EPISTOLA VII. Q UINQUE dies tibi pollicitus me rure futurum, Dum pueris omnis pater, et matercula pallet ; EPISTLE VII. 'T Imitated in the Manner of Dr. SWIFT. IS true, my Lord, I gave my word, "The Dog-days are no more the cafe." "Tis true, but Winter comes apace : Then fouthward let your bard retire, Hold out fome Months 'twixt Sun and Fire, And you fhall fee the firft warm Weather, Me and the Butterflies together. 20 Non, quo more pyris vesci Calaber jubet hofpes, Tu me fecifti locupletem. Vefcere fodes. Jam fatis eft. At tu quantumvis tolle. Benigne. My Lord your Favours well I know; 'Tis with Diftinction you bestow; And not to ev'ry one that comes, Juft as a Scotfman does his Plums, Scatter your Favours on a Fop, And 'tis but juft, I'll tell ye wherefore, Be mighty ready to do good: But makes a diff'rence in his thought Now this I'll fay, you'll find in me A fafe Companion, and a free; 25 30 35 A word, pray, in your Honour's ear. 40 To give me back my Constitution! The sprightly Wit, the lively Eye, 45 |