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The jocund thunder wakes th' enliven'd hounds, The fleccy ball their busy fingers cull,
They rouse fromsleepandanswersoundsforsounds; Or from the spindle draw the lengthning woo!
Wide thro' th' furzy field their route they take; Thus flow her hours with constant peace of mind,
Their bleeding bosoms force the thorny brake: Till age the latest thread of life unwind.
The flying gaine their smoking nostrils trace,
No bounding hedge obstructs their eager pace;
The distant mountains echo from afar,
And hanging woods resound the flying war:
The tuneful noise the sprightly courser hears,
Paws the green turf, and pricks his trembling ears;
The slacken'd rein now gives him all his speed,
Back flies the rapid ground beneath the steed;
Hills,dales,and forests, far behind remain, [train.
While the warm scent draws onthedeep-mouth'd
Where shall the trembling hare a shelter find?$51. Love of Fame, the Universal Passion.

Hark! death advances in cach gust of wind!
New stratageins and doubling wiles she tries;
Now circling turns, and now at large she flies;
Till,spent at last,she pants,and heaves for breath,
Then lays her down, and waits devouring death.

Butstay, advent'rous Muse! hast thou the force
To wind the twisted horn, to guide the horse?
To keep thy seat unmov'd, hast thou the skill,
O'er the high gate, and down the headlong hill?
Canst thou the stag's laborious chace direct,
Or the strong fox thro' all his arts detect?
The theme demands a more experienc'd lay:
Ye mighty hunters! spare this weak essay.

O happy plains, remote from war's alarms,
And all the ravages of hostile arms!
And happy shepherds, who, secure from fear,
On open downs preserve your Bleecy care!
Whosespaciousbarns groan with increasing store,
And whirling flails disjoint the crackling floor!
No barbarous soldier, bent on cruel spoil,
Spreads desolation o'er your fertile soil:
No trampling steed lays waste the ripen'd grain,
Nor crackling fires devour the promis'd gain :
No flaming beacons cast their blaze afar,
The dreadful signal of invasive war:
No trumpet's clangor wounds the mother's car,
And calls the lover from his swooning fair.

What happiness the rural maid attends,
In cheerful labor while each day she spends!
She gratefully receives what Heaven has sent,
And, rich in poverty, enjoys content;
(Such happiness, and such unblemish'd fame;
Ne'er glad the bosom of the courtly dame):
She never feels the spleen's imagin'd pains,
Nor melancholy stagnates in her veins;
She never loses life in thoughtless ease;
Nor on the velvet couch invites disease;
Her home-spun dress in simple neatness lies,
And for no glaring equipage she sighs :
Her reputation, which is all her boast,
In a malicious visit ne'er was lost;
No midnight masquerade her beauty wears,
And health, not paint, the fading bloom repairs.
If love's soft passion in her bosom reign,
An equal passion warms her happy swain:
No home-bred jars her quiet state control,
Nor watchful jealousy torments her soul;.
With secret joy she sees her little race
Hang on her breast, and her small cottage grace,

The kind rewarders of industrious life;
Ye happy fields, unknown to noise and strife,
Ye shady woods where once I us'd to rove,
Alike indulgent to the Muse and Love;
The sweet composers of the pensive soul;
Ye murm'ring streams that in meanders roll,
Farewell!-the city calls me from your bow'rs
Farewell, amusing thoughts, and peaceful hours!

SATIRE I.

To his Grace the Duke of Dorset.

Young.

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My verse is Satire; Dorset, lend your ear,
And patronise a Muse you cannot fear;
To Poets sacred is a Dorset's name,
Their wonted passport thro' the gates of fame;
It bribes the partial reader into praise,
And throws a glory round the shelter'd lays;
The dazzled judgement fewer faults can see,
And gives applause to Be, or to me.
But decline the mistress we pursue;
you
Others are fond of Fame, but Fame of you.

Intructive Satire, true to virtue's cause,
Thou shining supplement of public laws!
When flatter'd crimes of a licentious age
Reproach our silence, and demand our rage;
When purchas'd follies from each distant land,
Like arts, improve in Britain's skilful hand:
When the law shows her teeth, but dares notbite,
And South-Sea treasures are not brought to light,
When churchmen scripture for the classics quit;
Polite apostates from God's grace to wit;
When men grow great from their revenue spent;
And fly from bailiffs into parliament;

When dying sinners to blot out their score,
Bequeath the church the leavings of a whore-
To chafe our spleen when themes like these in-

crease,

Shall panegyric reign, and censure cease?
Shall poesy, like law, turn wrong to right,
And dedication wash an Æthiop white,
Set up each senseless wretch for nature's boast.
On whom praise shines as trophies on a post?
Shall funeral cloquence her colors spread,
And scatter roses on the wealthy dead?
Shall authors smile on such illustrious days,
And satirize with nothing but their praise?
Why slumbers Pope, wholeadsthetunefulstrain,
Nor hears that virtue which he loves, complain?
Donne, Dorset, Dryden, Rochester are dead,
And guilt's chief foe in Addison is fled;
Congreve, who crown'd with laurels fairly won,
Sits smiling at the goal while others run,
He will not write; and (more provoking still!)
Ye gods! he will not write, and Mævius will.
Doubly

Doubly distrest, what author shall we find
Discreetly daring, and severely kind,
The courtly Roman's shining path to tread,
And sharply smile prevailing folly dead?
Will no superior genius snatch the quill,
And save me, on the brink, from writing ill?
Tho' vain the strife, I'll strive my voice to raise:
What will not men attempt for sacred praise?
The love of praise, howe'er conceal'd by art,
Reigns, more or less, and glows in ev'ry heart:Retard a cause, and give a judge the spleen.
The proud, to gain it, toils on toils endure;
The modest shun it but to make it sure.
O'er globes and sceptres now on thrones it swells,
Now trims the midnight lamp in college cells.
Tis Tory, Wig; it plots, prays, preaches, pleads,
Haringues in senates, squeaks in masquerades:
Here, to Se's humor makes a bold pretence;
There, bolder aims at Pult'ney's eloquence :
It aids the dancer's heel, the writer's head,
And heaps the plain with mountains of the dead.
Nor ends with life; but nods in sable plumes,
Adorns her hearse, and flatters on our tombs.
Who is not proud? the pimp is proud to see
So many like himself in high degree:
The whore is proud her beauties are the dread
Of peevish virtue, and the marriage bed;
And the brib'd cuckold, like crown'd victims
To slaughter, glories in his gilded horn. [born
Some go to church, proud humbly to repent,
And come back much inore guilty than theywent:
One way they look, another way they steer;
Pray to the gods, but would have mortals hear;
And when their sins they sit sincerely down,
They'll find that their religion has been one.
Others with wishful eyes on glory look,
When they have got their picture tow'rds a book,
Or pompous title, like a gaudy sign
Meant to betray dull sots to wretched wine.

Noris't enough all hearts are swoln with pride,
Her pow'r is mighty, as her realin is wide.
What can she not perform? The love of fame
Made bold Alphonsus his Creator blaine,
Empedocles hurl'd down the burning steep,
And (stronger still!) made Alexander weep.
Nay it holds Delia from a second bed,
Tho' her lov'd lord has four half months been
This passion with a pimple have I seen [dead.

By this inspir'd (oh ne'er to be forgot!)
Some lords have learnt to spells and some to knot.
It makes Globose a speaker in the house;
He hems -- and is delivered of his mouse.
It makes dear self on well-bred tongues prevail,
And I the little hero of each tale.
Sick with the love of fame, what throngs pour
Unpeople court, and leave the senate thin! [in,
My growing subject seems but just begun,
And, chariot-like, I kindle as I run.
Aid me, great Homer! with thy epic rules,
To take a catalogue of British fools
Satire! had I thy Dorset's force divine,
A knave or fool should perish in each line :
Tho' for the first all Westminster should plead,
And for the last all Gresham intercede.

If at his title T- had dropt his quill,
T- might have pass'd for a great genius still;
But T, alas! (excuse him if you can)
Is now a scribbler, who was once à man.
Imperious some a classic fame demand,
For heaping up with a laborions hand
A waggon load of meanings for one word,
While A's depos'd, and B with pomp restor❜d.
Some for renown on scraps of learning doat,
And think they grow immortal as they quote.
To patchwork learn'd quotations are allied;
Both strive to make our poverty our pride.
On glass how witty is a noble peer!
Did ever diamond cost a man so dear?

Polite discases make some idiots vain,
Which, if unfortunately well, they feign,
On death-beds some in conscious glory lic,
Since of the doctor in the mode they die;
Whose wondrous skill is, headsman-like, to know
For better pay to give a surer blow.

Of folly, vice, disease, men proud we see :
And stranger still) of blockheads flattery,
Whose praise defames; as if a fool should mean
By spitting on your face to make it clean!

Begin who first the catalogue shall grace?
To quality belongs the highest place,
My lord comes forward; forward let him come!
Ye vulgar, at your peril give him room!
He stands for fame on his forefather's feet,
By heraldry prov'd valiant or discreet,
With what a decent pride he throws his eyes
Above the man by three descents less wise!
If virtues at his noble hand you crave,
You bid him raise his fathers from the grave.
Men shouldpressforward in fame's glorious chace;
Nobles look backward, and so lose the race.

Let high birth triumph! what can be more
Nothing but merit in a low estate. [great?
To Virtue's humblest son let none prefer
Vice, tho' descended from the Conqueror.
Shall men, like figures, pass for high or base,
Slight or important, only by their place?
Tiles are marks of honest men and wise;
The fool or knave that wears a title, lies.

They that on glorious ancestors enlarge,
Produce their debt instead of their discharge,
Dorset, let those who proudly boast their line,
Like thee, in worth hereditary shine.

Vain as false greatness is, the Muse must own
We want not fools to buy that Bristol stone.
Mean sons of Earth, who on a South Sea tide
Of full success swam into wealth and pride,
Knock with a purse of gold at Anstis' gate,
And beg to be descended from the great.

When men of infamy to grandeur soar,
They light a torch to show their shame the more.
Those governments which curb not evils, cause;
And a rich knave 's a libel on our laws.

Belus with solid glory will be crown'd;
He buys no phantom, no vain empty sound;
* Horace.

Ce 3

But

But builds himself a name; and to be great,
Sinks in a quarry an immense estate;
In cost and grandeur Chandos he 'll outdo;
And, Burlington, thy taste is not so true,
The pile is finish'd, ev'ry toil is past,
And full perfection is arriv'd at last;
When, lo! my Lord to some small corner runs,
And leaves state-rooms to strangers and to duns.
The man who builds, and wants wherewith to
Provides a home from which to run away. [pay,
In Britain what is many a lordly seat,
But a discharge in full for an estate?

What bodily fatigue is half so bad?
With anxious care they labor to be glad,
What numbers here would into fame advance,
Conscious of merit in the coxcomb's dance!
The tavern, park, assembly, mask, and play,
Those dear destroyers of the tedious day!
That wheel of fops! that saunter of the town!
Call it diversion, and the pill goes down ;
Fools grin on fools; and Stoic-like support,
Without one sigh, the pleasures of a court.
Courts can give nothing to the wise and good,
But scorn of pomp, and love of solitude."
High stations tuniult, but not bliss, create:
None think the great unhappy, but the great.
Fools gaze and envy: envy darts a sting,
Which makes a swain as wretched as a king.
I envy none their pageantry and show;
I envy none the gilding of their woe.
Give me, indulgent gods! with mind serene,
And guiltless heart, to range the sylvan scene.

In smaller compass lies Pygmalion's fame;
Not domes, but antique statues, are his flame.
NotF-t-n's selfinore Pariancharmshasknown,
Nor is good Pembroke more in love with stone,
The bailiffs come (rude men, profanely bold!)
And bid him turn his Venus into gold.
"No, sirs," he cries; "I'll sooner rot in jail!
"Shall Grecian arts be truck'd forEnglish bail?"
Such heads might make their very bustos laugh,No splendid poverty, no smiling care,
His daughter starves, but Cleopatra's safe,

Men overloaded with a large estate.
May spill their treasure in a nice conceit :
The rich may be polite; but, oh! 'tis sad
To say you 're curious, when we swear you 're
By your revenue measure your expence, [nad.
And to your funds and acres join your sense:
No man is blest by accident or guess,
True wisdom is the price of happiness :
Yet few without long discipline are sage;
And our youth only lays up sighs for age.

But how, my Muse, canst thou refuse so long
The bright temptation of the courtly throng;
Thy most inviting theme? The court affords
Much food for satire; it abounds with lords.
What lords are those saluting with a grin ?"
One is just out, and one is lately in.
"How comes it then to pass we see preside
"On both their brows an equal share of pride?"
Pride, that impartial passion, reigns thro all;
Attends our glory, nor deserts our fall:
As in its home, it triumphs in high place,
And frowns a haughty exile in disgrace.
Some lords it bids admire their wands so white,
Which bloom, like Aaron's, to their ravish'd sight:
Some lords it bids resign, and turn their wands,
Like Moses', into serpents in their hands.
These sink, as divers, for renown! and boast
With pride inverted of their honors lost.
But against reason sure 'tis equal sin
To boast of merely being out or in.
What numbers here, thro' odd ambition, strive
To seen the most transported things alive!
As if by joy desert was understood,
And all the fortunate were wise or good.
Hence aching bosoms wear a visage gay,
And stifled groans frequent the ball and play.
Completely dress'd by † Monteuel, and grimace,
They take their birth-day suit, and public face;
Their smiles are only part of what they wear,
Put off at night with lady B's hair.

A famous statue.

No well-bred hate, or servile grandeur there;
There pleasing objects useful thoughts suggest,
The sense is ravish'd, and the soul is blest;
On ev'ry thorn delightful wisdom grows,
In ev'ry rill a sweet instruction flows:
But soine untaught o'erhear the whispering rill,
In spite of sacred leisure, blockheads still;
Nor shoots up folly to a nobler bloom
In her own native soil, the drawing-room.

The 'squire is proud to see his courser strain,
Or well-breath'd beagles sweep along the plain.
Say, dear Hippolitus (whose drink is ale,
Whose erudition is a Christinas tale,
Whose mistress is deluded with a smack,[back,
And friend receiv'd with thumps upon the
When thy sleek gelding nimbly leaps the mound,
And Ringwood opens on the tainted ground,
Is that thy praise? Let Ringwood's fame alone,
Just Ringwood leaves each animal his own;
Nor envies when a gypsey you commit,
And shake the clumsy bench with country wit;
When you the dullest of dull things have said,
And then ask pardon for the jest you made. [new,

Hear breathe, my Muse! and then thy task re-
Ten thousand fools unsung are still in view.
Fewer lay atheists made by church debates:
Fewer great beggars fam'd for large estates;
Ladies, whose love is constant as the wind;
Cits, who prefer a guinea to mankind;
Fewer grave lords to Scroope discreetly bend;
And fewer shocks a statesman gives his friend.
Is there a man of an eternal vein,
Who lulls the town in winter with his strain,
At Bath in summer chants the reigning lass,
And sweetly whistles as the waters pass?
Is there a tongue, like Delia's over her cup,
That runs for ages without winding up?
Is there whom his tenth Epic mounts to fame ?
Such, and such only, might exhaust my theme,
Nor would these heroes of the task be glad,
For who can write so fast as men run mad?

† A famous taylor.

SATIRE !I.

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My Muse, procced, and reach thy destin'd end,
Tho' toil and danger the bold task attend.
Heroes and gors make other poems fine,
Plain satire calls for sense in ev'ry line:
Then, to what swarms thy faults I dare expose!
All friends to vice and folly are thy foes;
When such the foe, a war eternal wage,
Tis most ill-nature to repress thy rage,
And if these strains some nobler Muse excite,
I'll glory in the verse I did not write.

So weak are human kind by nature made,
Or to such weakness by their vice betray'd,
Almighty Vanity! to thee they owe
Their zest of pleasure, and their balm of woe.
Th 0, like the sun, all colors dost contain,
Varying like rays of light on drops of rain;,

For ev

ev ry soul finds reason to be proud, Tho' hiss'd and hooted by the pointing crowd. Warm in pursuit of foxes and renown, Hippolitas demands the sylvan crown*; But Florio's fame, the product of a show'r, Grows in his garden, an illustrious flow'r! Why teems the earth! why melt the vernal skies? Why shines the sun? To make Paul Diack + rise. From morn to night has Florio gazing stood, And wonder'd how the gods could be so good. What shape! what hue! was ever nymph so fair? He doats, he dies! he too is rooted there. O solid bliss! which nothing can destroy Except a cat, bird, snail, or idle boy. In faine's full bloom lies Florio down at night, And wakes next day a most inglorious wight; The tulip's dead! See thy fair sister's fate, OC! and be kind ere 'tis too late.

Nor are those enemies I mention'd all; Beware, O Florist, thy ambition's fall. A friend of mine indulg'd this noble flame; A quaker serv'd him, Adam was his name. To one lov'd tulip oft the master went, Hung o'er it, and whole days in rapture spent But came and miss'd it one ill-fated hour, He rag'd! he roar'd-" What damon cropp'd my flow'r?"

66

;

Serene, quoth Adam, Lo! 'twas crush'd by me: "Fallen is the Baal to which thou bow'dst thy "knee."

"Butall men want amusement, and whatcrime "In such a Paradise to fool their time?" None, but why proud of this? To Fame they soar; We grant they're idle, if they 'll ask no more. We smile at Florists! we despise their joy, And think their hearts enamour'd of a toy; But are those wiser whom we most admire, Survey with envy, and pursue with fire? What's hewho sighs for wealth,orfame,orpow'r? Another Florio doting on a flow'r! A short-liv'd flower, and which has often sprung From solid arts, as Florio's out of dung.

* This refers to the first Satire.

With what, O Codrus! is thy fancy smit? The gandy shelves with crimson bindings glow, The flow'r of learning, and the bloom of wit. And Epictetus is a perfect beau.

How fit for thee bound up in crimson too,
Gilt, and like them devoted to the view!
Thy books are furniture. Methinks 'tis hard
That science should be purchas'd by the yard;
And Tonson, turn'd upholsterer, send home
The gilded leather to fit up thy room.

If not to some peculiar end assign'd,
Study 's the specious trifling of the mind;
Or is at best a secondary aim,

A chace for sport alone, and not for game:
If so, sure they who the mere volume prize,
But love the thicket where the quarry fies.

On buying books Lorenzo long was bent,
But found at length that it reduc'd his rent.
His farms were flown; when lo! a sale comes on,
A choice collection! What is to be done?
He sells his last, for he the whole will buy;
Sells ev'n his house, nay wants whereon to lie;
So high the gen'rons ardor of the man
For Romans, Greeks, and Orientals ran.
To make the purchase, he gives all his store,
Except one darling diamond that he wore:
For what a mistress gave, 'tis death to pawn,
Yet when the terms were fix'd, and writings
drawn,

The sight so ravish'd him, he gave the clerk Love's sacred pledge, and sign'd them with his Unlearned men of books assume the care, [mark. As eunuchs are the guardians of the fair.

Not in his author's liveries alone Is Codrus' erudite ambition shown. Editions various, at high prices bought, Inform the world what Codrus would be thought; And to this cost another must succeed, To pay a sage who says that he can read, Who titles knows, and indexes has scen, But leaves to what lies between : Of pompous books who shuns the proud expence, And humbly is contented with their sense.

OLumley, whose accomplishments make good The promise of a long illustrious blood; In arts and manners eminently grac'd, The strictest honor, and the finest taste! Accept this verse; if Satire can agree With so consummate an humanity. But know, my Lord, if you resent the wrong, That on your candor I obtrude my song ;{ "Tis Satire's just revenge on that fair name, Which all their malice cannot make her theme. By your example would Hilario mend, How would it grace the talents of my friend, Who, with the charms of his own genius smit, Conceives all virtues are compris'd in wit! But time his fervent petulance inay cool; For, though he is a wit, he is no fool. In time he'll learn to use, not waste, his sense; Nor make a frailty of an excellence. His brisk attack on blockheads we should prize, Were not his jest as flippant with the wise, The name of a tulip.

He spares nor friend nor foe; but calls to mind,
Like dooms-day, all the faults of all mankind.
Who tho' wit tickles! tickling is unsafe,
If still 'tis painful while it makes us laugh.
Who, for the poor renown of being smart,
Would leave a sting within a brother's heart?
Parts may be prais'd, good nature is ador'd;
Then draw your wit as seldom as your sword,
And never on the weak; or you 'n appear
As there no hero, no great genius here.
As in smooth oil the razor best is wet,
So wit is by politeness sharpest set.
Their want of edge from their offence is seen;
Both pain us least when exquisitely keen.
The fanie men give, is for the joy they find;
Dull is the jester, when the joke's unkind.

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Is 't not enough the blockhead scarce can read,
But must he wisely look and gravely plead?
As far a formalist from wisdom sits,
In judging eyes, as libertines from wits.
Nav, of true wisdom there too much may be,
wit,The gen'rous mind delights in being free;
Your men of parts an over-care despise;
Dull rogues have nought to do but to be wise.
Horace has said—and that decides the case-
'Tis sweet to trifle in a proper place.

Since Marcus doubtless thinks himself a
To pay my compliment what place so fit?
His most facetious letters came to hand,
Which my first Satire sweetly reprimand.
If that a just offence to Marcus gave,
Say, Marcus, which art thou-a fool, or knave?
For all but such with caution I forbore;
That thou wast either, I ne'er knew before;
I know thee now, both what thou art, and who;
No mask so good but Marcus must shine through;
False names are vain, thy lines their author tell,
Thy best concealment had been writing well;
But thou a brave neglect of Fame hast shown,
Of others' fame, great genius! and thy own.
Write on unheeded, and this maxim know:
The man who pardons, disappoints his foe.
In malice to proud wits, some proudly lull
Their peevish reason, vain of being dull;[souls,
When some home-joke has stung their solemn
In vengeance they determine- to be fools;
Thro' spleen, that little nature gave, make less,
Quite zealous in the ways of heaviness;
Te lumps inanimate a fondness take,
And disinherit sons that are awake.

These, when their utmost venom they wouldspit,
Most barbarously tell you" he's a wit."
Poor negroes thus, to show your burning spite
To Cacodæmons, say they 're devilish white.

Lampridius from the bottom of his breast
Sighs o'er one child, but triumphs in the rest.
How just is grief! one carries in his head
A less proportion of the father's lead ;
And is in danger, without special grace,
To rise above a Justice of the Peace.
The dunghill-breed of men a diamond scorn,
And feel a passion for a grain of corn;
Some stupid, plodding, money-loving wight,
Who wins their hearts by knowing black from
white,

Who with much pains exerting all his sense,
Can range aright his shillings, pounds, andpence.
This booby father craves a booby son,
And by Heaven's blessing thinks himself undone.
Wants of all kinds are made to Fame a plea;
One learns to lisp, another not to see;
Miss D― tottering catches at your hand :
Was ever thing so pretty born to stand ?

| Yet subtle wights (so blind are mortal men,
Tho' Satire couch them with her keenest pen),
For ever will hang out a solemn face,
To put off nonsense with a better grace;
As pedlars with some hero's head make bold,
Illustrious mark where pins are to be sold.
What's the bent brow, or neckinthought reclin'd?
The body's wisdom to conceal the mind.
A man of sense can artifice disdain,
As men of wealth may venture to go plain;
And be this truth eternal ne'er forgot.
Solemnity's a cover for a sot.

I find the fool, when I behold the screen;
For 'tis the wise man's int'rest to be seen.
Hence, Scarborough, that openness of heart,
And just disdain for that poor mimic art;
Hence (manly praise!) that manner nobly free,
Which all admire, and I commend in thee.

With gen'rous scorn hov, oft hast thousurvey'd,
Of court and town the ncon-tide masquerade,
Where swarms of knaves thevizor quite disgrace,
And hide secure behind a naked face!
Where nature's end of language is declin'd,
And men talk only to conceal the mind;
Where gen'rous hearts the greatest hazard run,
And he who trusts a brother is undone!
My brother swore it, therefore it is true;
O strange induction, and at court quite new.
As well thou might'st aver, thou simple swain,

"Tis just, and therefore I my cause shall gain." With such odd maxims to thy flocks retreat, Nor furnish mirth for ministers of state.

Some master spirit far beyond the throng
Refin'd in ill, more rightly bent on wrong,
With exquisite discernment play their game,
More nice of conduct, and more fair of fame.
The neatly injur'd thinks his thanks are due,
Robb'd of his right, and good opinion too:
False honor, pride's first-born, this clan controls,
Who wisely part with nothing but their souls.
Albertus hugs himself in ravish'd thought,
To find a peerage is so cheaply bought.

Letters sent to the Author, signed Marcus.

These

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