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Show " Epilogue Lxd Ith the difcharge of Paflions much oppreft Difturb d in Brain, and penfrve in bis Breaff Full of thofe thoughts which make 1 unhappy fad And by Imagination half grown mad T be Poet led abroad bis Mourning Mufe . Aud let ber range, to fee what fport fhe'd chufe Straight like a.Bird got loofe, and on the Wing Pleas'd with her freedom, fhe began ro Sing Each Note was Eccho'd all the Vale alony And this was what fbe wtter'd in ber Song Wretch, write no more for an uncertain fame *Poj Nor call thy Mufe, when thouart dull, to Blame Confider with thy [elf how thart unfi o make that Monfler of Mankind, a Wiz AWit's a Toad, who fwell d with Silly pride Full of himfelf, feorns all the World befide Czvil wonld feem, though he good manners lacks Swmiles on all faces, rails bebind all backs If €'re good natur'd, nought to Ridicule Good nature melts a Witinto'a Fool Placd bigh, like fome Fack-Pudding in a Hall At Chriftmas Revels he makes Jport for all S0 much in little praifes he delights But when be's anzry draws his Pen and Wites A Wit tono max will bis dues allow Watswill not part with a good word that's dye So who €'re Ventures on the Ragged Coaf Of ffarving Poets, certainly is lof? Zhey rail like Porters ar the Penny-Pof? At-a new Author's Play fee one bur fit Making his fnarling froward face of Wit The Merit he allowes, and praife be grants Comes like a Tax from a poor Wretch that wants O Poets, have a care of one another There's hardly one among/t ye true to t'other i Lik |