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We'll be merry and wise, but for Bloodshed we bar it,
No Red shall be seen here but your Port and good Claret,
What a P..... should we fight for? No Bayonets here,
Put the Sconces all round and the Borcles appear.
Look, the Wine blushes for us ! while it gently disgraces
Our unnatural Freaks and our mortify'd Faces.
Come let's do what we came for! let the Brimmers be

And a Health to all quiet Good-fellows go round!
Must I take off my Glass too? Then, Jack, prithee tell us
Thy new Mistress's Name: What a Mischief! ari jealous ?
Must her Name be a Secret? sions, then I've donc,
Hang the greedy Curmudgeon that cats all alone;
Eome discover, you Block-head! I'm sure I mistook ye,
Else in these Amours, Jack, was us'd to be lucky;
Well, but whifper it chen! I'll keep Counsel, ne'er fear it,
Is it the? the damn’d Jite ! Gad let no Body hear it ;
Why, Faith Jack chou'rt undone then, 'cwas fome Witch-

[craft I'm sure Cou'd betray thee to th? Arms of a Pockify'd Whore, Well, 'tis vain to repine, Boy, let us drink away Sorrow, Use thy Freedom to Nightg Man, let the Punk reign 10


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An Imitation of the 14th Epod in Hor.
Mollis Inertia cur tantam difuderit imis

Oblivionem fenfibus,
Pocula Lethaos ut fi ducentia Somnos

Arente Fauce traxerim,
Candide Macenas, occidis fæpe rogando, &c.

A ,

SK'me no longer, dear Sir Folri,

'Fore George my Brain's grown addle;


Nor bid me Pegasus beftride ;
Why should you ask a Sot to ride

That cannot keep his Saddle?


This was the poor Anacreon's Cafe,
When doating on a smooth-chinn'd Face;

He pin’d away his Carcafe.
To tune his Strings the Bard efsay'd,
The Devil a String the Bard obey'd,

And was not this a hard Case?


If you a conftant Mifs have got, Thank Heaven devoutly for your Lot,

Such Bleffings are not common. While I, condemn'd to endless Pain, Muft tamely drag Belinda's Chain,

Yet know the's worse than - Woman.

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A Tranflation from Horace of Mollis inertia,

February 85

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50 poor Anacreon, as they fay,

Bewitch'd by powerful Love,
Complain'd him often of his wound

Lu Melancholy Grove.


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The Mistress that you court, my Friend;

'Tis fit you fiould adore;
1, like a Fool, am Phygia's Slave,

Yet know the is a Whore.

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M A R.


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Without formal Petition

Thus ftands my Condition :
I am closely block'd up in a Garret,
Where I fcribble and smoak,
And sadly invoke
The powerful Aliftance of CLARET,
Four Children and a Wife,
'Tis hard on my Life,
Beside my Self and a Mures
To be all cloath'd and fed,
Now the Times are so dead,
By my fcribbling of Dogg'rel and News.
And what I shall do,
I'm a Wretch if I know,
So hard is the Fate of a Poet ;
I must either turn Rezue,
Or, what's as bad, Pedagogue,
And so drudge like a Thing that has no Wit,


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