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Page 73

A Letter from the same to the Rev. Mr. Birt

A Letter from the same to the Right Họn. Henry
Fox ....

77 Ditto.... .Ditto........ Ditto......

82 A Letter from Sir C. H. Williams to the Rev. Mr. Birt ....

85 Ditto........ ditto to the same......

91 Ditto.. ...ditto to the same......

96 Ditto........ ditto to the same..

102 To Chloe, a Persuasive to love" Since Nature ne'er acted in vain”

110 The Fair Moralist—“ As late by Thames's verdant side"

111 On Pope's having just published his Dunciad—" At

length Pope conquers : Hervey, Wortley yield”. 112 Verses addressed to the Countess of Essex—“ Fanny beware of flattery"

113 Le Pater-noster de Madame de Pompadour-"Grand Dieu je confesse mes crimes”

118 Verses, written by Sir C. H. Williams, on seeing a

Man with a heavy Load on his Back and an Oak.
Leaf in his Hat on the 29th of May..

124 An Account of the Kings and Government of Poland

in Letters to the Right hon. Henry Fox .. i to the end





KIND to my frailties still, Eumenes, hear ;
Once more I try the patience of your ear.
Not oft I sing ; the happier for the town,
So stunn'd already they’re quite stupid grown
With monthly, daily-charming things I own.
Happy for them, I seldom court the Nine;
Another art, a serious art, is mine.
Of nauseous verses offer'd once a week,
You cannot say I did it, if you're sick.
'Twas ne'er my pride to shine by flashy fits
Amongst the Daily Advertiser wits.
Content if some few friends indulge my name,
So slightly am I stung with Love of Fame,

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I would not scrawl one hundred idle lines-
Not for the praise of all the magazines.

Yet once a moon, perhaps, I steal a night; And, if our Sire Apollo pleases, write. You smile; but all the train the Muse that

follow, Christians and dunces, still we quote Apollo. Unhappy still our Poets will rehearse To Goths, that stare astonish'd at their verse ; To the rank tribes submit their virgin lays: So gross, so bestial, is the lust of praise !

I to sound judges from the mob appeal, And write to those who most my subject feel. Eumenes, these dry moral lines I trust With you, whom nought that's moral can disgust. With you I venture, in plain home-spun sense, What I imagine of Benevolence.

Of all the monsters of the human kind, What strikes you most is the low selfish mind.

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