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To a thrice illuffrious Quack, Pedant, and Bard,

on bis incomparable Poen, calld, A Satyr a

gainst Wit. By the Right Hon. the Countess of Sandwich. T T Hou Fund of Nonsense, was it not enough,

That Cirs and pious Ladies lik'd thy Scuff, That, as thou copy'd ft Virgil, all might see Judicious Bell-men imitated thee: "That to thy Cadence Sextons fer their Chimes, And Nurses, skimming Poilets, humm'd thy Rhimes, But thou must need fall foul on Men of Sense, With Dullness equal to thy Impudence. Are DR-1, C-dr~11, Goth, Vak, B-le, Those Names of Wonder, that adorn onr ifle, Fit Subjects for thy vile pedantick Pen? Hence, fawcy Uler, to thy Desk again. Construe Dutch Notes, and pore upon Boys AS But, prithee, write no more heroick Farces. Teach blooming Blockheads, by their own try'd Rules, To give us Demonftraiion that they're Fools. Let 'em, by 's Sermon-Stile refine Their English Prose, their Poetry by thine ; Let W-jy's Rhimes their Einulation raise, And Ar-wkinstruct 'em how to praise. That, when all Ages in this Truth agree, They're finishid Dunces, they may rival thee; Thou only ftrain to migley William's Sword! Old Jemmy never knighted fuch-a T d. For the most nauseous Mixture God can make, Is a dull Pedant, and a busy Quack.

TO

To Sir R--BI-re, on the two Arthurs be

ing condemni'd to be hang’d.
Nce more take Pen in Hand, obfequious Knight;

For here's a Theme chou canf not under-write,
Unlefs the Devil owes thy Mufe a Spite.
To Prince and King thy Dullness Life did give;
Let then chefe Arthurs too in Dogg'rel lave.

oocpoocroocrooCA .

A TALE.

By Coll. Codrington.
Porno
Oems and Profe of diff'rent Force lay Claim,

With the fame Confidence, to Tully's Name ;
And shallow Criticks were content to say,
Prose was his Business, Poetry his Play.
Thus Cæfar thought, thus Bructus, and the reft,
Who knew the Man, and knew his Talent beft.

Mauris a rose, sworn Foe to Health and Wing
Who Folio Bills, and Folio Ballads writ;
Who busti'd much for Bread and for Renown,
By Lies and Poison scatter'd chro the Town,
To Roman Wives with Veneration known,
For Roman Wives were very like our own.
And Husbands, then we find, in Latin Song,
Would love too litele, and would live coo long.
Tially, says he, 'tis plain to Friends and Poes,
Writes his own Verse, but borrows all his Prose.
He fearless was, because he was 1100 brave ;
A noble Roman would not beat a Slave.
The Counsel smiling, faid, Judicious Friend,
Thy Dining Genius shall thy Works defend.
Inimitable Strokes defend thy Fame;
Thy Beauties and thy Force are still che fame:

And

And I must yield with the consenting Town,
Thy Ballads and thy Bills are all thy own.

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Upon the Character of Codron, as tis drawn by the bungling Knight, in his Satyr against Wit.

By

Coll. Codrington. HO

Ow kind is Malice, manag'd by a Sot,

Where no Design directs the Embryo Thought, And Praise and Satyr stumble out by Lot. The morral Thrust, to Codron's Heart design'd, Proves a soft wanton Touch to charm his Mind. Can Ment-gue or D-S-t higher foar ? Or can immortal $h--ld wish for more? Brightness, Force, Justice, Delicacy, Eafe, Must form that Wit that can the Ladies please. No false affected Rules debauch their Taste, No fruitless Toils their gen’rous Spirits waste, Which wear a: Wit into a. Dunce at laft. No Lumber Learning gives an awkward Pride, False Maxims cramp not, nor false Lights misguide. Voiture and will their eafy Hours employ, Voiture and W-ij, oft read, will never cloy. With Care they guard the Musick and their Scile, They fly from Bin, and converse with B-le: They steal no Terms, no Notions from the Schools, The Pedane's Pleasure, and the Pride of Fools; With native Charms their matchless Thoughts surprize, Soft as their Souls, and beauteous as their Eyes: Gay as the Light, and unconfin'd as Air, Chast and fublime, all worthy of the Fair. How then can a rough artless Indian Wit' The faultless Palates of the Ladies fit ? Codron will never stand so nice a Test, Nor is't with Praise fair Mouths oblige him best.

Let

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Let others make a vain Parade of Paris,
Whilft Codron aims not at Applause, but Hearts. ,
Secure him those, and thou shale name the rest ;
Thy Spite shall chuse the Worst, thy Taste the Best.
He will his Health to Mirmil's Care resign,
He will with Buxtorf and with my shine,
And be a Wit in any way but thine.

}

An Epiram on Job, traversted by the City Bard.

By Col. Codrington.
OOR Job lost all the Comforts of his Life,

And hardly fav’d a Potsherd and a Wife ;
Yet fob bleft God, and Fob again was bleft,
His Virtue was eslay'd, and bore the Teft.
But had Heav'n's Wrath pour’d out its fiercest Vial,
Had he been then burlesqu’d, without Denial,
The patient Man had yielded to that Trial.
His pious Spouse, with Breon her Side,
Must have prevail'd, and Fob had cnrst, and dy'd.

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To the Adventurous Knight of Cheapside, upon his

Satyr against Wit.

By Mr. Manning
Hat Frenzy has postess’d thy desp’rate Braing

To rail at Wit in this unhallow'd Strain ?
Reproach of thy own. Kind! to flander Sense,
The noblest Gift bestow'd by Providence !
Was it Revenge provok'd thee thus to write,
Because thou’rt curft to such a Dearch of Wit?
Or was it eager Passion for a Name,
To be inroll'd among the Fools of Fame?

Like

Like him, who rather than he'd live obscure;
Would fire a Church to make his Name secure ?
Or was it thy Despair at length to find
Thy Loads of Chaff the Sport of ev'ry Wind ?
To see thy hasty Mufe, that loves to roam,
Promise such Journeys, but come founder'd Home ?
Juft Fate of Sors, who think in their vain Breaft,
Their Coffee-Rhimes shall stand the publick Teft :
Seizd with prolifick Dulvefs, 'tis thy Curse
To write still on, and still too for the Worse.
Who hrates not Wef-), may thy Works esteem,
Both alike able to disgrace their Theme.
But thou, thro' wild Conceit, afpiring ftill,
Claim't, in thy Ravings, Efculapian Skill.
Quack, thou art fure in both, and curs'd is he, -
Who guided by his adverse Stars to thee,
Employs thy deadly Potions to reclaim
His feeble Health, thy Pen to spread his Fame.

To the canting Author of the Satyr against Wit

By - Mildmay, Efq. . T

HE Preacher, Maurus cries, All Wit is vain,

Unless 'tis like his Godliness, for Gain. of most vain Things he may the Folly own; But Wit's a Vanity he has not known.

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