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EALTH to great GLOSTER—from a man

Who holds thy health as dearly as his own,
Accept this greeting—nor let modeft fear
Call up one maiden blush-I mean not here
To wound with flatery~'tis a villain's art,
And suits not with the frankness of my heart, .
Truth best becomes an Orthodox Divine,
And, spite of hell, that character is mine;
To speak e'en bitter truths I cannot fear ;
But truth, my Lord, is panegyric here.
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Health to great Gloster-nor, thro’ love of ease, Which all Priests love, let this address displease. I ask no favour, not one note I crave, And, when this busy brain rests in the grave, (For till that time it never can have rest) I will not trouble you with one bequest. Some humbler friend, my mortal journey done, More near in blood, a nephew or a son, In that dread hour executor I'll leave; For 1, alas ! have many to receive, To give but little-To great Gloster health ; Nor let thy true and proper love of wealth Here take a false alarm-in purse though poor, In spirit I'm right proud, nor can endure The mention of a bribe-thy pocket's free, I, though a Dedicator, scorn a fee. Let thy own offspring all thy fortunes share; I would not ALLEN rob; nor Allen's heir,

Think not, a thought unworthy thy great soul, Which pomps

of this world never could controul, Which never offer'd up at pow'r's vain shrine, Think not that pomp and pow'r can work on mine, 'Tis not thy name, though that indeed is great, 'Tis not the tinsel trumpery of state,



'Tis not thy title, Doctor tho’ thou art, 'Tis not thy mitre, which hath won my heart. State is a farce, names are but empty things, Degrees are bought, and, by mistaken kings, Titles are oft misplac'd; mitres, which shine So bright in other eyes, are dull in mine, Unless set off by Virtue; who deceives Under the sacred sanction of Lawn Sleeves, Enhances guilt, commits a double fin; So fair without, and yet so foul within. . 'Tis not thy outward form, thy easy mein, Thy sweet complacency, thy brow serene, Thy open front, thy love-commanding eye, Where fifty Cupids, as in ambush, lie, Which can from sixty to sixteen impart The force of love, and point his blunted dart; 'Tis not thy face, tho' that by Nature's made An index to thy soul, tho' there display'd We see thy mind at large, and thro' thy skin Peeps out that courtesy which dwells within ; 'Tis not thy birth, for that is low as mine, Around our heads no lineal glories shine But what is birth-when, to delight mankind, Heralds can make those arms they cannot find; When thou art to thyself, thy Sire unknown, A whole, Welch genealogy alone?




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No, 'tis thy inward man, thy proper worth,
Thy right just estimation here on earth, weis
Thy life and doctrine uniformly join’d,
And flowing from that wholesome source thy mirid,
Thy known contempt of persecution's rod,
Thy charity for man, thy love of God, 67158 <!!
Thy faith in Christ, so well approv'd’mongst men,
Which now give life, and utt'rance to my pen!
Thy virtue, not thy rank, demands my lays;
'Tis not the Bishop, but the Saint I praise.
Rais’d by that theme, I soar on wings more strong,
And burst forth into praise with-held too long.

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Much did I wish, e'en whilst I kept those sheep, Which, for ́my curse, I was ordain’d to keep; Ordain'd, alas! to keep thro' need, not choice, Those sheep which never heard their shepherd's voice, Which did not know, yet would not learn their way, :} Which stray'd themselves, yet griev'd that I should

: stray, ,
Those sheep, which my good Father (on his bier
Let filial duty drop the pious tear)
Kept well, yet starv'd himself, e'en at that time,
Whilft I was

lit was pure, and innocent of rhime, , Whilft, facred dullness ever in my view, Sleep at my bidding crept from pew to pew,


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