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TO THE RIGHT HIONOURABLE
ROBERT, EARL OF OXFORD,
SUCH were the notes thy once-lov’d Poet fung,
Till death untimely stopp'd his tuneful tongue.
For him thou oft haft bid the world attend,
great ; Dextrous, the craving, fawning croud to quit, And pleas’d to scape from flattery to wit.
Absent or dead, still let a friend be dear,
And sure, if aught below the feats divine
A foul supreme, in each hard instance try'dy,
rage power, the blast of public breath, The luft of lucre, and the dread of death.
In vain to deserts thy retreat is made;
Sept. 257 1721
HAT antient times (those times we fancy wise)
Have left on long record of woman's rise,
In days of yore (no matter where or when,