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On the left fide my breaft, what a mark it had made!
So faying, her bofom the carelefs difplay'd.
That feat of delight I with wonder survey'd ;
And forgot ev'ry word I defign'd to have said.

MERRY ANDREW.

BY THE SAME.

SLY Merry Andrew, the laft Southwark-fair
(At Barthol'mew he did not much appear,
So peevish was the edict of the may'r);

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At Southwark therefore, as his tricks he fhow'd,
To please our mafters, and his friends the croud;-
A huge neats-tongue he in his right-hand held, 6
His left was with a good black-pudding fill'd.
With a grave look, in this odd equipage,
The clownish mimic traverses the stage.
Why how now, Andrew! cries his brother droll;
To-days conceit, methinks, is fomething dull:
Come on, fir, to our worthy friends explain,
What does your emblematic worship mean?
Quoth Andrew, honest English let us speak:
Your emble- (what d'ye call 't) is heathen Greek,

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To tongue or pudding thou haft no pretence :
Learning thy talent is; but mine is sense.
That bufie fool I was, which thou art now;
Defirous to correct, not knowing how ;
With very good defign, but little wit,
Blaming or praifing things, as I thought fit.
I for this conduct had what I deserv’d;
And, dealing honeftly, was almost starv'd.
But, thanks to my indulgent ftars, I eat;
Since I have found the secret to be great.
O, dearest Andrew, fays the humble droll,
Henceforth may I obey, and thou controll;
Provided thou impart thy useful skill.
Bow then, fays Andrew; and, for once, I will.-
Be of your patrons mind, whate'er he fays;
Sleep very much; think little; and talk lefs:
Mind neither good nor bad, nor right nor wrong;
But eat your pudding, slave; and hold your tongue.

A reverend prelate ftopt his coach and fix,
To laugh a little at our Andrew's tricks :
But, when he heard him give this golden rule,
Drive on (he cry'd); this fellow is no fool.

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A REASONABLE AFFLICTION.

BY THE SAME.

On his death-bed poor Lubin lies:

His spouse is in despair :

With frequent fobs, and mutual cries, They both express their care.

A diff'rent cause, says parfon Sly, 5 The fame effect may give:

Poor Lubin fears, that he fhall die;

His wife, that he may live.

OCCASIONED BY VERSES SENT TO THE

AUTHOR IN HIS RETIREMENT, BY

MRS. ELIZABETH HIGGONS.

WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1690.

BY GEO. GRANVILLE, LORD LANSDOWNE.*

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CEASE, tempting Siren, cease thy flatt'ring strain,
Sweet is thy charming fong, but fung in vain :
When the winds blow, and loud the tempefts roar,
What fool would truft the waves, and quit the shore?
Early, and vain, into the world I came,
Big with falfe hopes, and eager after fame ;
Till looking round me, ere the race began,
Madmen, and giddy fools were all that ran :
Reclaim'd betimes, I from the lists retire,
And thank the gods who' my retreat inspire. 10
In happier times our ancestors were bred,
When virtue was the only path to tread:
Give me, ye gods! but the fame road to fame,
Whate'er my fathers dar'd, I dare the fame.
Chang'd is the scene, some baneful planet rules
An impious world, contriv'd for knaves and fools.

Born 1667; dyed 1735.

V. 10. whom.

Look now around, and with impartial eyes
Confider, and examine all who rife;

Weigh well their actions, and their treach'rous ends,
How greatness grows, and by what steps afcends;
What murders, treafons, perjuries, deceit ; 21
How many crush'd, to make one monster great.
Would you command? Have Fortune in your pow'r?
Hug when you ftab, and smile when you devour?
Be bloody, falfe, flatter, forfwear, and lye,
Turn pander, pathick, parafite, or spy;
Such thriving arts may your wifh'd purpose bring,
A minister at least, perhaps a king.

Fortune we most unjustly partial call,

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A mistress free, who bids alike to all;
But on fuch terms as only fuit the base,
Honour denies and fhuns the foul embrace.
The honeft man, who ftarves and is undone,
Not Fortune, but his vertue keeps him down.
Had Cato bent beneath the conq'ring cause,
He might have liv'd to give new fenates laws;
But on vile terms difdaining to be great,
He perish'd by his choice, and not his fate.
Honours and life, th' ufurper bids, and all
That vain miftaken men Good-fortune call, 40
Virtue forbids, and fets before his eyes
An honest death, which he accepts, and dies:
O glorious refolution! noble pride!

More nonour'd, than the tyrant liv'd, he dy'd;

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