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In _Fig_ the Prize-fighter by day delight, And sup with _Colly Cibber_ ev'ry night. Should I perchance be fashionably ill, I'd send for _Misaubin_, and take his pill. I should abhor, though in the utmost need, _Arbuthnot_, _Hollins_, _Wigan_, _Lee_, or _Mead_: But if I found that I grew worse and worse, I'd turn off _Misaubin_ and take a Nurse. How oft, when eminent physicians fail, Do good old womens remedies prevail? When beauty's gone, and _Chloe_'s struck with years, Eyes she can couch, or she can syringe ears. Of Graduates I dislike the learned rout, And chuse a _female Doctor_ for the gout. Thus would I live, with no dull _pedants_ curs'd, Sure, of all blockheads, _Scholars_ are the worst. Back to your _Universitys_, ye fools, And dangle Arguments on strings in schools: Those schools which _Universitys_ they call, 'Twere well for _England_ were there none at all. With ease that loss the nation might sustain, Supply'd by _Goodman's Fields_ and _Drury-lane_. _Oxford_ and _Cambridge_ are not worth one farthing, Compar'd to _Haymarket_, and _Convent-garden_: Quit those, ye British Youth, and follow these, Turn players all, and take your 'Squires degrees. Boast not your incomes now, as heretofore, Ye book-learn'd Seats! the Theatres have more: Ye stiff-rump'd heads of Colleges be dumb, A singing Eunuch gets a larger Sum. Have some of you three hundred by the Year, _Booth_, _Rich_, and _Cibber_, twice three thousand clear. Should _Oxford_ to her sister _Cambridge_ join A Year's _Rack-rent_, and _Arbitrary fine_: Thence not one winter's charge would be defray'd, For Playhouse, Opera, Ball, and Masquerade. Glad I congratulate the judging Age, The players are the world, the world the stage. I am a Politician too, and hate Of any party, ministers of state: I'm for an _Act_, that he, who sev'n whole Years Has serv'd his _King_ and _Country_, lose his ears. Thus from my birth I'm qualified you find, To give the laws of _Taste_ to humane kind. Mine are the gallant Schemes of Politesse, For books, and buildings, politicks, and dress. This is _True Taste_, and whoso likes it not, Is blockhead, coxcomb, puppy, fool, and sot. [1] Bently's Milton, Book 9. Ver. 439. _BOOKS printed for_ LAWTON GILLIVER _at_ Homer'_s_ _Head over-against St._ Dunitan's _Church in_ Fleetstreet. Of _False Taste_. An
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