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This tomb inscribed to gentle Parnel's name.
May speak our gratitude, but not his fame.
What heart but feels his sweetly-moral lay,
That leads to truth through pleasure's flowery way!
Celestial themes confess’d his tuneful aid;
And heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid.
Needless to him the tribute we bestow,
The transitory breath of fame below:
More lafting rapture from his works shall rise,
While converts thank their poet in the skies.






R S.

WHAT? five long afts--and all to make us wiser!
Our authoress sure has wanted an adviser.
Had the consulted me, she should have made
Her moral play a speaking masquerade ;
Warm'd up each bustling scene, and in her ráge
Have emptied all the green-room on the stage.
My life on't, this had kept her play from finking;
Have pleas'd our eyes, and sav'd the pain of thinking.
Well, since she thus has shewn her want of kill,
What if I give a masquerade ?-I will.
But how ? ay, there's the rub! (paufing ]-I've got

my cue:

The world's a masquerade! the masquers, you, you, you.

(To Boxes, Pit, and Gallery. Lud! what a group the motley scene discloses ! False wits, false wives, false virgins, and false Spouses! Statesmen with bridles on; and, close beside 'em, Patriots in party-colour'd suits that ride 'em.


There Hebes, turn'd of fifty, try once more
To raise a flame in Cupids of threescore.
These in their turn, with appetites as keen,
Deserting fifty, faften on fifteen.
Miss, not yet full fifteen, with fire uncommon,
Flings down her sampler, and takes up the woman;
The little urchin smiles, and spreads her lure,
And tries to kill, ere she's got power to cure,
Thus 'tis with all-their chief and constant care
Is to seem every thing, but what they are.
Yon broad, bold, angry spark, I fix my eye on,
Who seems thave robb'd his vizor from the lion ;
Who frowns, and talks, and swears, with round parade,
Looking, as who should say, dam'me! who's afraid?

Strip but this vizor off, and sure I am
You'll find his lionship a very lamb.
Yon politician, famous in debate,
Perhaps, to vulgar eyes, bestrides the state ;
Yet, when he deigns his real shape t' affume,
He turns old woman, and bestrides a broom.
Yon patriot, too, who presses on your fight,
And seems to every gazer, all in white,
If with a bribe his candour you attack,
He bows, turns round, and whip-the man in black!
Yon critic, too--but whither do I run?
If I proceed, our bard will be undone !
Well then a truce, since the requests it too:
Do you spare her, and I'll for once fpare you.

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