Ye poets ragged and forlorn, Down from your garrets 
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Dans l'adversité de nos meilleurs amis nous trouvons quelque chose, qui ne nous dé
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The Thresher Duck, could o'er the Q {-}{-}{-}{-}{-}{-} prevail, The Proverb says; No Fence against a Flayl.
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This day, whate'er the Fates decree, Shall still be kept with joy by me:
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Stella this day is thirty-four, (We shan't dispute a year or more:)
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Let me thy Properties explain,
A rotten Cabin, dropping Rain;
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Now hardly here and there a hackney-coach Appearing, show'd the ruddy morn's approach.
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THE RECORDER'S SPEECH EXPLAINED BY THE TORIES An ancient metropolis, famous of late
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A WONDERFUL age Is now on the stage:
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TO THE LORD TREASURER OXFORD
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On Britain Europe's safety lies, Britain is lost if Harley dies:
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An orator dismal of Nottinghamshire, Who has forty years let out his conscience to hire,
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When a holy black Swede, the son of Bob, With a saint at his chin and a seal at his fob,
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This day (the year I dare not tell) Apollo play'd the midwife's part;
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Midas, we are in story told, Turn'd every thing he touch'd to gold:
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If, dearest Dismal, you for once can dine Upon a single dish, and tavern wine,
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Spite of Dutch friends and English foes, Poor Britain shall have peace at last:
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Harley, the nation's great support, Returning home one day from court,
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By an old ——pursued, A crazy prelate, and a royal prude;
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Observe the dying father speak: Try, lads, can you this bundle break?
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Charming oysters I cry:
My masters, come buy,
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All folks who pretend to religion and grace,
Allow there's a HELL, but dispute of the place:
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Desponding Phillis was endu'd
With ev'ry Talent of a Prude,
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The Farmer's Goose, who in the Stubble,
Has fed without Restraint, or Trouble;
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Careful Observers may fortel the Hour
(By sure Prognosticks) when to dread a Show'r:
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As, when a lofty pile is raised,
We never hear the workmen praised,
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A lion sunk by time's decay,
Too feeble grown to hunt his prey,
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To their Excellencies the Lords Justices of Ireland,
The humble petition of Frances Harris,
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Deprived of root, and branch and rind,
Yet flowers I bear of every kind:
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Her dead lady's joy and comfort,
Who departed this life
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