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I shall here present the Reader with a valuable Literary Curio fity, a Fragment of an unpublished Satire of Pope, intitled, ONE THOUSAND SEVEN HUNDRED AND FORTY; communicated to me by the kindness of the learned and worthy Dr. Wilson, formerly fellow and librarian of Trinity College, Dublin; who fpeaks of the Fragment in the following terms:

"This Poem I tranfcribed from a rough draft in Pope's own hand. He left many blanks for fear of the Argus Eye of those who, if they cannot find, can fabricate treason; yet, spite of his precaution, it fell into the hands of his enemies. To the hieroglyphics, there are direct allufions, I think, in fome of the notes on the Dunciad. It was lent me by a grandfon of Lord Chetwynd, an intimate friend of the famous Lord Bolingbroke, who gratified his curiofity by a boxful of the rubbish and sweepings of Pope's ftudy, whofe executor he was, in conjunction with Lord Marchmont."

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jealous now of all, What God, what mortal, fhall prevent thy fall? Turn, turn thy eyes from wicked men in place, And fee what fuccour from the Patriot Race.


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his own proud dupe, thinks Monarchs things
Made just for him, as other fools for Kings;
Controls, decides, infults thee every hour,
And antedates the hatred due to Pow'r.

Thro' Clouds of Paffion P's views are clear,
He foams a Patriot to fubfide a Peer;
Impatient fees his country bought and fold,
And damns the market where he takes no gold.
Grave, righteous S - joggs on till, past belief,
He finds himself companion with a thief.

To purge and let thee blood, with fire and fword, Is all the help ftern S-- wou'd afford.

That those who bind and rob thee, would not kill, Good C hopes, and candidly fits still.

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Of Chs W-- who fpeaks at all,

No more than of Sir Har-y or Sir P -.

Whose names once up, they thought it was not wrong

To lie in bed, but fure they lay too long.

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G-r, C-m- B - t, pay thee due regards, Unless the ladies bid them mind their cards.

with wit that must

And Cd who speaks fo well and writes,
Whom (faving W.) every S. harper bites,

Whose wit and

muft needs

equally provoke one,

Finds thee, at beft, the butt to crack his joke on.
As for the reft, each winter up they run,
And all are clear, that fomething must be done.
Then urg'd by C-- t, or by Ċ - - t ftopt,
Inflam'd by P --, and by P - - dropt;
They follow rev'rently each wond'rous wight,
Amaz'd that one can read, that one can write:
So geefe to gander prone obedience keep,
Hifs if he hifs, and if he flumber, fleep.
Till having done whate'er was fit or fine,
Utter'd a speech, and ask'd their friends to dine;
Each hurries back to his paternal ground,
Content but for five fhillings in the pound,
Yearly defeated, yearly hopes they give,
And all agree, Sir Robert cannot live.

Rife, rife, great W -- fated to appear,
Spite of thyself a glorious minifter!

Speak the loud language Princes

And treat with half the .

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Tho' ftill he travels on no bad pretence,

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Or thofe foul copies of thy face and tongue,
Veracious W and frontlefs Young;
Sagacious Bub, fo late a friend, and there
So late a foe, yet more fagacious H-..?
Hervey and Hervey's fchool, F.H.. y, H
Yea, moral Ebor, or religious Winton.
How! what can Ow, what can D - - -
The wisdom of the one and other chair,
N- - - laugh, or D - - s fager,

Or thy dread truncheon M.'s mighty peer?
What help from J - - s opiates canft thou draw,
Or H-k's quibbles voted into law?

C. that Roman in his nofe alone,

Who hears all caufes, B--, but thy own,


Or thofe proud fools whom nature, rank, and fate
Made fit companions for the Sword of State.

Can the light packhorse, or the heavy steer,
The fowzing Prelate, or the fweating Peer,
Drag out with all its dirt and all its weight,
The lumb'ring carriage of thy broken State?
Alas! the people curse, the carman fwears,
The drivers quarrel, and the master stares.
The plague is on thee, Britain, and who tries
To fave thee in th' infectious office dies.

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