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Shall I wear cloaths in aukward England made?
Or sweat in cloth, to help the woollen trade?
In French embroid'ry and in Flanders lace
I'll fpend the income of a treasurer's place.
Deard's bill for baubles fhall to thousands mount,
And I'd out-di'mond ev'n the Di'mond count.
I would convince the world by tawdry cloaths,
That belles are less effeminate than beaux,
And Dr Lamb fhould pare my lordship's toes.

To boon companions I my time would give,
With players, pimps, and parafites I'd live.
I would with jockeys from Newmarket dine,
And to rough-riders give my choiceft wine.
I would carefs fome ftableman of note,
And imitate his language, and his coat.
My ev'nings all I would with fharpers spend,
And make the thief-catcher my bofom friend.
In Fig the prize-fighter by day delight,
And fup with Colly Cibber ev'ry night.

Should I perchance be fashionably ill,
I'd fend for Mifaubin, and take his pill.
I should abhor, though in the utmost need,
Arbuthnot, Hollins, Wigan, Lee, or Mead:
But if I found that I grew worfe and worse,
I'd turn off Mifaubin, and take a nurse.
How oft, when eminent Phyficians fail,
Do good old women's remedies prevail ?
When beauty's gone, and Chloe's struck with years,
Eyes the can couch, or fhe can fyringe ears.

Of

Of graduates I diflike the learned rout,
And chufe a female doctor for the gout.

Thus would I live, with no dull pedants curs'd, Sure, of all blockheads, fcholars are the worst. Back to your univerfities, ye fools!

And dangle arguments on ftrings in fchools:
Those schools which univerfities they call,
'Twere well for England were there none at all.
With ease that lofs the nation might sustain,
Supply' by Goodman's Fields and Drury-lane.
Oxford and Cambridge are not worth one farthing,
Compar'd to Haymarket, and Covent-garden:
Quit thofe, ye British youth, and follow thefe,
Turn players all, and take your 'fquires degrees.
Boaft not your incomes now, as heretofore,
Ye book-learn'd feats! the theatres have more:
Ye ftiff-rump'd heads of colleges be dumb,
A finging eunuch gets a larger fum.

Have fome of you three hundred by the year,
Booth, Rich, and Cibber, twice three thousand clear.
Should Oxford to her fifter Cambridge join,
A year's rack-rent, and arbitrary fine:

Thence not one winter's charge would be defray'd,
For playhouse, opera, ball, and masquerade.
Glad I congratulate the judging age,

The players are the world, the world the stage..

I am a politican too, and hate Of any party, minifters of state:

O 2

I'm

I'm for an act, that he, who fev'n whole years
Has ferv'd his king and country, lofe his ears.

Thus from my birth I'm qualified, you find,
To give the laws of Tafte to human kind.
Mine are the gallant schemes of politeffe,
For books, and buildings, politics, and dress.
This is true Tafte, and whofo likes it not,
Is blockhead, coxcomb, puppy, fool, and fot.

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The FEMALE SEDUCERS.

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IS faid of widow, maid, and wife,
That honour is a woman's life;

Unhappy fex! who only claim
A being in the breath of fame;
Which tainted, not the quick'ning gales
That sweep Sabæa's spicy vales,
Nor all the healing fweets reftore,
That breathe along Arabia's fhore.
The trav❜ller, if he chance to stray,
May turn uncenfur'd to his way;
Polluted ftreams again are pure,
And deepest wounds admit a cure;
But woman! no redemption knows,
The wounds of honour never close.

Tho' diftant ev'ry hand to guide,
Nor fkill'd on life's tempeftuous tide,
If once her feeble bark recede,
Or deviate from the courfe decreed,
In vain fhe feeks the friendless fhore,
Her swifter folly flies before;
The circling ports against her close,
And fhut the wand'rer from repofe;
Till, by conflicting waves opprefs'd,
Her found'ring pinnace finks to rest.

Are there no off'rings to atone
For but a fingle error?-None.

Tho'

Tho' woman is avow'd, of old,
No daughter of celestial mould,
Her temp'ring not without allay,
And form'd but of the finer clay,
We challenge from the mortal dame:
The ftrength angelic natures claim;
Nay more; for facred ftories tell,
That ev'n immortal angels fell.

Whatever fills the teeming fphere
Of humid earth, and ambient air,
With varying elements endu'd,
Was form'd to fall, and rife renew'd.
The ftars no fix'd duration know,
Wide oceans ebb, again to flow,
The moon repletes her waining face,
All beauteous, from her late difgrace,
And funs, that mourn approaching night,
Refulgent rife with new-born light.

In vain may death, and time fubdue,
While nature mints her race anew,
And holds fome vital fpark apart,
Like virtue, hid in ev'ry heart;
"Tis hence reviving warmth is feen,
To clothe a naked world in green.
No longer barr'd by winter's cold,
Again the gates of life unfold;
Again each infect tries his wing,
And lifts fresh pinions on the fpring;
Again from every latent root
The bladed ftem and tendril fhoot,

Exhaling

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