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LXXV.

One hates an author that's all author, fellows
In foolscap uniforms turn'd up with ink,
So very anxious, clever, fine, and jealous,
One don't know what to say to them, or think,
Unless to puff them with a pair of bellows;
Of coxcombry's worst coxcombs e'en the pink
Are preferable to these shreds of paper,
These unquench'd snuffings of the midnight taper

LXXVI

Of these same we see several, and of others,

Men of the world, who know the world like

men,

Stt, R-s, M-re, and all the better brothers,
Who think of something else besides the pen;
But for the children of the,,mighty mother's,"
The would-be wits and can't-be gentlemen,
I leave them to their daily,,tea is ready,"
Smug coterie, and literary lady.

LXXIII.

No solemn, antique gentleman
Who having angled all his l
And getting but a nibble at a t
Still fussily keeps fishing o
Small,,Triton of the minnov
Of mediocrity, the furiou
The echo's echo, usher of

Of female wits, boy bards

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LXXVII.

The poor dear Mussulwomen whom I mention Have none of these instructive pleasant people, And one would seem to them a new invention,

Unknown as bells within a Turkish steeple; I think 'twould almost be worth while to pension (Though best-sown projects very often reap ill) A missionary author, just to preach Our Christian usage of the parts of speech.

LXXVIII.

No chemistry for them unfolds her gasses,
No metaphysics are let loose in lectures,
No circulating library amasses

Religious novels, moral tales, and strictures Upon the living manners, as they pass us;

No exhibition glares with annual pictures; They stare not on the stars from out their attics, Nor deal (thank God for that!) in mathematics.

LXXIX.

Why I thank God for that is no great matter,
I have my reasons, you no doubt suppose,
And as, perhaps, they would not highly flatter,
I'll keep them for my life (to come) in prose;
I fear I have a little turn for satire,

And yet methinks the older that one grows Inclines us more to laugh than scold, though laugh

ter

Leaves us so doubly serious shortly after.

LXXX.

Oh, Mirth and Innocence! Oh, Milk and Water!
Ye happy mixtures of more happy days!
In these sad centuries of sin and slaughter,

Abominable Man no more allays

His thirst with such pure beverage. No matter,

I love you both, and both shall have my praise: Oh, for old Saturn's reign of sugar-candy! Meantime I drink to your return in brandy.

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