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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 flatt'ry-'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 eafe, Which all Priests love, let this address displease. I afk no favour, not one note I crave,


And, when this bufy brain refts in the grave,
(For till that time it never can have reft)
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 I, 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 fhare;
I would not ALLEN rob, nor ALLEN's heir.

Think not, a thought unworthy thy great foul, 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 tinfel trumpery of ftate,


'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 mifplac'd; mitres, which shine
So bright in other eyes, are dull in mine,
Unless set off by Virtue; who deceives
Under the facred fanction of Lawn Sleeves,
Enhances guilt, commits a double fin;
So fair without, and yet fo foul within.
'Tis not thy outward form, thy easy mein,
Thy sweet complacency, thy brow ferene,
Thy open front, thy love-commanding eye,
Where fifty Cupids, as in ambush, lie,
Which can from fixty to fixteen impart
The force of love, and point his blunted dart;
'Tis not thy face, tho' that by Nature's made
An index to thy foul, tho' there display'd
We see thy mind at large, and thro' thy skin
Peeps out that courtefy which dwells within;
'Tis not thy birth, for that is low as mine,
Around our heads no lineal glories fhine-
But what is birth-when, to delight mankind,
Heralds can make thofe arms they cannot find;
When thou art to thyfelf, thy Sire unknown,
A whole, Welch genealogy alone?





No, 'tis thy inward man, thy proper worth, 40274 Thy right just eftimation here on earth, abast A Thy life and doctrine uniformly join'd,

Lisa 121

And flowing from that wholefome fource thy mind,
Thy known contempt of perfecution's rod,
Thy charity for man, thy love of God,
Thy faith in Chrift, 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 foar on wings more ftrong,
And burft forth into praise with-held too long.

300 wo

2d 4


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Much did I wish, e'en whilft I kept thofe fheep,
Which, for
my curfe, I was ordain'd to keep;
Ordain'd, alas! to keep thro' need, not choice,
Thofe fheep which never heard their fhepherd's voice,
Which did not know, yet would not learn their way,
Which stray'd themselves, yet griev'd that I should
Those sheep, which my good Father (on his bier
Let filial duty drop the pious tear)





Kept well, yet ftarv'd himself, e'en at that time,


Whilft I was pure, and innocent of rhime, If Whilft, facred dullnefs ever in my view,


Sleep at my bidding crept from pew to pew,


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