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 Even I, a dunce of more renown than they,

Was ent before but to prepare thy way;

And coarly clad in Norwich Drugget came

To teach the Nations in thy greater Name.

My warbling Lute, the Lute I whilom trung,

When to King John of Portugal I ung,

Was but the Prelude to that glorious Day,

When thou on Silver Thames did't cut thy way,

With well-tim'd Oars before the Royal Barge,

Swell'd with the Pride of thy Celetial charge;

And big with Hymn, Commander of an Hot,

The like was ne'er in Epom Blankets tot.

Methinks I ee the new Arion Sail,

The Lute till trembling underneath thy nail.

At thy well-harpned Thumb from Shore to Shore

The Treble queaks for fear, the Baes roar:

Echoes from Piing-Ally, Sh—— call,

And Sh—— they reound from A—— Hall.

About thy Boat the little Fihes throng,

As at the Morning Toat, that Floats along.

Sometimes as Prince of thy Harmonious Band,

Thou wield't thy Papers in thy threhing hand.

St. Andre's Feet ne'er kept more equal Time,

Not even the Feet of thy own Pyche's Rhime:

Though they in number as in ene excell;

So jut, so like tautology they fell, Here topt the good old Syre; and wept for joy

In ilent raptures of the hopeful boy.

All Arguments, but mot his Plays, perwade,

That for anointed Dullnes he was made.

Cloe to the Walls which fair Auguta bind,

(The fair Auguta much to Fears inclin'd)

An ancient Fabrick, rais'd to inform the ight,

There tood of yore, and Barbican it hight: A