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To paint a Hero, we enquire

For fomething that will conquer Fire.
Would you defcribe Turenne or Trumpe,
Think of a Bucket or a Pump.

Are these too low? then find out Grandeur,
Call my Lord C a Salamander.
'Tis well.But fince we live among
Detractors with an evil Tongue,
Who may object against the Term,
Pliny fhall prove what we affirm :
Pliny fhall prove, and we'll apply,
And I'll be judg'd by Standers-by.

FIRST then, our Author has defin'd
This Reptil, of the Serpent kind,
With gaudy Coat, and fhining Train,
But loathfom Spots his Body itain:
Qut from fome Hole obfcure he flies,
When Rains defcend, and Tempests rife,
Till the Sun clears the Air; and then
Crawls back neglected to his Den.

So when the War has rais'd a Storm ́
I've feen a Snake in human Form,
All ftain'd with Infamy and Vice,
Leap from the Dunghill in a trice,
Burnish and make a gaudy fhow,
Become a General, Peer and Beau,
Till Peace hath made the Sky Serene,
Then fhrink into its Hole again.

All this we grant why, then look yonder
Sure that must be a Salamander!
FARTHER, we are by Pliny told,
This Serpent is extreamly cold, it
So cold, that put it in the Fire,
"Twill make the very Flames expire.
Befides, it fpews a filthy Froth,.
(Whether theo Rage, or Love, or both)
CAMDI qoN balls you s

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Of

Of Mater purulent and white,
Which happen'd on the Skin to light,
And there corrupting to a Wound,
Spreads Leprofie and Baldnefs round.

So have I feen a batter'd Beau,
By Age and Claps grown cold as Snow,
Whole Breath or Touch, where e'er he came,
Blew out Love's Torch, or chill'd the Flame:
And fhould fome Nymph, who ne'er was cruel,
Like Carleton cheap, or fam'd Duruel,
Receive the Filth which he ejects,
She foon would find the fame Effects.

Her tainted Carcafe to
Carcafe to purfue,

THI

from the Salamander's Spew A difmal Shedding of her Locks, And if no Leprofie, a Pox.

Then I'll appeal to each By-ftander, mani
Whether this ben't a Salamander?

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BAUCIS

AND

PHILE MON.

Imitated from the Eighth Book of OVID.
Written 1706.

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N Antient Times, as Story tells, The Saints would often leave their Cells; And ftrole about, but hide their Quality, To try good People's Hospitality. Ir happen'd on a Winter Night, As Authors of the Legend write, Two Brother Hermits, Saints by Trade, Taking their Tour in Masquerade; Difguis'd in tatter'd Habits, went To a fmall Village down in Kent Where, in the Strolers Canting Strain, They begg'd from Door to Door in vain; Try'd ev'ry Tone might Pity win, But not a Soul would let them in.

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OUR wand'ring Saints in woful State, Treated at this ungodly Rate;

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Having thro' all the Village pafs'd,
To a fmall Cottage came at laft;
Where dwelt a good old honeft Yeoman,
Call'd, in the Neighbourhood, Philemon.
Who kindly did the Saints invite
In his poor Hut to pafs the Night;
And then the Hofpitable Sire
Bid Goody Baucis mend the Fire;
While he from out of Chimney took
A Flitch of Bacon off the Hook;
And freely from the fatteft fide
Cut out large flices to be fri'd:
Then ftept afide to fetch 'm Drink,
Fill'd a large Jug up to the Brink;
And faw it fairly twice go round;
Yet (what is wonderful) they found
'Twas ftill replenish'd to the Top,
As if they ne'er had touch'd a Drop.
The good old Couple was amaz'd,
And often on each other gaz'd;
For both were frighted to the Heart,
And just began to cry; What art

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Then foftly turn'd afide to view,
Whether the Lights were burning blue.
The gentle Pilgrims foon aware on't,
Told em their Calling, and their Errand: T
Good Folks, you need not be afraid,
We are but Saints, the Hermits faid ;
No Hurt fhall come to You, or Yours, ba
But, for the Pack of churlish Boors,
Not fit to live on Chriftian Ground,
They and their Houfes fhall be droun'd
Whilft you fhall fee your Cottage rife, o
And grow a Church before your Eyes.
THEY fcarce had fpoke; when fair or foft,'!'
The Roof began to mount aloft;

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Aloft rofe ev'ry Beam and Rafter,
The heavy Wall, clim'd flowly after.
THE Chimney widn'd, and grew higher,
Became a Steeple with a Spire,

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THE Kettle to the Top was hoift, And there stood faft'ned to a Joift: But with the Upfide down, to fhew It's Inclinations far below; In vain; for a fuperior Force Apply'd at Bottom, ftops its Course, Doom'd ever in Sufpence to dwell, "Tis now no Kettle, but a Bell., A wooden Jack, which had almost Loft by Difufe the Art to Roast, A fudden Alteration, feels, Increas'd by new Inteftine Wheels d And, what exalts the Wonder more The Number made the Motion flow'r: The Flyer tho't had Leaden Feet, Turn'd round fo quick, you fcarce could fee't; But flackn'd by fome, fecret Power, Now hardly moves an Inch an Hour The Jack and Chimney near ally'd,e Had never left each other's Side; The Chimney to a Steeple grown, sitr The Jack wou'd not be left alone, But up again the Steeple rear'd,allot Fo Became a Clock, and ftill adher'd And ftill its love, to Houfhold Cares By a fhril Voice at Noon declares, Warning the Cook-maid not to burn That Roaft-meat, which it cannot turn. The groaning Chair began to crawl, Like a huge Snail along the Wall; There ftuck aloft, in Publick View, And with fmall Change a Pulpit grew. MIA

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