

Oh! might I paint him in Miltonian Verfe, With Strains like those he fung on Glofter's Herfø; But with the meaner Tribe I'm forc'd to chime, And wanting Strenth to rife, defcend to Rhyme. With