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To me with readiness he did repair ;
And loyally did to me show,
How much himself he did abuse, Who credited a flattering, false, destructive, treacherous
'Twas never known a Muse e'er staid
And where wit’s lusty, shining god
Keeps his choice feraglio. So whilft our fortune smiles, our thoughts aspire, Pleasure and fame's our business, and desire,
Then, too, if we find
A promptnefs in the mind, The Muse is always ready, always kind.
But if th’old harlot, Fortune, once denies Her favour, all our pleasure and rich fancy dies, And then th’ young, slippery jilt, the Muse, too from
I found all he had faid
O how O how I hugg'd my welcome friend ! And much my Muse I could not discommend !
For I ne'er liv'd in Fortune's grace, She always turn’d her back, and fed from me apace, And never once vouchsaf'd to let me see her face.
Then, to confirm me more,
See here, my son, (said he) the valued prize;
With a more horrid train
Or haunted Chloris in the mall.
In which he wrote his Sodom Farce ; A wretch whom old diseases did so bite,
That he writ bawdry sure in spite,
To ruin and disgrace it quite.
Next him appear’d that blundering sot,
By's fat broad face you'll know the owl.
And only in the dark he strays ; Still wretch enough to live, with worse fools fpends
his days, And for old shoes and scraps repeats dull plays.
Then next there follow'd, to make up
the throng, Lord Lampoon and Monsieur Song, Who fought her love, and promis’d for’t To make her famous at the court.
The City Poet too was there, In a black satin
and his own hair,
To beget a pageant on her
They took her all by turns aside.
The Poets' scandal, and the Muses' shame,
But let me pause, for 'twill ask time to tell How he was born, how bred and ere, and where he now does dwell.
Down in an obscure vale, 'Midst fogs and fens, whence mists and vapours rise,
Where never sun was seen by eyes,
Under a desert wood,
An ill-pil'd cottage stood,
There liv'd a widow'd witch,
That us'd to mumble curfes eve and morn,
Like one whom wants and care had worn;
Meagre her looks, and funk her eyes,
And when she curs’d, she seem'd to pray. Her hellish charms had all a holy dress,
And bore the name of godliness,
Honest habits they all wore,
Greedy as wolves, and sensual too as swine.
And, for their turn, interpret backward too.
Idolatry with her was held impure, Because, besides herself, no idol she 'd endure. Though not to paint, she'd arts to change the face,
And alter it in heavenly fashion.
Her late dead pander was of well-known fame,
She a sworn foe to king, his peace, and laws, So will be ever, and was callid (bless us !) the good old caufe.
When all things wore the face of woe,
To scourge the pride of this rebellious town. He came, and o’er all Britain stretch'd his conquering
hand : Till in th' untrodden streets unwholsome grass
Grew of great stalk, its colour gross,
And melancholic poisonous green ; Like those coarse fickly weeds on an old dunghill seen,
Where some murrain-murther d hog,
Poison’d cat, or strangled dog,
And the cold foil productive made.
Desolation foon he made,
When, in her pious old disguise,
Began to thew herself again.
Straight they were ready at her call :