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The brows of those whose more exalted lot
He could congratulate, but envied not.

Light lie the turf, good Senior! on thy breast, And tranquil as thy mind was, be thy rest! Though, living, thou hadst more desert than fame, And not a stone now chronicles thy name.

ON FOP,

A DOG BELONGING TO LADY THROCKMORTON. August, 1792.
THOUGH Once a puppy, and though Fop by name,
Here moulders One whose bones some honour claim.
No sycophant, although of spaniel race,
And though no hound, a martyr to the chase-
Ye squirrels, rabits, leverets, rejoice,
Your haunts no longer echo to his voice;
This record of his fate exulting view,

He died worn out with vain pursuit of you.
'Yes,' the indignant shade of Fop replies-
And worn with vain pursuit man also dies.'

THE END.

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