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

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A Letter from the same to the Right Hon. Henry

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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 acted in vain "

... 110

The Fair Moralist-" As late by Thames's verdant side"



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"


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



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




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

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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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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.

You wonder how, without one liberal joy,
The steady miser can his years employ;
Without one friend, howe'er his fortunes thrive,
Despis'd and hated, how he bears to live.
With honest warmth of heart, with some degree
Of Pity that such wretched things should be.
You scorn the sordid knave-He grins at you,
And deems himself the wiser of the two.-
'Tis all but taste, howe'er we sift the case;
He has his joy, as every creature has.

'Tis true, he cannot boast an angel's share,
Yet has what happiness his organs bear.
Thou likewise mad'st the high seraphic soul,
Maker Omnipotent! and thou the owl.

Heav'n form'd him too, and doubtless for some



But Crane-court knows not yet all nature's

'Tis chiefly taste, or blunt, or gross, or fine, Makes life insipid, bestial, or divine.

Better be born, with Taste, to little rent,

Than the dull monarch of a continent.

Without this bounty which the gods bestow, Can Fortune make one favourite happy?—No.


As well might Fortune in her frolic vein,
Proclaim an oyster sovereign of the main.
Without fine nerves, and bosom justly warm'd,
An eye, an ear, a fancy, to be charm'd,
In vain majestic Wren expands the dome
Blank as pale stucco Rubens lines the room;
Lost are the raptures of bold Handel's strain;
Great Tully storms, sweet Virgil sings, in vain.
The beauteous forms of nature are effac'd;
Tempè's soft charms, the raging watry waste,
Each greatly-wild, each sweet romantic scene
Unheeded rises, and almost unseen.

Yet these are joys, with some of better clay, To soothe the toils of life's embarrass'd way. These the fine frame with charming horrors


And give the nerves delightfully to thrill.
But of all taste the noblest and the best,
The first enjoyment of the generous breast,

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