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But that once o'er, the short-liv'd union ends:
This heard, the Matron was not slow to find
Yet durst she not too deeply probe the wound, 80 As hoping still the nobler parts were sound:
But strove with anodynes t' assuage the smart,
Complaints of lovers help to ease their pain;
Witness, ye Heav'ns, how I rejoice to see 90
Your warrior offspring that upheld the crown,
And if my pray'rs for all the brave were heard, Cæsar should still have such, and such should still reward.
99 The labour'd earth, your pains have sow'd and till'd; 'Tis just you reap the product of the field: Yours be the harvest, 'tis the beggar's gain To glean the fallings of the loaded wain. Such scatter'd ears as are not worth your care, Your charity for alms may safely spare, For alms are but the vehicles of pray'r. My daily bread is lit'rally implor'd; I have no barns, nor granaries to hoard.
Remains of kindness.
If Cæsar to his own his hand extends,
Say, which of yours his charity offends? 1100 You know he largely gives to more than are( his friends.
Are you defrauded when he feeds the poor?
I am but few, and by your fare you see
Some juster motive sure your mind with draws,
Shew more occasion for your discontent:
But then, perhaps, the wicked world would think The Wolf design'd to eat as well as drink,
This last illusion gall'd the Panther more,
Because, indeed, it rubb'd upon the sore:
I never grudg'd (whate'er my foes report,)
You have your day, or you are much bely'd,
Ah! said the Hind, how many sons have you, Who call you mother whom you never knew! But most of them, who that relation plead, Are such ungracious youths as wish you dead. They gape at rich revenues which you hold, And, fain, would nibble at your grandame Gold; Inquire into your years, and laugh to find Your crazy temper shews you much declin'd. Were you not dim, and doted, you might see A pack of cheats that claim a pedigree, No more of kin to you, than you to me. Do you not know that, for a little coin, Heralds can foist a name into the line? They ask your blessing but for what you have, But once possess'd of what with care you save, The wanton boys would piss upon your grave. Your sons of latitude, that court your grace, Tho' most resembling you in form and face, Are far the worst of your pretended race; 162 And, (but I blush your honesty to blot,) Pray God you prove them lawfully begot: For in some Popish libels I have read, The wolf has been too busy in your bed;
At least her hinder parts, the belly-piece,
Think you your new French proselytes are come To starve abroad, because they starv'd at home? Your benefices twinkled from afar ;
They found the new Messiah by the star :
More vacant pulpits would more converts make;
And chamber practice is a silent gain.
Your sons of breadth at home, are much like
Their soft and yielding metals run with ease;
Your Delphic sword, the Panther then reply'd, Is doubled-edg'd, and cuts on either side. Some sons of mine, who bear upon their shield Three steeples argent in a sable field,