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ENEATH a church-yard yew,


Decay'd and worn with age,

At dusk of eve methought I spy'd

Poor Slender's ghost, that whimpering cryed,

O fweet, O fweet Anne Page!

Ye gentle bards! give ear!

Who talk of amorous rage,

Who fpoil the lily, rob the rose,

Come learn of me to weep your woes:

O fweet, O fweet Anne Page!
Why should fuch labour'd ftrains
Your formal Mufe engage?

I never dreamt of flame or dart,
That fir'd my breaft or pierc'd my heart,
But figh'd, O fweet Anne Page!

And you whofe love-fick minds
No med'cine cap affuage!
Accufe the leech's art no more,
But learn of Slender to deplore;

O fweet, O sweet Anne Page!

And ye! whofe fouls are held,

Like linnets in a cage!

Who talk of fetters, links, and chains,

Attend and imitate my ftrains!

O fweet, O fweet Anne Page!

And you

who boast or grieve,

What horrid wars we wage!

Of wounds receiv'd from many an eye;
Yet mean as I do, when I figh,
O fweet, O fweet Anne Page!

Hence every fond conceit

Of fhepherd or of fage;

'Tis Slender's voice, 'tis Slender's way
Expreffes all you have to say,
Ofweet, O fweet Anne Page!




Fortune! if my prayer of old Was ne'er folicitous for gold, With better grace thou may'st allow My fuppliant wish, that asks it now. Yet think not! goddess! I require it For the fame end your clowns defire it. In a well-made effectual string,

Fain would I fee Lividio fwing!

Hear him, from Tyburn's height haranguing,
But fuch a cur's not worth one's hanging.
Give me, O goddefs! store of pelf,

And he will tye the knot himself.



"Servum fi potes, Ole, non habere, "Et regem potes, Ole, non habere."



Afk'd a friend amidst the throng,

Whofe coach it was that trail'd along : "The gilded coach there-don't ye mind? That with the footmen ftuck behind."

O Sir! fays he, what! han't you feen it?
'Tis Damon's coach, and Damon in it.
'Tis odd, methinks, you have forgot

Your friend, your neighbour, and—what not!
Your old acquaintance Damon!

But faith his equipage is new."

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"Blefs me, faid I, where can it end? What madness has poffefs'd my friend? Four powder'd flaves, and thofe the tallest, Their ftomachs doubtlefs not the fmalleft! Can Damon's revenue maintain

In lace and food, fo large a train?

I know his land-each inch of ground-
"Tis not a mile to walk it round-
If Damon's whole eftate can bear
To keep his lad and one-horse chair,
I own 'tis past my comprehenfion."
Yes, Sir, but Damon has a penfion-


Thus does falfe ambition rule us, Thus pomp delude, and folly fool us; To keep a race of flickering knaves, He grows himself the worst of flaves.



ET Sol his annual journeys run,

And when the radiant task is done,

Confefs, through all the Globe, 'twould pofe him,

To match the charms that Celia fhews him.

And fhould he boaft he once had feen
As just a form, as bright a mein,
Yet must it still for ever pofe him,
To match-what Celia never fhews him.

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peace for this county;

Who, in the whole courfe of his pilgrimage
Through a trifling ridiculous world,
Maintaining his proper dignity,

Notwithstanding the fcoffs of ill-difpofed perfons,
And wits of the age,

That ridiculed his behaviour,

Or cenfured his breeding;

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Following the dictates of nature,
Defiring to ease the afflicted,
Eager to fet the prifoners at liberty,
Without having for his end

The noife, or report fuch things generally cause in the world,

(As he was feen to perform them of none)
But the fole relief and happiness,
Of the party in diftrefs;

Himself refting easy,

When he could render that fo;

Not griping, or pinching himself,
To hoard up fuperfluities;

Not coveting to keep in his poffeffion
What gives more difquietude, than pleasure;
But charitably diffufing it

To all round about him:

Making the most forrowful countenance
To fimile,

In his prefence;

Always bestowing more than he was asked,
Always imparting before he was defired;
Not proceeding in this manner,
Upon every trivial fuggeftion,

But the moft mature, and folemn deliberation;
With an incredible prefence and undauntedness

of mind;

With an inimitable gravity and oeconomy

of face;


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