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Praise what they do not understand,
Turn up the eye, stretch out the hand,
Melt into tears, whilst- blows
The twang of nonsense thro' his nose,
Or deals in speculation,
Or

bums his congregation, Or

talks with the Lord of Hosts,

with pillars and with posts ; Who strictly watch, lest Satan shou'd, Roaring like lion for his food, Ensnare their feet his fatal trap in, And their poor souls be taken napping; Who strictly fast, because they find, The flesh still wars against the mind, And flesh of saints, like sinner's must Be mortified, to keep down lust; Who, four times in the year at least, Join feast of love to love of feast, Which, tho' the profligate and vain, In terms of blasphemy prophane, Yet all the ceremony here is Pure as the mysteries of Ceres ; Who, God's elect, with triumph feel Within themselves salvation's seal, And will not, must not, dare not doubt, That Heav'n itself can't blot it out;

After they've done their holy labours,
Return to scandalize their neighbours,
And think they can't serve Heav'n so well,
As with it's creatures filling Hell:
So that, inflam'd with holy pride,
They save themselves, damn all beside.
For persons, who pretend to feel
The glowings of uncommon zeal,
Who others scorn, and seem to be
Righteous in very great degree,
Do, 'bove all others, take delight
To vent their spleen in tales of spite,
And think they raise their own renown
By pulling of a neighbour's down;
Still lying on with most success,
Because they charity profess,
And make the out-side of religion,
Like Mahomet's inspiring pigeon,
To all their forgeries gain credit,
"Tis enough sure that said it.

But what can all this rambling mean?
Was ever such an hodge-podge seen?
VENUS, CÆCILIA, Saints, and Whores,
Thomas, Vertù, Bells, Knockers, Doors,
Lords, Rogues, Relations, Ladies, Cits,
Stars, Flambeaux, Thunderbolts, Horns, Wits,
Vulean, and Cuckold-maker, Scandal,
Music, and Footmen, Ear of Handel,
Weather, News, Envy, Politics,
Intrigues, and Women's Thousand Tricks,
Prudes, Methodists, and Devotees,
Fastings, Feasts, Pray’rs, and Charities,
Ceres, with her mysterious train,

and
Flesh, Spirit, Love, Hate, and Religion,
A Quail, a Raven, and a Pigeon,
All jumbled up in one large dish,
Red Herring, Bread, Fowl, Flesh, and Fish.

Where's the connection, where's the plan?
The Devil sure is in the man.
All in an instant we are hurl'd
From place to place all round the world,
Yet find no reason for it
There, my good critic, lies the hum
Well, but methinks, it would avail
To know the end of this—A TALE.

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THE

TWO RUBRIC POSTS.

A DIALOGUE.

IN Russel-street, ensued of late,
Between two posts a strange debate.
-Two posts--aye posts-for posts can speak,
In Latin, Hebrew, French, or Greek,
One Rubric thus address'd the other :

-A noble situation, brother, “ With authors lac'd from top to toe,' “ Methinks we cut a taring show, “The Dialogues of famous dead, “ You know how much they're bought and read. “ Suppose again we raise their Ghosts, " And make them chat through us two Posts ;, A thing's half finish'd well begun, “ So take the authors as they run. " The list of names is mighty fine, “ You look down this, and I that line, “ Here'sPope and Swift, and STEELE and GAY, “ And CONGREVE, in the modern way.

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“ Whilst you have those, I cannot speak, " But sound most wonderful in Greek.

A Dialogue I should adore it, “ With such a show of names before it."

“ Modern, your judgment wanders wide," The antient Rubric strait reply'd. # It grieves me much, indeed, to find “ We never can be of a mind, “ Before one door, and in one street, “ Neither ourselves nor thoughts can meet, 6. And we, as brother oft with brother, “ Are at a distance from each other. " Suppose among the letter'd dead, « Some author should erect his head, And starting from bis Rubric, pop “ Directly into Davies' shop, “ Turn o'er the leaves, and look about "", "To find his own opinions out;

D'ye think one author out of ten " Would know his sentiments agen? “ Thinking your authors differ less in " Than in their manner of expressing, “ 'Tis stile which makes the writer, known,

The mark he sets upon “ Let CONGREVE speak as CONGREVE writy " And keep the ball up of his wit;

his own.

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