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To let no noble flave come near,
her tail within the grave.
Hind and Panther, ver. 1. + Orig. Sticks; purposely mis-spelt, to make it "the *** dread of dogs."
HE vulgar notion of poetic fire
Is, that laborious Art can ne'er aspire,
* Dr. William Coward, a physician of some eminence. He was author of a great variety of treatises on various subjects, medical, poetical, and religious. The latter having been principally of a sceptical nature, he is generally ranked amongst the Deistical writers. N.
Through your Perspective we can plainly fee,
ANACREONTIC. WHEN Fame did o’er the spacious plains
The lays she once had learn’d, repeat; And listen’d to the tuneful strains,
And wonder'd who could fing so sweet : "I was thus. The Graces held the lyre,
Th’harınonious frame the Muses strung, The Loves and Smiles compos’d the choir;
And Gay transcrib'd what Phoebus sung,
AUTHOR OF THAT CELEBRATED TREATISE IN FOLIO, CALLED
THE LAND-TAX BILL.
CHEN Poets print their works, the scribbling crew
Stick the bard o'er with bays, like Christmas-pew: Can meagre poetry such fame deserve ? Can poetry, that only writes to starve ? And shall no laurel deck that famous head, In which the Senate's annual law is bred ? That hoary head, which greater glory fires, By nobler ways and means true fame acquires. O had I Virgil's force, to sing the man, Whose learned lines can millions raise per ann. Great Lownds's praise should swell the trump of fame, And rapes and wapentakes resound his name!
If the blind Poet gain’d a long renown By singing every Grecian chief and town; Sure Lownds’s prose much greater fame requires, Which sweetly counts five thousand knights and
squires, Their seats, their cities, parishes, and thires. VOL. I.
Thy Thy copious preamble so smoothly runs, Taxes no more appear like legal duns ; Lords, Knights, and Squires, th’ Asessor's power obey, We read with pleasure, though with pain we pay.
Ah! why did Coningsby thy works defame ! That author's long harangue betrays his name. After his speeches can his pen
Under what science shall thy works be read ?
Ev'n Button's wits are nought, compar'd to thee,