Sat. I* The Universal Passion .

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The Squire is frond to fee his Courser strain,Or well-breath’d Beagles sweep along the plain.Say, dear Histfolitus , (whose drink is Ale,

Whose Erudition is a Christmas- tale,

Whose Mistress is saluted with a smack,

And Friend receiv’d with thumps upon the back)When thy steek Gelding nimbly leaps the mound,And Ringwood opens on the tainted ground,

Is That thy praise ? Let Ringwood ’s tame alone,Just Ringwood leaves each Animal his own,

Nor envies when a Gypsy you Commit,

And shake the clumsy bench with Country wit*When you the dullest of dull things have said,

And then ask pardon for the jest you made.

Here breathe, my Muse! and then thy task renew.Ten thousand Fools unsung are still in view.

C 2. Fewer