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“ Nobles have honour in a nation,
“ Proportion'd to their exaltation.”

And I allow to those great people
The same respect as to a steeple;
That one acknowledge they are high,
That one look up as one goes by ;
But not, however, that one's head
Must jangle bells, or carry lead.

“ I wish you would leave off your joking, “ Nothing on earth is more provoking. “ With me such quibbles ne'er prevail."

What must I give you then ?-a tale? “ Yes; I may

listen to your story, “ But as a joker, I abhor ye.”

A tree once in a church yard grew,
Some say, an oak, and some, a yew ;
An elm, or walnut, some prefer,
One antient codex reads a pear:
But that is neither here nor there.
Two stems must from its root have grown,
Though afterwards there was but one ;
For t’other, hewn from parent stock,
Was made into a weathercock.

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How did the village boys admire When first he got a-top the spire ! But when he saw, so far beneath, The woodland, meadow, cornfield, heath, Road, river, cottage, hillock, plain, He was you cannot think how vain : So vain, indeed, that he design'd To turn about the first fair wind, And shake in scorn his yellow tongue At the old stock from which he sprung. A furry's long-expected blast Enabled him to move at last; When, his head sparkling to the sun, He wagg'd a while, and thus begun.

Fine company I was indeed in! Hark ye, old log, is that your breeding? Muśt a gold weathercock like me Pay first respects to a poor tree? In what high splendour am I borne here? You grovel in a churchyard corner. Me all the parish come to view : Pray, do they go to look at you? You stand in dirt, must fall, and burn; I turn, old boy; mark that I turn.

Your shape-enough to frighten Nick!-
Green, like a rusty candlestick!
My form how smooth! my skin how yellow!
Look, demme, what a clever fellow!

The solemn branches heave and sigh,
Then murmur slowly this reply.

If we be clumsy, you be limber, What then? We both are of one timber. Once a plain simple stick, when sold You got a name, and you got gold, Given by your masters, not your friends, To fit you for their private ends. What made them raise you to that throne ? Your interest, coxcomb? no; their own. “ You turn,” you say; we have a notion, That something regulates the motion.

“men study you ;” vain prater, They study but your regulator.

Yet, cocky, be of cheer : one finds
Such failings even in human minds.
Lord Lighthead's wavering foppery see :
A gilded weathercock is he ;
That from the common timber hew'd,
And set up merely to be view'd,

You say,

About while fashion's light gales veer him,
Thinks all who look up love or fear him;
Thinks they admire, who only gaze;
And that all honour him, who praise.

EPITAPH ON DIOPHANTUS.

WITH diagrams no more to daunt us,
Here sleeps in dust old Diaphantus;
Who scorns to give you information,
Even of his age, but in equation.
A lad unskill'd in learning's ways,
He pass'd the sixth part of his days;
Within a twelfth part more, appear'd
The scatter'd blossoms of a beard.
A seventh part added to his life,
He married (for his sins) a wife;
Who, to complete her husband's joy,
Produced, in five years, a fine boy.
The boy, by the good man's directions,
Read Euclid, Simson's Conick Sections,
Trail's Algebra-was learn’d, was happy,
And had

got
half

'as old as pappy,
When, spite of surds and biquadraticks,
Death cur'd him of the mathematicks.
Poor Diophantus, you'll believe,
Did nothing for four years but grieve,
Then died.--Given of a Grecian

sage The life and death : REQUIRED the age.

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