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HORACE, ODE VIII. BOOK IV.

IMITATE D.

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MUSE! were we rich in land, or stocks,
We'd fend Sir Fletcher a gold box;
Who lately, to the world's furprize,
Advis'd his Sovereign to be wife.
The zeal of cits fhou'd ne'er furpass us,
We'd make him speaker of Parnaffus.
Or could I boaft the mimic eye
Ofb Townshend, or of Bunbury,
Whose art can catch, in comic guife,
"The manners living as they rise,".
And find it the fame eafy thing
To hit a Jollux or a king;
I'd hangings weave, in fancy's loom,
For Lady Norton's dreffing room.

But arts like thefe I don't purfue,
Nor does Sir Fletcher heed virtù.

Enough for me in thefe hard times,
When ev'ry thing is tax'd but rhymes,

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Line 12. A Jollux.) A phrafe ufed by the bon ton for a fat parfon. See a fet of excellent Caricatures published by Bretherton, in New Bond-Street,

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Ver. 11. Guades carminibus.) The imitator found himself obliged to deviate in this placé a little further from his original, than perhaps the fria critic will tolerate. But as he was not quite so certain of Sir Fletcher's fondness for poetry, as Horace feems to have been about the tafte of Cenforinus, he thought it beft to exprefs himself with a modeft diffidence on that subject.

To tag a few of thefe together:

Tho' I am quite uncertain, whether

My verfe will much rejoice the knight,

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As great a ftore as I fet by't.

For verfe, (I'd have Sir Fletcher know it)
When written by a genuine poet,

Has more of meaning and intent,

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Than modern acts of Parliament.

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'Tis fit and right, when heroes die,
The nation fhould a tomb supply;
Yet, not the votes of both the houses,
Without th' affistance of the mufes,
Can give that permanence of fame
That heroes from their country claim.
And tell me pray, to our good King,
What fame our present broils can bring,
Ev'n

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fhould the Howes (which fome folks

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Ver. 37. Unless his Treasurer.) The late promotion of a poet to the treasurership of the houshold, muft neceffarily give to all true votaries of the mufes (as it does to me) great delectation. 'Tis whifpered, by fome people in the secret, that the very pacific caft of the Laureat's birth-day ode, oc- cafioned

What fcale of metaphor fhall Fancy raise,
To climb the heights of thy ftupendous praise ?

Thrice has the fun commenc'd his annual ride, Since full of years and praise, thy mother died. 'Twas then I faw thee, with exulting eyes, 140 A fecond Phoenix, from her ashes rise; Mark'd all the graces of thy loyal crest, Sweet with the perfume of its parent neft. Rare chick! How worthy of all court careffes, How foft, how echo-like, it chirp'd addreffes. 145 Proceed, I cry'd, thy full-fledg'd plumes unfold, Each true-blue feather shall be tipt with gold; Ordain'd thy race of future fame to run, To do, whate'er thy mother left undone. In all her smooth, obfequious paths proceed, 150 For, know, poor oppofition wants a head. With horn and hound her truant schoolboys roam, And for a fox-chace quit St. Stephen's dome, Forgetful of their grandfire Nimrod's plan, "A mighty hunter, but his prey was man. 155 The reft, at crouded Almack's, nightly bett, To ftretch their own beyond the nation's debt. Vote

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Ver. 155. A mighty hunter.) A line of Mr. Pope's, If our younger fenators would take the hint, and now and then hunt a minifter instead of a fox, they might perhaps find some fun in it.

Vote then fecure; the needful millions raife,
That fill the privy-purfe with means and ways.
And do it quickly too, to fhew your breeding, 160
The weazel Scots are hungry, and want feeding.
Nor need ye wait for that more plenteous feafon,
When mad America is brought to reafon.
Obfequious Ireland, at her fifters claim,
(Sifter or ftep-dame, call her either name) 165
Shall power profusely her Pactolian tide,
Nor leave her native patriots unfupply'd.

Earl N-t fung, while yet but fimple Clare, That wretched Ireland had no gold to fpare.

How

Ver. 161. The weazel Scots.) It is not I, but Shakefpeare, that gives my countrymen this epithet. See Hen.V. act. 1. fcene z.

For once the eagle England being in prey,

To her unguarded neft the weazel Scot

Comes fneaking, and fo fucks her princely eggs, &c. Ver. 168. Earl Nt fung.) The intellect not only of pofterity, but of the prefent reader, muft here again be enlightened by a note: for this fong was sung above two years ago, and is confequently forgotten. Yet if the reader will pleafe to recollect how eafly I brought to life Sir William Chambers's profe differtation which had been dead half that time, he will, I hope, give me credit for being able to recover this dead poem from oblivion alfe. It was fent to her Majefty on her birth-day, with a prefent of Irish grogram; and the newspaper of the day faid (but I know not how truly) shat the Queen was graciously pleased to thank the noble au

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