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Book-binder has spoil'd it ; he has made it begin at the End.

In some Grounds every Thing degenerates. Wheat runs into Barley, Artichokes turn to Thistles, Gra pes give nothing but Verjuice. And thus the best Subject grows flat and insipid in some Hands, that have the Rea verse of Midas's Talent, and turn every Thing into Lead.

He that writes abundance of Books, and gets abundance of Children, may, in some Sense, be said to be a Benefactor to the Publick, because he furnishes it with Bum-fodder and Soldiers s. but 'tis impossible he Mould. bestow enough upon them to make them appear handsomely in the World.

'Tis a sign of the last Necessity in an Author, when he is forc'd to steal for himself. 'Tis worse than robbing the Spittle.

Mr. Shadwell, in one of his last Plays, is so honest as to own, that he had stole a few Hints out of a Frenci Comedy, lut pretends 'twas rather out of Laziness thar Want. This Confeflion, instead of mending Matters, would have hang'd him at the Old-Baily; and why it should save him in Parnaffus, I can't tell.

'Tis strange that an Author should have a Gamelter's Fate, and not know when to give over. Had the City Bard stopp'd his Hand ai Prince Arthur, he had miss'd Knighthood, 'ois crue, but he had gone off with some Applause.

Cleander, don't give your self the Trouble to write against Nevius; stay but a while, and you'll find he'll fcribble himself out of his little Repuration.

One would almost swear, that some Authors had sery'd an Apprenticellip to a faggot-maker. A fubftantial Stiek or two on the outside, a promising Title, a "tolerable Preface, and all Rubbish within.

Never was there such a Shoal of Versifiers, and so few Poets.

Some Books, like the City of London, fare the better for being burnt.


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Plays and Romances fell as well as Books of Devotion ; but with this Difference, more people read the former than buy them ; and more buy the latter, than read them.

'Tis natural for every Man to be fond of his own Country, and what it produces. In the Parish-Church of Soest, in Westphalia, there is a Representation of the Last Supper in a Glass-Window, where our Saviour and the Apostles sit down before a Gammon of Bacon, the topping Dish of the Country, instead of the Pascal Lamb. Two hundred Years ago, perhaps in the Days of Popery, an English Painter would have made it a Surloin of Beef.

'Tho'Life is so short, we spend it as un profitable as if we had Methusela's Age to squander away. How many tiresome Dutch Volumes and, tedious Nights, has Dr. B

y gone through, to acquire all that useful Learning about Theriolian Cups, an-i Sicilian Groats !

'Twas a merry Saying of Rabelais, That a Man ought to buy all the bad Books that come out, because they will never be printed again.


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Luifer. Hold

The Trial of CUCKOLD S.
Cold ! Porter, shut the Gates of this our

august Court, that we may not be thus throng'd. Let no more come in, 'till we have clear'd the Bench of these Numbers we have before us already.

Porter. Mighty Emperor, your Commands Mall be obey'a.

Lucif. Now, my noble Lords, fet we our felves to search and examine what of late Years brings daily such Gluts and Spring-Tides of Souls to our infernal Mansions, 'specially at this time, when neither War, Famine, nor Plague, are abroad in the upper World, or at least in that part of it from whence I observe most of this Gang arrive ; Europe I mean : If there were War, 'twould be no Wonder so many were damn'd; the Liberties of the Sword surprize enough in their sins to throug our Courts of Justice : Nor is the Plague with


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