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Beauty's difpers'd through all the kind,
Through all the Universe does move,

And 'rill it be to One contin'd,
I think I've lawful Cause to rove.

To Day this Face delights my Eye, But when I'm ask'd not to give o'er ;

Your Servant; I've fed heartily: Surfeits are dangʻrous. Not a Bit more.

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The Campaign. A Song.

Ount, my Boys, mount; let us view the campaiga;

At Hounslow the Tents do cover the Plain.
Hark! the Trumpets found, the Troopers are hors'u,
If you stay longer, the Sight will be loft.
Hark too ! the Hautboys, the Grenadiers come ;
Now, in the Rear, march the Foot with the Drums.
Halley Gentlemen, Hafte, our Friends will present's
With a kind Bottle, and Wench in their Tents,

See yonder, Sir, see how dazling they shew?
Their Cloaths, Hats, and Arms, are brandishing new.
How dreadfully look the Big'nets advanc'd !
How ,proudly those Jenners before 'em do prance !
See how the Housings and Trappings do blaze !
How admiring Crowds upon 'em do gaze !
Whigs and old Rebels are daín'd at the Sight';
They curse in their Hearts, and view 'em with Spight.

III. Now, now we are there ; yon's the General's Tent; All that long Row's for the Queen's Regiment ; Yonder’s the Sutler's; and there the Smiths stand, With Anvils, and Forges, all ready at Hand. O Windsor and Hounslow ! I hope your Stock's large, You're like to maintain an Infantry Charge. The Strollers o'th' Serand and Park will come dowii, And leave at the Camp what they got in the Town.


The Libertine, A Song.

1. I

Languilh no more at the Glance of your Eye;

Can view you all o'er, and ne'er fetch a deep Sigh : No more shall your Voice, Cyren-like, charm my Heart; In vain you may figh, use in vain all your Art. No, Madam, I'm free; when I'm recreant again, Let me, unpity'd, feel agaiņ my old Pain.

II. I'll Libertine turn, nfe all Things in common ; No more than one Dish, be bound to one Woman ; Yet I'll ftill love the Sex, but my Bottle before 'em; I'll use 'em fomecimes, but I'll never adore 'em. Go, Madam, be wise: When a Woodcock's i'th' Noofe, Be sure hold him faft, left, like me, he gets loose.

A Catch.


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An Hour's Enjoyment makes him look like an Afs. Let the ambitious Fop to Honours aspire, He burns with the Torment of boundless Desire. And let the old Miser hoard up his curs’d-Pelf, He enriches his Bags, bue he beggars himself. The Lover, Ambitious, and Miser, are Fools; There's no folid Joy, but in jolly full Bowls.

2:22282 msomassage 529352 Match for the Devil. In Imitation of

M. Rabelais.


Hile others idle Tales relate,

To fright Men from the marry'd State,
Do thou, my Muse, in humble Verse,
The Virtues of a Wife rehearse.

A Farmer of much Wealth possess’d;
With Friends too, while they lafted, blefsd,


Kept open House, and lov’d to feast
Those who deferv'd and wanted lea it. I
To Pleasures he prescrib’d no Bounds;
He kept his Hunters, Pack of Hounds.
Somewhat lascivious, somewhat vain,
Some Gentleman had cross'd the Strain,
To try all Joys, and Plagues of Life,
He boldly took a Buxom Wife.
Now freíh Expences, fresh Delights,
Attend the Day, and crown the Nights.
His new Acquaintance crowd the House;
Some praise the Fare, but most the Spouse;
Each strove who should divert the most,
Kut still 'twas at the Husband's Cost.
He, thoughtlefs, prais'd the expenfive Pleasure,
To please his dear domestick Treasure,
All Care was fcorn'd, and Bus'ness vairishid,
The present Joys Thoughts fucure vanih'd:
And being boch of Years but vernal,
They cliought their wealth and Loves eternal.

But oh! how vain are all Mens Fancies !
Ill-grounded Projects, mere komances.
What Whims the wifest entertain;
What strange Delusions fill our Brain!
When we are eager to poifels,
We smooth the Road to Happiness :
We level Mountains, empty Seas,
And Reason fierce Desires obeys.
The greatest Danger we defpife;
Our Paffion fees, and not our Eyes.

Our Pair' now find, some Seasons paft,
Nor Wealth, ņo: Love, would always lafty
Unless improv'd with Application;
But that in one is out of Fashion.
Gold indeed preserves its Sway,
But Love! who does thy Pow'r obey ?
E'en Women now profess to range,
And all their Pleasures is in Change ;
Now seek the present Joys e improve,
Yielding to many that call Love ;



Artful new Lovers to engage,
Then flight bis Love, and scorn his Rage.
Thus these behold what they poffefs’d,
And wonder how they once were bless'di.
Their Jars are thought on, and improv'd;
They hate themselves, that once they lov'd.
Thus lab'ring on in dirty Road,
They fnarl, and curse the heavy Load.

How happy were our mortal Srate,
Were Indolence but our worst Fate!
No foouer Joys the Place forfake,
But racking Pains Dominion take ej
No sooner Love had fled the Pair,
When enter'd meager Want and Care.
The House, which had such vast Resort,
When Riot seem'd to keep his Court,
Is now forfook, a lonely Cell,
Where Silence, undifturb'd, might dwel).
Clean Pans and Spirs the Walls now gracid,
For Ornament the Pewter's plac'd,
Bright Dishes entertain the Eye ;
No Kitchin-Smoke offends the Sky.
Hogsheads with dismal Sounds complainid,
Both Hogsheads and the Mau were drain'd.
His Landlord, stern, his Rents demands.
Stray'd are his Flocks, un plough'd his Lands.
The Wife advises Friends to try ;
Her's, she was sure, would not deny.
A thousand Vows the had receiv'd ;
Each Vow repaid, for Me believ'd.

But oh! how soon did they discover,
'Tis Wealth brings Friends, the Face a Lover.
His Wants are heard without Relief;.
Her Eyes afford not Joy, nor Grief.
His wafted Fortune all affrights;
Her faded Beaur y none invites.

Oppress’d wich Wants, to Woods he flies,
And seeks the Peace his House clenies,
Roving, laneming his Condition,
Fate kindly sent him a Physician.


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His Habit, Cane, and formal Face,
Shew'd he was of Geneva Race :
But cloven Feet the Fiend detect,
And prov'd him Author of the Seet.
With Joy hę spy'd the Wretches Cares,
And, fawning, thus he fpread his Snares.-
My Son! with Pity I have seen
(Tho' I've a Foe to Pity been)
The fad Disasters you endure,
That of a Wife admits no Cure.
I know your Wants, and her's I guess;
I cannot swear I'll both redress,
That Task, I fear, is too uneasy;
But if Poffeffions large will please ye,
Behold this fpacious Tract of Land,
All that you see's at my Command.
I'll give it freely all to thee,
If we, on Arricles, agree.
I can perform it, I'm the Devil
Nay, never start, Man, I'll be civil.
It shall be yours to plough and low;
All that above the Ground does grow,
What e'er it is, hall be ney due;
The rest I freely give to you.

Gladly the Farmer does submit,
For pinching Want harh taught him Wit.
With Roots he plants the fruitful Soil;
Which well rewarded all his Toil.
But to his Landlord's jilted Share
A weedy Harvest does a ppear:

The Devil, vext, new Cov'nants makes,,
Next Year all under Ground he takes.
Then golden Wheat the Land cloes bear,
And useless Roots are Satan's Share,
The Fiend resolv'd to spoil the Jeft,
And thus the Farmer he addrest,

Believe me, Friend, thou art a Sharper,
Satan himself has caught a Tartar ;
I've seen thy Wit, but now, at length,
I am resolv'd to try thy Strength.

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