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V.3

GIFT OF

Brufescer J. U). Thompson

T. C. HANSARD, PRINTER, Peterboro'-court, Fleet-street, London.

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

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Fox....

A Letter from the same to the Right Hon. Henry

Ditto........Ditto........Ditto......

77

82

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

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To Chloe, a Persuasive to love-" Since Nature ne'er

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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......

....

An Account of the Kings and Government of Poland

124

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

CALIFORNI

ON BENEVOLENCE:

AN

EPISTLE TO EUMENES.

KIND
IND 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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CYTILOKMI

2

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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