AT last our Hopes are fled, and hes departed,
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And leaves us Fudling Sinners broken hearted,
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To think how Death could take delight in Bauking
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The bold Designs of Honourable Chalking;
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Who now shall set young Lawyers Clerks a roaring,
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And countenance the Noble Art of Scoring?
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Who shall instruct the Soldiers in procedure,
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And dare to give Cross words to Grim File-Leader,
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Who Cloathd in Buff, disdains Reproof, and scorns
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To use his Gun, since he can use his Horns?
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Ah Sherwood, to thy great Examples owing
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That Sots are skilld in Drink, and Warriors knowing,
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That Bars are renderd White by Midnight debtors
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And many a Name is Bookd in Ample Letters;
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And should thy vertues want to be recorded,
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Thy Transcendent Worth be unrewarded,
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How would this Thankless Age be calld Ungrateful,
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And hearty Soakers go without their Pate-full?
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High were thy Thoughts, and Soaring thy Designs
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Above thy Station, and above our Lines.
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Thy Mind as frothy as thy Working Ale
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But Sour thy Temper like thy Beer when Stale.
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Yet thou hadst Vertues, and couldst rarely Nick it,
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When thou vouchsafst thyself to turn the Spicket;
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And being gracious pleasd to let the Tap run,
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Quitting thy glorious Sash for foul Blew Apron:
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Witness the many Pots of Purle, Ive seen
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Drawn by thy Hands, most nicely dashd, and clean;
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And potent Mugs of powerful Ale and Beer,
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Frothing at Top, as if thy Mind was there.
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But I do wrong to this departed Ghost
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In treating him, as if a Common Host.
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His Frowns Command, and charge me to forbear,
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And lose the Vic[?]ler in the Man of War.
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Methinks I see him on a Muster-day,
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Dressd like a Hero, Fanciful and Gay;
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The Face well Scourd with Soap, and by his side,
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There stands the price of Majesty his Bride,
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Who puts his Ruffles into Pleits, and dresses
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Her Charming Spouse with thousand soft Caresses,
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As his proud Soul contemplates his Condition,
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And thanks Short-Pots for getting his Commission;
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Whilst he gives Drink for Name of Noble Captain.
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Perceiving not the snares which he is trapt in.
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Awful he looks, and dreadful to the Sight,
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And meditates the pleasures of the Fight;
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Which stead of Dangers, and of hateful Bullets
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Presents him with Roast-Beef, and Legs of Pullets.
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But why alas! Am I thus long deceivd?
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And fancie life in one of Life bereavd?
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Yonder He lies, and breathless is his Carcass
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Damnt, I could almost Swear, tis such a hard Case.
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Behold the Champion, who when living durst
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Fight to appease his Hunger and his Thirst,
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In Bloodless Battles, and in harmless Broils,
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Employd his Labours, and pursud his Soils,
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Now Moulder into Ashes, and decline
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