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Tis not thy Title, Doctor tho' thou art,
'Tis not thy Mitre, which hath won my heart.
State is a farce, Names are but empty Things,
Degrees are bought, and, by mistaken kings,
Titles are oft mifplac'd; Mitres, which shine
So bright in other eyes, are dull in mine,
Unless set off by Virtue; who deceives
Under the facred fanction of Lawn-fleeves,
double fin;

Enhances guilt, commits a

So fair without, and yet fo foul within.
'Tis not thy outward form, thy eafy mein,
Thy sweet complacency, thy brow ferene,
Thy open front, thy Love-commanding eye,
Where fifty Cupids, as in ambush, lie,
Which can from fixty to fixteen impart
The force of Love, and point his blunted dart;
"Tis not thy Face, tho' that by Nature's made
An index to thy foul, tho' there display'd
We fee thy mind at large, and thro' thy skin
Peeps out that Courtefy which dwells within;
'Tis not thy Birth-for that is low as mine,
Around our heads no lineal glories shine--
But what is Birth, when, to delight mankind,
Heralds can make those arms they cannot find;
When Thou art to Thyfelf, thy Sire unknown,
A Whole, Welch Genealogy Alone?

No, 'tis thy inward Man, thy proper Worth,

Thy right juft Eftimation here on earth,
Thy Life and Doctrine uniformly join'd,
And flowing from that wholfome fource thy mind,
Thy known contempt of Perfecution's rod,
Thy Charity for Man, thy Love of God,

Thy Faith in Christ, so well approv'd 'mongst men,
Which now give life, and utt'rance to my pen.
Thy Virtue, not thy Rank, demands my lays;
'Tis not the Bishop, but the Saint I praise.
Rais'd by that Theme, I foar on wings more strong,
And burft forth into praife with-held too long.

Much did I wish, e'en whilft I kept thofe fheep, Which, for my curfe, I was ordain'd to keep; Ordain'd, alas! to keep thro' need, not choice, Those sheep which never heard their fhepherd's voice, Which did not know, yet would not learn their way, Which stray'd themselves, yet griev'd that I should ftray,

Those sheep, which my good Father (on his bier
Let filial duty drop the pious tear)

Kept well, yet starv'd himfelf, e'en at that time,
Whilst I was pure, and innocent of rime,
Whilft, facred Dullnefs ever in my view,

Sleep at my bidding crept from pew to pew,

Much did I wish, tho' little could I hope,
A Friend in him, who was the Friend of POPE.

His hand, faid I, my youthful fteps fhall guide, And lead me safe where thousands fall befide; His Temper, his Experience fhall controul, And hush to peace the tempest of my foul; His Judgment teach me, from the Critic school, How not to err, and how to err by rule;

Inftruct me, mingling profit with delight,

Where POPE was wrong, where SHAKESPEARE was not right;

Where they are justly prais'd, and where thro' whim,
How little's due to them, how much to him.
Rais'd 'bove the flavery of common rules,
Of Common-Senfe, of modern, antient schools,
Those feelings banish'd, which mislead us all,
Fools as we are, and which we Nature call,
He, by his great example, might impart
A better fomething, and baptize it Art;
He, all the feelings of my youth forgot,
Might fhew me what is Taste, by what is not;
By him fupported, with a proper pride,

I might hold all mankind as fools befide;

He (fhould a World, perverfe and peevish grown, Explode his maxims, and affert their own,

Might teach me, like himself, to be content,
And let their folly be their punishment;
Might, like himself, teach his adopted Son,
'Gainst all the World, to quote a WARBURTON.

Fool that I was, could I fo much deceive
My foul with lying hopes; could I believe
That He, the fervant of his Maker fworn,
The fervant of his Saviour, would be torn
From their embrace, and leave that dear employ,
The cure of fouls, his duty and his joy,

For toys like mine, and wafte his precious time,
On which fo much depended, for a rime?
Should He forfake the task he undertook,
Defert his flock, and break his past'ral crook?
Should He (forbid it Heav'n) fo high in place,
So rich in knowledge, quit the work of Grace,
And, idly wand'ring o'er the Mufe's hill,
Let the falvation of mankind stand still?

Far, far be that from Thee-yes, far from Thee Be fuch revolt from Grace, and far from me The Will to think it-Guilt is in the ThoughtNot fo, Not fo, hath WARBURTON been taught, Not fo learn'd Chrift-Recall that day, well-known,


When (to maintain God's honour-and his own)

He call'd Blafphemers forth-Methinks I now
See ftern Rebuke enthroned on his brow,
And arm'd with tenfold terrours-from his tongue,
Where fiery zeal, and Christian fury hung,
Methinks I hear the deep-ton'd thunders roll,
And chill with horrour ev'ry finner's foul—
In vain They strive to fly-flight cannot fave,
And POTTER trembles even in his
With all the conscious pride of innocence,
Methinks I hear him, in his own defence,
Bear witness to himself, whilst all Men knew,
By Gofpel-rules, his witness to be true.

O Glorious Man, thy zeal I muft commend, Tho' it depriv'd me of my dearest friend. The real motives of thy anger known,

WILKES muft the justice of that

anger own;

And, could thy bosom have been bar'd to view, Pitied himself, in turn had pitied you.

Bred to the law, You wifely took the gown,
Which I, like Demas, foolishly laid down.
Hence double strength our Holy Mother drew;
Me fhe
got rid of, and made prize of you.

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I, like an idle Truant, fond of play,
Doting on toys, and throwing gems away,

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