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I fly from pomp, I fly from plate!
I fly from falehood's fpecious grin!
Freedom I love, and form I hate,
And chufe my lodgings at an inn.
Here, waiter! take my fordid ore,

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Which lacqueys elfe might hope to win;
It buys, what courts have not in store
It buys me freedom at an inn.
Whoe'er has travel'd life's dull round,
Where'er his stages may have been,
May figh to think he ftill has found
The warmest welcome, at an inn.


WHAT village but has sometime feen

The clumfy shape, the frightful mein,

Tremendous claws, and fhagged hair,
Of that grim brute yclept a bear?
He from his dam, the learn'd agree,
Receiv'd the curious form you fee;
Who, with her plastic tongue alone,
Produc'd a vifage-like her own--
And thus they hint, in myftic fashion,
The powerful force of education *
Perhaps yon crowd of fwains is viewing
F'en now, the strange exploits of Bruin ;

Of a fond matron's education.


Who plays his antics, roars aloud;
The wonder of a gaping crowd!

So have I known an aukward lad,
Whofe birth has made a parish glad,
Forbid, for fear of fenfe, to roam,
And taught by kind mamma at home;
Who gives him many a well-try'd rule,
With ways and means-to play the fool.
In fenfe the fame, in ftature higher,
He fhines, ere long, a rural fquire,
Pours forth unwitty jokes, and swears,
And bawls, and drinks, but chiefly stares :
His tenants of fuperior sense

Carouze, and laugh, at his expence ;
And deem the paftime I 'm relating,
To be as pleasant, as bear-baiting.


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IR, will you please to walk before?"


-No, pray Sir-you are next the door.

- Upon mine honour, I'll not ftir-"
Sir, I'm at home, confider, Sir-
"Excufe me, Sir, I'll not go first."
Well, if I must be rude, I muft-
But yet I wish I could evade it-
'Tis ftrangely clownish, be perfuaded-


Go forward, cits! go forward, fquires!
Nor fcruple each, what each admires.

Life fquares not, friends, with your proceeding;
It flies, while you display your breeding;
Such breeding as one's granam preaches,
Or fome old dancing-mafter teaches.
O for fome rude tumultuous fellow,
Half crazy, or, at least, half mellow,
To come behind you unawares,

And fairly push you both down stairs!
But death's at hand-let me advife ye,
Go forward, friends! or he 'll furprize ye.
Befides, how infincere you are!

Do ye not flatter, lye, forfwear,
And daily cheat, and weekly pray,

And all for this-to lead the way?

Such is my theme, which means to prove, That though we drink, or game, or love, As that or this is moft in fashion,

Precedence is our ruling paffion.

When college-students take degrees,
And pay the beadle's endless fees,
What moves that scientific body,
But the first cutting at a gawdy?

And whence fuch fhoals, in bare conditions,
That starve and languish as physicians,
Content to trudge the streets, and stare at
The fat apothecary's chariot?

But that, in Charlot's chamber (fee
Moliere's "Medicin malgre lui”)

The leach, howe'er his fortunes vary,
Still walks before th' apothecary.

Flavia in vain has wit and charms,
And all that fhines, and all that warms
In vain all human race adore her,
For-Lady Mary ranks before her.
O Celia, gentle Celia! tell us,
You who are neither vain nor jealous!
The fofteft breaft, the mildeft mien !
Would you not feel some little spleen,
Nor bite your lip, nor furl your brow,
If Florimel, your equal now,

Should, one day, gain precedence of ye?
First ferv'd-though in a dish of coffee?
Plac'd firft, although, where you are found,
You gain the eyes of all around?

Nam'd first, though not with half the fame,
That waits my charming Celia's name?
Hard fortune! barely to inspire
Our fix'd eftcem, and fond defire!
Barely, where'er you go, to prove
The fource of univerfal love!-
Yet be content, observing this,
Honour 's the offspring of caprice :
And worth, howe'er you have pursued it,
Has now no power-but to exclude it.
You'll find your general reputation

A kind of fupplemental station.

Poor Swift, with all his worth, could ne'er,

He tells us, hope to rife a Peer;


So, to fupply it, wrote for fame :

And well the wit fecur'd his aim.
A common patriot has a drift,
Not quite fo innocent as Swift:

In Britain's cause he rants, he labours;
"He's honeft, faith"-have patience, neighbours,
For patriots may fometimes deceive,
May beg their friends' reluctant leave,
To serve them in a higher sphere;
And drop their virtue, to get there.-
As Lucian tells us, in his fashion,
How fouls put off each earthly paffion,
Ere on Elyfium's flowery ftrand
Old Charon fuffer'd them to land;
So ere we meet a court's careffes,

No doubt our fouls muft change their dreffes :
And fouls there be, who, bound that way,
Attire themselves ten times a day.

If then 'tis rank which all men covet,

And faints alike and finners love it;
If place, for which our courtiers throng
So thick, that few can get along;
For which fuch fervile toils are feen,
Who's happier than a king?-a queen.
Howe'er men aim at elevation,

'Tis properly a female paffion:

Women, and beaux, beyond all measure
Are charm'd with rank's extatic pleasure.
Sir, if your drift I rightly scan,
You'd hint a beau was not a man:


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