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 * "This day the powder'd curls and golden coat,

Says swelling Crispin, "begg'd a cobbler's vote." "This night our Wit," the pert apprentice cries, "Lies at my feet; I hiss him, and he dies." The great, 'tis true, can charm the electing tribe; The bard may supplicate, but cannot bribe. Yet, judged by those whose voices ne'er were sold, He feels no want of ill-persuading gold; But, confident of praise, if praise be due, Trusts without fear to merit and to you.