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And now the vomits forth the din
of oyster-wenches drunk with gin.
Nay, rumour scruples not to tell ye,
The strumpet kick'd the matron's belly,
Of the fair coming birth afraid ;
For black abortion was her trade.

CORINNA VINDICATED.
CORINNA, Virtue's child, and chaste
As vestal maid of

yore,
Nor fought the nuptial rites in hafte,

Nor yet those rites forswore.

Her, many a worthless knight, to wed,

Pursu'd in various shapes ; But she, tho' chusing not to lead,

Would not be led by- apes.

Roysters they were, and each a mere.

Penelope's gallant ;
They eat and drank op all her cheer,

And lov'd her into want.

See her by Walpole first address'd,

(But Walpole caught a tartar) Him while an ill-earn'd ribband grac'd,

She wore a nobler garter.

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A pair of brothers next advance,

Alike for business fit :
The filly 'gan to kick and prance,

And fpurn the Pelham bit.

But who comes next? O well I ken

Him playing fast and loose ;
Cease, Fox, the prey will ne'er be thine,

Corinna's not a goofe.

See, last the man by heav'n design'd,

To make Corinna bleft; To ev'ry virtuous act inclin'd,

All patriot in his breast.

He woo'd the fair with manly sense,

And, flattery apart,
By dint of sterling eloquence,

Subdu'd Corinna's heart,

She gave

her hand-but left her hand, So giv'n, should prove a curse, The priest omitted, by command,

“ For better and for worse.".

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SOME

S T A N Z A S,

ADDRESSED TO NO MINISTER NOR GREAT MAX.

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WITH all thy titles, all thy large estate,

And all the favours which a King can grant, Something is wanting fill to make Thee great,

And still that something THOU wilt ever want.

For is it greatness, at a sumptuous board

To fealt a county, and to hear thy name 'Mid noisy revels rictously roard,

When longer than the banquet lasts not fame?

1

Or is it greatness in the pomp of pow'r

Each morn a crowd obsequious to collect, Pleas'd to accept th'obeisance of an hour,

When with the levee endeth all respect !

He who is great, some nobler purpose Thews :

Nor feasts nor levees his attention claim : That which is fit and right he first pursues,

And afier finds it justify'd by fame.

What tho' a fawning academic train,

O shame to learning ! on thy footsteps wait ; Tho' fatt'ring muses in a courtly strain

Salutę Thee pillar of the British state ;

Yet

Yet in fair history's impartial page,

Penn'd nor in flatt’ring nor invective strain,
Truth will report thee to the future age

No ftatesman, but a courtier light and vain,

For hath Thy civil prudence well upheld

The state, 'gainst foreign or domeltic foe?
Was fierce rebellion by Thy counsels quell'd ?

BY THEE averted Gallia's threaten'd blow;

Where was thy foresight, when the Gaul prepard

To seize the provinces of Albion's realm? *That foul disgrace with thee tho' OTHERS fhard,

Yet seiz'd they were when THOU Wert at the helm.

And tho' once more Britannia lifts her head,

By pow'rful nations sees herself rever'd,
And hails her valiant fons by glory led

T'assault that realm whence late affault she fear'd;

Yet from their deeds no honour THOU can't gain,

Tho' viet'ry's laurels should their brows entwine : For when did's Thou their arduous toils maintain ?

Or of their bold exploits which plan was Thine ?

Did'ft Thou secure the harvest of the land

Amid invasion's threat and war's alarm ?
When martial weapons fill'd the reaper's hand,
Was it The voice exborted him to arm?

Have

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Have fleets and armies by Thy orders mov'd

To diftant lands and oceans far remote ? And when success those orders hath approv'd,

Do crowds the wisdom and the spirit note ?

Yet in the triumph Thou assum'st a share,

Busthing, important, full of giddy zeal; And vainly fit'st with ministerial air,

A fly of state on glory's chariot-wheel.

S T A N Z A S.

ADDRESSED TO A GREAT MINISTER AND GRIAT MAN

WITH titles, honours, and a large estate,

And all a favour'd subject can pofless,
Can aught be wanting still to make thee great,

Or can envonom'd nander make thee less. ?

For fure 'tis greatness nobly to disdain

The high, rewards that wait the statesman's toils, And rather, with unsparing hand, to drain

Thy private wealth, than share the public spoils.

And sure 'tis greatness, to the Muse's choir

Thy foft'ring care and bounty to extend, With royal smiles her grateful train to fire,

And Atric grace with Spartan morals blend.

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