Go forward, cits! go forward, squires!
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-maker 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, forswear,
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 fcientific body,
But the first cutting at a gawdy?

And whence fuch shoals, in bare conditions,
That ftarve 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

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, obferving 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,

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 honest, 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 strand
Old Charon fuffer'd them to land;
So ere we meet a court's careffes,

No doubt our fouls must change their dresses :
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 fcan,
You'd hint a beau was not a man:

Say,

Say, women then are fond of places;
I wave all difputable cafes.

A man perhaps would fomething linger,
Were his lov'd rank to coft-a finger;
Or were an ear or toe the price on 't,
He might deliberate once or twice on 't;
Perhaps afk Gataker's advice on 't.
And many, as their frame grows old,
Would hardly purchase it with gold.

But women with precedence ever;
'Tis their whole life's fupreme endeavour;
It fires their youth with jealous rage,
And ftrongly animates their age.
Perhaps they would not fell out-right,
Or maim a limb-that was in fight;
Yet on worse terms they fometimes chufe it;
Nor ev'n in punishments refufe it.
Pre-eminence in pain, you cry!
All fierce and pregnant with reply.
But lend your patience, and your ear,
An argument fhall make it clear.
But hold, an argument may fail,

Befide my title says, a tale.

Where Avon rolls her winding ftream,

Avon, the Mufes' favourite theme!

Avon, that fills the farmers' purfes,

And decks with flowers both farms and verses,
She vifits many a fertile vale-

Such was the scene of this my

tale.

For

For 'tis in Evesham's vale, or near it,

That folks with laughter tell and hear it.
The foil with annual plenty bleft
Was by young Corydon poffeft.
His youth alone I lay before ye,
As moft material to my story:

For ftrength and vigour too, he had them,
And 'twere not much amifs, to add them.

Thrice happy lout! whofe wide domain
Now green with grafs, now gilt with grain,
In ruffet robes of clover deep,
Or thinly veil'd, and white with fheep;
Now fragrant with the bean's perfume,
Now purpled with the pulfe's bloom,
Might well with bright allufion ftore me;
-Bút happier bards have been before me!
Amongst the various year's increase,
The ftrippling own'd a field of pease;
Which, when at night he ceas'd his labours,
Were haunted by fome female neighbours.
Each morn discover'd to his fight

The fhameful havock of the night:
Traces of this they left behind them,
But no inftructions where to find them.
The Devil's works are plain and evil,
But few or none have seen the Devil.
Old Noll, indeed, if we may credit
The words of Echard, who has faid it,
Contriv'd with Satan how to fool us;
And bargain'd face to face to rule us;

But