Thou who shalt stop, where Thames' translucent wave
Shines a broad Mirror thro' the shadowy Cave;
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Authors the world and their dull brains have traced
To fix the ground where Paradise was placed;
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The Basset-Table spread, the Tallier come;
Why stays Smilinda in the Dressing-Room?
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Pallas grew vapourish once, and odd,
She would not do the least right thing,
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Come gentle Air! th' AEolian shepherd said,
While Procris panted in the secret shade:
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When other fair ones to the shades go down,
Still Chloe, Flavin, Delia, stay in town:
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Of gentle Philips will I ever sing,
With gentle Philips shall the valleys ring.
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Thou art my God, sole object of my love;
Not for the hope of endless joys above;
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With no poetic ardour fir'd
I press the bed where Wilmot lay;
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Goddess of woods, tremendous in the chase,
To mountain wolves and all the savage race,
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Resign'd to live, prepar'd to die,
With not one sin, but poetry,
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Oh be thou blest with all that Heav'n can send,
Long Health, long Youth, long Pleasure, and a Friend:
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With scornful mien, and various toss of air,
Fantastic vain, and insolently fair,
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Ye Lords and Commons, Men of Wit,
And Pleasure about Town;
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As some fond virgin, whom her mother's care
Drags from the town to wholesome country air,
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I.
In beauty, or wit,
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Know then thyself, presume not God to scan;
The proper study of mankind is man.
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Begone, ye Critics, and restrain your spite,
Codrus writes on, and will for ever write,
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The fair Pomona flourish'd in his reign;
Of all the Virgins of the sylvan train,
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Ye nymphs of Solyma! begin the song,
To heavenly themes sublimer strains belong.
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How happy he, who free from care
The rage of courts, and noise of towns;
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Say, lovely youth, that dost my heart command,
Can Phaon's eyes forget his Sappho's hand?
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High on a gorgeous seat, that far out-shone
Henley's gilt tub, or Flecknoe's Irish throne,
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Phryne had talents for mankind,
Open she was, and unconfin'd,
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Tho' Artemisia talks, by fits,
Of councils, classics, fathers, wits;
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But in her Temple's last recess inclos'd,
On Dulness' lap th' Anointed head repos'd.
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Thy forests, Windsor! and thy green retreats,
At once the Monarch's and the Muse's seats,
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She said, and for her lost Calanthis sighs,
When the fair Consort of her son replies.
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She said: the pitying audience melt in tears, But Fate and Jove had stopp'd the Baron's ears.
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Muse, 'tis enough: at length thy labour ends,
And thou shalt live, for Buckingham commends.
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