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DU B L I N:
** *EALTH to great GLOSTER Hd from a man unknown,
Who holds thy health as dearly as
Accept this greeting---nor let modest fear Call up one maiden blush-I mean not here To wound with flatt’ry—'tis a Villain's art, And suits not with the frankness of my heart. Truth best becomes an Orthodox Divine, And, spite of hell, that Character is mine; To speak e'en bitter truths I cannot fear; But truth, my Lord, is Panegyric here.
Health to great GLOSTER-Nor, thro' love
of ease, Which all Priests love, let this address disa
please. I ask no favour, not one note I crave, And, when this busy brain rests in the grave, (For till that time it never can have rest) I will not trouble you with one bequest. Some humbler Friend, my mortal journey done, More near in blood, a Nephew or a Son, In that dread hour Executor I'll leave; For I, alas ! have many to receive, To give but little-Togreat Gloster Health ; Nor let thy true and proper love of wealth Here take a false alarm-in purse though poor, In fpirit I'm right proud, nor can endure The mention of a bribe-thy pocket's free, I, tho’a Dedicator, scorn a fee. Let thy own offspring all thy fortunes share; I would not ALLEN rob, nor ALLEN's heir.
Think not, a Thought unworthy thy great soul,
[troul, Which pomps of this world never could conWhich never offer'd up at Pow'rs vain fhrine, Think not that Pomp and Pow'r can work on mine.
'Tis not thy Name, though that 'indeed is
great, 'Tis not the tinsel trumpery of state, 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 misplac'd ; Mitres, which shine So bright in other eyes, are dull in mine, Unless-set off by Virtue ; who deceives Under the facred fan&tion of Lawn-sleeves, Enhances guilt, commits a double sin; So fair without, and yet fo foul within. 'Tis not thy outward form, thy easy mein, Thy sweet complacency, thy brow ferene, Thy open front, thy Love-commanding eye, Where fifty Cupids, as in ambush, lie, Which can from sixty to sixteen impart The force of Love, and point his blunted dart; 'Tis not thy Face, tho' that by Nature's made An index to thy soul, tho' there display'd We see thy mind at large, and thro’thy skin Peeps out that Courtesy which dwells within; 'Tis not thy Birth—for that is low as mine, Around our heads no lineal glories shineBut what is Birth, when, to delight mankind,' Heralds can make those arms they cannot find;