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ly_ they'd be better still. The _Boghouse-Miscellany_'s well design'd, To ease the body, and improve the mind. _Swift_'s whims and jokes for my resentment call, For he displeases me, that pleases all. Verse without rhyme I never could endure, Uncouth in numbers, and in sense obscure. To him as Nature, when he ceas'd to see, _Milton_'s an _universal Blank_ to me. Confirm'd and settled by the Nations voice, Rhyme is the poet's pride, and peoples choice. Always upheld by national Support, Of Market, University, and Court: _Thompson_, write blank; but know that for that reason, These lines shall live, when thine are out of season. Rhyme binds and beautifies the Poet's lays, As _London_ Ladies owe their shape to stays. Had _Cibber_'s self the _Careless Husband_ wrote, He for the Laurel ne'er had had my Vote: But for his Epilogues and other Plays, He thoroughly deserves the _Modern Bays_. It pleases me, that _Pope_ unlaurell'd goes, While _Cibber_ wears the Bays for Playhouse Prose. So _Britain_'s Monarch once uncover'd fate, While _Bradshaw_ bully'd in a broad-brimm'd hat. Long live old _Curl!_ he ne'er to publish fears, The speeches, verses, and last wills of Peers. How oft has he a publick spirit shewn, And pleas'd our ears regardless of his own? But to give Merit due, though _Curl_'s the same? Are not his Brother-booksellers the same? Can Statutes keep the _British_ Press in awe, While that sells best, that's most against the Law? _Lives_ of dead _Play'rs_ my leisure hours beguile, And _Sessions-Papers_ tragedize my stile. 'Tis charming reading in _Ophelia_'s life, So oft a Mother, and not once a Wife: She could with just propriety behave, Alive with Peers, with Monarchs in her grave: Her lot how oft have envious harlots wept, By Prebends bury'd and by Generals kept. T'improve in Morals _Mandevil_ I read, And _Tyndal_'s Scruples are my settled Creed. I travell'd early, and I soon saw through Religion all, e'er I was twenty-two. Shame, Pain, or Poverty shall I endure, When ropes or opium can my ease procure? When money's gone, and I no debts can pay, Self-murder is an honourable way. As _Pasaran_ directs I'd end my life, And kill myself, my daughter, and my wife. Burn but that _Bible_ which the Parson quotes, And men of spirit all shall cut their throats. But not to writings I confine my pen,
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