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September 17,
1767. No. 142. |
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Inscription
on a DOG
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Calm, tho’ not
mean, courageous without Rage;
Serious, not dull, and without thinking sage;
Pleas’d at the Lot that Nature has assign’d,
I snarl at Will, and freely bark my Mind:
As Churchman, wrangle not with jarring Spite; |
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Nor, Statesman like,
caressing whom I bite;
View all the canine Kind with equal Eyes,
I dread no Mastiff, and no Cur despise.
True from the First, and faithful to the End,
I balk no Mistress, and forsake no Friend, |
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My Days and Nights one
equal Tenour keep,
Rise but to eat, and only wake to sleep.
Thus steal thro’ harmless Life, and live in Cog,
A very plain and downright honest Dog.
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September 17,
1767. No. 142. |
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The
Choice
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If e’er I’m
doom’d the Marriage Chain to wear,
Propitious Heaven attend my Virgin Prayer!
May the dear Man I’m destin’d to obey,
Still kindly govern with a gentle Sway;
May his good Sense improve my best of Thoughts, |
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And with Good-Nature smile
on all my Faults;
May ev’ry Virtue his best Friendship know,
And all Vice shun him as its mortal Foe;
May I too find possess’d by the dear Youth
The strictest Manners and sincerest Truth; |
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Unblemish’d be his
Character and Fame,
May his good Actions merit a good Name;
I’d have his Fortune easy, but not great,
For Troubles often on the Wealthy wait;
Nor Life so short that I could ever spare |
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A trifling Part to throw
away on Care:
Be this my Fate if e’er I’m made a Wife,
Or keep me happy in a single Life.
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September 17,
1767. No. 142. |
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Messrs.
Les IMPRIMEURS,
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Ayez
la Bonté d’inserer dans votre Prochaine ce qui suit, et
vous obligerez,
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Un de vos
Souscrivans.
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ELOGE de
la PIPE.
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Doux Charme de ma
Solitude,
Charmant Pipe, ardent Fourneau,
Qui d’Humeurs purge mon Cerveau,
Et mon Esprit d’Inquiétude.
Tabac, dont mon Ame est ravie, |
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Quand je te vois perdre en
l’Air,
Aussi vite comme un Éclair,
Je vois l’Image de ma Vie.
Tu remets dans mon souvenir
Ce qu’un Jour je dois devenir, |
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N’étant qu’une Cendre
allumée,
Et tout confus je m’apperçois,
Que courant après la Fumée
Je passe aussi vite que Toi. |
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[A
Translation is desired.]
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September 17,
1767. No. 142. |
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Enigme
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| Souvent l’amour me fait
des vœux, |
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| Souvent la volupté
m’embrasse, |
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| Empruntant ma force, et ma
grace, |
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| A fin de faire des heureux. |
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Mon baiser
est un feu liquide, |
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Qui rend hardi le plus
timide,
Le plus sage en est transporté. |
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| J’ai l’art d’egaïer
la tristesse, |
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| Je change en force la
foiblesse, |
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| Et j’enfante la verité. |
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September 24,
1767. No. 143. |
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To
The Printers
The APOTHEOSIS of the Reverend Doctor ——.
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Arm’d for the Fight, the
Doctor takes his Post,
And hews his Way through bak’d, and boil’d, and roast;
Attacks Fish, Flesh, and Fowl, both great and small,
Joints, Haunches, Turkeys, Turbot, Bones and all!
In vain for Quarter, Custards, Tarts, implore him, |
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The lighter Troops of
Pastry sink before him;
The Havock done, and ev’ry Labour o’er,
Our Reverend Hercules
still pants for more!
The spacious Tomb, where all his Spoils are laid,
Receives the choicest Wines t’embalm the Dead; |
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On easy Tripod plac’d,
his Legs out-stretch’d,
His Looks enraptur’d, and his Breath short fetch’d,
Glowing he smiles on his astonish’d Friends,
While from his Lips the curling Smoke ascends!
The Aromatick Leaves to Ashes turn; |
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His Soul dilates! the God
begins to burn!
“No Human Happiness can equal mine!—
I drop the Mortal, and am all divine!
Though Eighteen Stone, free from my Flesh I spring,
And, light as Cherub, up to Heav’n I wing! |
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And as I rise from Earth,
with Scorn I view
Deans, Canons, Bishops, and Arch-Bishops too!”
He said, and star’d! Joy
lighten’d from his Eyes,
’Till by Degrees the Inspiration dies!
Wild roll his Eye-Balls!—Like the Priests of Yore, |
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His Tongue now
falters—now he speaks no more;
Intranc’d, inflated!—By the God possest,
He sinks in Raptures—snores—and dreams the rest. |
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Y. Z. |
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