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Grieve, and they Grieve; if you Weep filently,
There seems a filent Eccho in their Eye:
They cannot Mourn like you, but they can Cry.
Call for a Fire, their Winter Cloaths they take:
Begin but you to shiver, and they shake:

In Froft and Snow, if you complain of Heat,
They rub th' unfweating Brow, and fwear they fweat.
We live not on the Square with fuch as thefe.
Such are our Betters who can better please:
Who Day and Night are like a Looking-Glass;
Still ready to reflect their Patron's Face.
The Panegyrick Hand, and lifted Eye,
Prepar'd for fome new Piece of Flattery.
Ev'n Naftiness, Occafions will afford;
They praise a belching, or well-piffing Lord.
Besides, there's nothing Sacred, nothing free
From bold Attempts of their rank Letchery.
Thro' the whole Family their Labours run;
The Daughter is debauch'd, the Wife is won;
Nor 'fcapes the Bridegroom, or the blooming Son.
If none they find for their lewd Purpose fit,
They with the Walls and very Floors commit.
They fearch the Secrets of the House, and fo
Are worshipp'd there, and fear'd for what they know.
And, now we talk of Grecians, caft a view
On what, in Schools, their Men of Morals do;
A rigid 18 Stoick his own Pupil flew :

A Friend, against a Friend of his own Cloth,
Turn'd Evidence, and murther'd on his Oath.
What Room is left for Romans in a Town

Where Grecians Rule, and Cloaks controul the Gown?
Some 19 Diphilus, or fome Protogenes,

Look fharply out, our Senators to feize:

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18 A Rigid Stoick, &c. Pub- 19 Diphilus, and Protogenes, lius Ignatius, a Stoick, falfly accus'd Bareas Sorenus, as Tacitus tells us.

&c. were Grecians living in Rome.

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Engrofs

Engrofs 'em wholly, by their native Art,
And fear'd no Rivals in their Bubbles Heart:
One drop of Poifon in my Patron's Ear,
One flight Suggestion of a fenfelefs Fear,
Infus'd with Cunning, ferves to ruin me;
Difgrac'd, and banish'd from the Family.
In vain forgotten Services I boaft;

My long Dependance in an Hour is loft:
Look round the World, what Country will appear,
Where Friends are left with greater Eafe than here?
At Rome (nor think me partial to the Poor)

All Offices of ours are out of Door:

In vain we rife, and to the Levees run;
My Lord himself is up, before, and gone:
The Prætor bids his Lictors mend their pace,
Left his Colleague out-ftrip him in the Race:
The Childish Matrons are, long fince, awake;
And, for Affronts, the tardy Vifits take.

'Tis frequent, here, to fee a free-born Son
On the left-hand of a rich Hireling run:
Because the wealthy Rogue can throw away,
For half a Brace of Bouts, a Tribune's Pay:
But you, poor Sinner, tho' you love the Vice,
And like the Whore, demure upon the Price:
And, frighted with the wicked Sum, forbear
To lend a Hand, and help her from the Chair.
Produce a Witnefs of unblemish'd Life,

Holy as Numa, or as Numa's Wife,

Or 20 him who bid th' unhallow'd Flames retire,
And snatch'd the trembling Goddess from the Fire
The Question is not put how far extends
His Piety, but what he yearly fpends:

20 Or him who bid, &c. Lucius Metellus the High-Prieft; who when the Temple of Vesta

was on Fire, fav'd the Palla dium.

Quick,

Quick, to the Bus'nefs; how he lives and eats;
How largely gives; how fplendidly he treats:
How many
thousand Acres feed his Sheep,
What are his Rents, what Servants does he keep?
Th' Account is foon caft up; the Judges rate
Our Credit in the Court by our Eftate.
Swear by our Gods, or those the Greeks adore,
Thou art as fure forfworn, as thou art poor:
The Poor must gain their Bread by Perjury;
And e'en the Gods, that other Means deny,
In Conscience muft abfolve 'em, when they lye.
Add, that the Rich have ftill a Gibe in store;
And will be monstrous witty on the Poor:
For the torn Surtout and the tatter'd Veft,
The Wretch and all his Wardrobe are a Jeft:
The greafie Gown, fully'd with often turning,
Gives a good hint, to fay, The Man's in Mourning:
Or if the Shoe be ript, or Patches put,
He's wounded! fee the Plaifter on his Foot.
Want is the Scorn of ev'ry wealthy Fool;
And Wit in Rags is turn'd to Ridicule.
Pack hence, and from the Cover'd Benches rife,
(The Master of the Ceremonies cries)

This is no place for you, whofe fmall Estate
Is not the Value of the fettled Rate:

The Sons of happy Punks, the Pandar's Heir,
Are privileg'd to fit in Triumph there,

To clap the first, and rule the Theatre.
Up to the Galleries, for fhame retreat;

For, by the 21 Rofcian Law, the Poor can claim no Seat.
Who ever brought to his rich Daughter's Bed,
The Man that poll'd but Twelve-pence for his Head?

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21 For bythe Rofcian Law,&c. | Publick Shows, betwixt the Rofcius a Tribune, who order'd Noble-men of Rome and the the diftinction of Places in

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Plebeians.

Whe

Who ever nam'd a poor Man for his Heir,
Or call'd him to affift the Judging Chair?

The Poor were wife, who by the Rich opprefs'd,
Withdrew, and fought a facred Place of Reft.
Once they did well, to free themselves from Scoru;
But had done better never to return.

Rarely they Rife by Virtue's Aid, who lie
Plung'd in the depth of helpless Poverty.

At Rome 'tis worse; where Houfe-Rent by the Year,
And Servants Bellies coft fo devilish dear;
And Tavern-Bills run high for hungry Chear.
To drink or eat in Earthen-ware we scorn,
Which cheaply Country-Cupboards does adorn:
And coarse blue Hoods on Holy-days are worn.
Some distant Parts of Italy are known,
Where 22 none but only dead Men wear a Gown:
On Theaters of Turf, in homely State,
Old Plays they act, old Feafts they celebrate:
The fame rude Song returns upon the Crowd,
And, by Tradition, is for Wit allow'd.
The Mimick yearly gives the fame Delights;
And in the Mother's Arms the Clownish infant frights.
Their Habits (undiftinguish'd by Degree)
Are plain, alike; the fame Simplicity,
Both on the Stage, and in the Pit, you see.
In his white Cloak the Magiftrate appears;
The Country Bumkin the fame Liv'ry wears.
But here, Attir'd beyond our Purse we go,
For useless Ornament and flaunting Show:
We take on trust, in Purple Robes to fhine;
And
poor, are yet ambitious to be fine.

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This is a common Vice; tho' all things here
Are fold, and fold unconscionably dear.
What will you give that 23 Coffus may but view
Your Face, and in the Crowd diftinguish you;
May take your Incense like a Gracious God,
And answer only with a civil Nod?

To please our Patrons, in this vicious Age,
We make our Entrance by the Fav'rite Page:
Shave his firft Down, and when he polls his Hair,
The confecrated Locks to Temples bear:
Pay tributary Cracknels, which he fells,
And, with our Off'rings, help to raise his Vails.
Who fears in Country-Towns a House's fall,
Or to be caught betwixt a riven Wall?
But we inhabit a weak City, here;
Which Buttreffes and Props but fcarcely bear
And 'tis the Village-Mafon's daily Calling,
To keep the World's Metropolis from falling,
To cleanse the Gutters, and the Chinks to close;
And, for one Night, fecure his Lord's Repose.
At Cuma we can fleep quite round the Year,
Nor Falls, nor Fires, nor Nightly Dangers fear;
While rolling Flames from Roman Turrets fly,
And the pale Citizens for Buckets cry.
Thy Neighbour has remov'd his wretched Store
(Few Hands will rid the Lumber of the Poor)
Thy own third Story fmokes, while thou, fupine,
Art drench'd in Fumes of undigested Wine.
For if the lowest Floors already burn,

Cock-lofts and Garrets foon will take the Turn.
Where 24 thy tame Pidgeons next the Tiles were bred,
Which, in their Nefts unfafe, are timely fled.

23 Coffus is here taken for &c. The Romansus'd to breed any great Man.

24 Where thy tame Pidgeons,

their tame Pidgeons in their

Garrets

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