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Thus did the gentle Hind her fable end, 1291
Nor would the Panther blame it, nor commend;
But, with affected yawnings, at the close
Seem'd to require her natural repose;

For now the streaky light began to peep,
And setting stars admonish'd both to sleep.
The Dame withdrew, and, wishing to her guest,
The peace of Heav'n, betook herself to rest.
Ten thousand angels on her slumbers wait,
With glorious visions of her future state.

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MACFLECNOE.

ALL human things are subject to decay,

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And, when Fate summons, monarchs must obey. This, Flecnoe found; who, like Augustus, young Was call'd to empire; and had govern❜d long; In prose and verse was own'd, without dispute, Through all the realms of Nonsense, absolute. This aged prince, now flourishing in peace, And blest with issue of a large increase, Worn out with bus'ness, did at length debate To settle the succession of the state; And, pond'ring which of all his sons was fit To reign, and wage immortal war with Wit, Cry'd, 'Tis resolv'd; for Nature pleads, that he Should only rule, who most resembles me. Shadwell alone my perfect image bears, Mature in dulness from his tender years; Shadwell alone, of all my sons, is he Who stands confirm'd in full stupidity. The rest to some faint meaning make pretence, But Shadwell never deviates into sense. Some beams of wit on other souls may fall, Strike through, and make a lucid interval: But Shadwell's genuine night admits no ray, His rising fogs prevail upon the day.

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Besides, his goodly fabric fills the eye,

And seems design'd for thoughtless majesty :
Thoughtless as monarch oaks that shade the plain,
And, spread in solemn state, supinely reign.
Heywood and Shirley, were but types of thee,
Thou last great prophet of Tautology!
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Even I, a dunce of more renown than they,
Was sent before but to prepare thy way;
And, coarsely clad in Norwich drugget, came
To teach the nations in thy greater name.
My warbling lute, the lute I whilom strung,
When to King John of Portugal I sung,
Was but the prelude to that glorious day,
When thou on Silver Thames didst cut thy way,
With well-tim'd oars before the royal barge,
Swell'd with the pride of thy celestial charge; 40
And big with hymn, commander of an host;
The like was ne'er in Epsom blankets tost.
Methinks I see the new Arion sail,
The lute still trembling underneath thy nail.
At thy well sharpen'd thumb, from shore to shore
The Trebles squeak for fear, the Basses roar :
Echoes, from Pissing-Alley, Shadwell call;
And Shadwell' they resound from Aston-Hall.
About thy boat the little fishes throng,
As at the morning toast that floats along.
Sometimes, as Prince of thy harmonious band,
Thou wield'st thy papers in thy threshing hand,
St. Andre's feet ne'er kept more equal time,
Not e'en the feet of thy own Psyche's rhyme;

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