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And every brother rake will smile to see That miracle, a moralist in me. No matter- when some bard in virtue strong, Gifford perchance, shall raise the chastening song,

Then sleep my pen for ever! and my voice

Be only heard to hail him, and rejoice; Rejoice, and yield my feeble praise, though I May feel the lash that Virtue must apply.

As for the smaller fry, who swarm in shoals

From silly Hafiz up to simple Bowles, Why should we call them from their dark abode,

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In broad St. Giles's or in Tottenham-road?

Or (since some men of fashion nobly dare To scrawl in verse) from Bond-street or the Square?

If things of ton their harmless lays indite, Most wisely doom'd to shun the public sight,

What harm? In spite of every critic elf, Sir T. may read his stanzas to himself; Miles Andrews still his strength in couplets try,

And live in prologues, though his dramas die.

Lords too are bards, such things at times befall,

And 't is some praise in peers to write at all.

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