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Manners! fram'd to please All nations, customs, kindreds, languages! I am a free-born Roman; suffer, then, That I amongst you live a citizen. London my home is: though by hard fate sent Into a long and irksome banishment; Yet since call'd back; henceforward let me be, O native country, repossess'd by thee! For, rather than I'll to the West return, I'll beg of thee first here to have mine urn. Weak I am grown, and must in short time fall; Give thou my sacred relics burial. 714. NOT EVERY DAY FIT FOR VERSE. 'Tis not ev'ry day that I Fitted am to prophesy; No; but when the spirit fills The fantastic pannicles Full of fire, then I write As the godhead doth indite. Thus enrag'd, my lines are hurled, Like the Sybil's, through the world. Look how next the holy fire Either slakes, or doth retire; So the fancy cools, till when That brave spirit comes again. _Fantastic pannicles_, brain cells of the imagination. _Sybil's_, the oracles of the Cumaean Sybil were written on leaves, which the wind blew about her cave.--Virg. AEn. iv. 715. POVERTY THE GREATEST PACK. To mortal men great loads allotted be, _But of all packs, no pack like poverty_. 716. A BUCOLIC, OR DISCOURSE OF NEATHERDS. 1. Come, blitheful neatherds, let us lay A wager who the best shall play, Of thee or I, the roundelay That fits the business of the day. _Chor._ And Lalage the judge shall be, To give the prize to thee, or me. 2. Content, begin, and I will bet A heifer smooth, and black as jet, In every part alike complete, And wanton as a kid as yet. _Chor._ And Lalage, with cow-like eyes, Shall be disposeress of the prize. 1. Against thy heifer, I will here Lay to thy stake a lusty steer With gilded horns, and burnish'd clear. _Chor._ Why, then, begin, and let us hear The soft, the sweet, the mellow note That gently purls from either's oat. 2. The stakes are laid: let's now apply Each one to make his melody. _Lal._ The equal umpire shall be I, Who'll hear, and so judge righteously. _Chor._ Much time is spent in prate; begin, And sooner play, the sooner win.
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