What will a child learn fooner than a fong?
What better teach a foreigner the tongue?
What's long or fhort, each accent where to place,
And fpeak in public with fome fort of
grace.
I fcarce can think him fuch a worthlefs thing,
Unless he praise fome monster of a king;
Or virtue or religion turn to fport,
To pleate a lewd or unbelieving court.
Unhappy Dryden in all Charles's days,
Rofcommon only boafts unipotted bays;
And in our own (excufe from courtly stains)
No whiter page than Addifon's remains.
He from the taite obfcene reclaims our youth,
And fets the paffions on the fide of truth,
Forms the foft bofom with the gentleft art,
And pours each human virtue in the heart.
Let Ireland tell, how wit upheld her cause,
Her trade fupported, and fupplied her laws;
And leave on Swift this grateful verfe engrav'd:
"The rights a court attack'd, a poet fav'd."
Behold the hand that wrought a nation's cure,
Stretch'd to relieve the idiot and the poor,
Proud vice to brand, or injur'd worth adorn,
And stretch the ray to ages yet unborn.
Not but there are who merit other palms;
Hopkins and Sternhold glad the heart with
pfalms:

The boys and girls whom charity maintains,
Implore your help in thefe pathetic strains:
How could devotion touch the country pews,
Unless the Gods beftow'd a proper muse?
Verfe cheers their leifure, verfe affifts their work,
Verfe prays for peace, or fings down Pope and

Turk.

The filenc'd preacher yields to potent strain, And feels that grace his pray'r befought in vain; The bleffing thrills thro' all the lab'ring throng, And heaven is won by violence of fong.

Our rural ancestors, with little bleft,
Patient of labour when the end was reft,
Indulg'd the day that hous'd their annual grain
With feafts and off rings, and a thankful ftrain:
The joy their wives, their fons, and fervants fhare,
Eafe of their toil, and partners of their care:
The laugh, the jeft, attendants on the bowl,
Smooth'd ev'ry brow, and open'd ev'ry foul :
With growing years the pleafing licence grew,
And taunts alternate innocently few.
But times corrupt, and nature ill-inclin'd,
Produc'd the point that left the fting behind;
Till friend with friend, and families at ftrife,
Triumphant malice rang'd thro' private life.
Who felt the wrong, or fear'd it, took th'alarm,
Appeal'd to law, and juftice lent her arm.
At length, by wholefome dread of statutes bound,
The poets learn'd to pleafe, and not to wound:
Moft warp'd to flattery's fide; but fome, more nice,
Preferv'd the freedom, and forbore the vice.
Hence fatire rofe, that juft the medium hit,
And heals with morals what it hurts with wit.
We conquer'd France, but felt our captive's
charms;

Her arts victorious triumph'd o'er our arms;
Britain to foft refinements lefs a foe,

Wit grew polite, and numbers learn'd to flow.

Waller was smooth; but Dryden taught to join
The varying verfe, the full refounding line,
The long majestic march, and energy divine;
Tho' ftill fome traces of our rustic vein
And fplayfoot verfe remain'd, and will remain.
Late, very late, correctness grew our care,
When the tir'd nation breath'd from civil war.
Exact Racine, and Corneille's noble fire,
Shew'd us that France had fomething to admires
Not but the tragic fpirit was our own,
And full in Shakespear, fair in Otway shone :
But Otway fail'd to polish or refine,
And fluent Shakefpoar fcarce effac'd a line.
Even copious Dryden wanted, or forgot,
The laft and greatest art, the art to blot.
Some doubt if equal pains or equal fire
The humbler mufe of comedy require.
But, in known images of life, I guess
The labour greater, as th' indulgence lefs.
Obferve how feldom even the beft fucceed:
Tell me if Congreve's Fools are fools indeed?
What pert low dialogue has Farqu'ar writ!
How Van wants grace who never wanted wit!
The ftage how loofely does Aftræa tread,
Who fairly puts all characters to bed!
And idle Cibber, how he breaks the laws,
To make poor Pinkey eat with vaft applause!
But fill their purfe, our poets work is done;
Alike to them, by Pathos or by Pun.

O you! whom vanity's light bark conveys
On fame's mad voyage by the wind of praife,
With what a fhifting gale your course you ply,
For ever funk too low, or borne too high!
Who pants for glory finds but short repofe;
A breath revives him, or a breath o'erthrows.
Farewel the stage! if, juft as thrives the play,
The filly bard grows fat, or falls away.

There still remains, to mortify a wit, The many-headed monster of the Pit; A fenfclefs, worthlefs, and unhonour'd crowd, Who, to disturb their betters mighty proud, Clatt'ring their sticks before ten lines are fpoke, Call for the farce, the Bear, or the Black Joke. What dear delight to Britons farce affords ! Ever the tafte of mobs, but now of lords; (Tafte, that eternal wanderer! which flies From heads to ears, and now from ears to eyes). The play ftands still! damn action and discourse, Back fly the fcenes, and enter foot and horse; Pageants on Pageants, in long order drawn, Peers, heralds, bifhops, ermin, gold, and lawn; The champion too! and, to complete the jeft, Old Edward's armour beams on Cibber's breast. With laughter fure Democritus had died, Had he beheld an audience gape fo wide. Let bear or elephant be e'er to white, The people, fure the people, are the fight! Ah, lucklefs poct! ftretch thy lungs and roar, That bear or clephant fhall heed thee more; While all its throats the gallery extends, And all the thunder of the pit afcends! Loud as the wolves, on Orcas' ftormy steep, Howl to the roarings of the northern deep, Such is the fhout, the long-applauding note, At Quin's high plume, or Oldfield's petticoat;

Or

Or when from Court a birth-day fuit bestow'd
Sinks the loft Actor in the tawdry load.
Booth enters-hark! the univerfal peal!
But has he spoken:" Not a fyllable.
"What shook the stage, and made the peopleftare?"
Cato's long wig, flower'd gown,and lacquer'd chair.
Yet left you think I rally more than teach,
Or praife malignly arts I cannot reach,
Let me for once prefume t' inftruct the times,
To know the Poet from the man of rhymes:
Tis he who gives my breaft a thousand pains,
Can make me feel each paffion that he feigns;
Enrage, compofe, with more than magic art,
With pity and with terror tear my heart;
And fnatch me o'er the earth, or thro' the air,
To Thebes, to Athens, when he will, and where.
But not this part of the Poetic state
Alone deferves the favour of the Great:
Think of thofe Authors, Sir, who would rely
More on a Reader's fenfe than Gazer's eye.
Or who fhall wander where the Mufes fing?
Whoclimb their mountain,orwhotafte theirfpring?
How shall we fill a library with wit,

When Merlin's Cave is half unfurnish'd yet?
My Liege! why writers little claim your thought,
I guefs; and, with their leave, will tell the fault:
We Poets are (upon a Poet's word)

Of all mankind the creatures most abfurd :
The feafon when to come and when to go,
To fing or ceafe to fing, we never know;
And, if we will recite nine hours in ten,
You lofe your patience juft like other men.
Then too we hurt ourselves, when, to defend
A fingle verfe, we quarrel with a friend;
Repeat unafk'd; lament, the wit's too fine
For vulgar eyes, and point out ev'ry line.

What feas you travers'd,and what fields youfought!
Your country's peace how oft, how dearly bought!
How barb'rous rage subsided at your word,
And nations wonder'd while they dropt the fword?
How, when you nodded, o'er the land and deep
Peace ftole her wing, and wrapt the world in fleup;
Till earth's extremes your mediation own,
And Afia's Tyrants tremble at your Throne.
But Verfe, alas! your Majefty difdains;
And I'm not us'd to Panegyric ftrains:
The Zeal of Fools offends at any time,
But most of all the Zeal of Fools in rhyme.
Befides, a fate attends on all I write ;
That, when I aim at praise, they say I bite.
A vile Encomium doubly ridicules:
There's nothing blackens like the ink of fools.
If true, a woful likenefs; and if lyes,
"Praise undeferv'd is fcandal in difguife:"
Well may he blush who gives it or receives;
And, when I flatter, let my dirty leaves
(Like Journals, Odes, and fuch forgotten things
As Eufden, Phillips, Settle, writ of Kings)
Clothe fpice, line trunks, or flutt'ring in a row
Befringe the rails of Bedlam and Soho.

EPISTLE II. Book II.

DEAR colonel, Cobham's and your country's You love a verfe, take fuch as I can fend. [friend! A Frenchman comes, prefents you with his boy, Bows and begins-" This lad, Sir, is of Blois : "Obferve his fhape howclean, his locks howcurl'd! 'My only fon, I'd have him fee the world: "His French is pure; his voice too-you shall hear. "Sir, he's your flave, for twenty pounds a year. "Mere wax as yet, you fashion him with eafe, "Your barber, cook, upholft'rer, what you pleafe:

"To fay too much, might do my honour wrong. "Take him with all his virtues, on my word; "His whole ambition was to ferve a lord:

66

"But, Sir, to you, with what would I not part? 'Tho' faith, I fear, 'twill break his mother's heart. "Once (and but once) I caught him in a lye, "And then, unwhipp'd, he had the grace to cry: The fault he has I fairly fhall reveal;

(Could you o'crlook but that!) it is, to fteal." If, after this, you took the graceless lad, Could you complain, my friend, he prov'd fo bad? Faith, in fuch cafe, if you fhould profecute, I think Sir Godfrey fhould decide the fuit; Who fent the thief that stole the cash, away, And punish'd him that put it in his way.

Confider then, and judge me in this light; I told you, when I went, I could not write; You faid the fame; and are you difcontent With laws to which you gave your own affent? Nay worse, to afk for verfe at fuch a time! D'ye think me good for nothing but to rhyme? In Anna's wars, a foldier poor and old Had dearly earn'd a little purfe of gold: Tir'd with a tedious march, one lucklet's night He flept, poor dog! and loft it, to a doit. This put the man in fuch a defp'rate mind, Between revenge, and grief, and hunger join'd, Againft the foe, himfelf, and all mankind,

He

He leap'd the trenches, fcal'd a caftle-wall,
Tore down a ftandard, took the fort and all.
"Prodigious well!" his great commander cried;
Gave him much praife, and fome reward befide.
Next, pleas'd his Excellence a town to batter;
(Its name I know not, and 'tis no great matter)
Go on, my friend (he cried), fee yonder walls!
"Advance and conquer! go where glory calls!
"More honours, more rewards, attend the brave."
Dont't you remember what reply he gave?
"D'ye think me, noble Gen'ral, fuch a fot?
"Let him take caftles who has ne'er a groat."
Bred up at home, full early I begun
To read in Greek the wrath of Peleus' fon.
Befides, my father taught me, from a lad,
The better art to know the good from bad :
(And little fure imported to remove,
To hunt for truth in Maudlin's learned grove).
But knottier points we knew not half to well,
Depriv'd us foon of our paternal cell;
And certain laws, by fuff'rers thought unjust,
Denied all pofts of profit or of trust:
Hopes after hopes of pious Papifts fail'd,
While mighty William's thund'ring arm prevail'd.
For Right Hereditary tax'd and fin'd,
He ftuck to poverty with peace of mind;
And me the Mufes help to undergo it;
Convict a Papift he, and I a Poet.

But (thanks to Homer!) fince I live and thrive,
Indebted to no prince or peer alive,

Sure I fhould want the care of ten Monroes,
If I would fcribble rather than repofe.

Years following years fteal fomethingev'ry day,
At laft they steal us from oarfelves away;
In one our frolics, one amufements end,
In one a mistress drops, in one a friend:
This fubtle thief of life, this paltry Time,
What will it leave me, if it fiatch my rhyme?
If ev'ry wheel of that unwearied mill,

That turn'd ten thousand verfes, now ftands ftill?
But, after all, what would you have me do,
When out of twenty I can please not two;
When this Heroics only deigns to praife,
Sharp Satire that, and that Pindaric lays?
One likes the pheafant's wing, and one the leg;
The vulgar boil, the learned roaft, an egg.
Hard talk to hit the palate of fuch guests,
When Oldfield loves what Dartineuf detefts.

But grant I may relapse, for want of grace,
Again to rhyme: can London be the place?
Who there his Mufe, or felf, or foul attends,
In crowds, and courts, law, bufinefs, feafts, and
My counsel sends to execute a decd: [friends?
A Poet begs me I will hear him read:
In Palace-yard at nine you'll find me there-
At ten for certain, Sir, in Bloomfb'ry square-
Before the Lords at twelve my Caufe comes on-
There's a Rehearsal, Sir, exact at one.
"Oh but a Wit can ftudy in the streets,
"And raife his mind above the mob he meets."
Not quite fo well however as one ought;
A hackney-coach may chance to spoil a thought;
And then a nodding beam, or pig of lead,
God knows, may hurt the very ableft head.

Have you not seen, at Guildhall's narrow pass,
Two Aldermen difpute it with an Afs?
And Peers give way, exalted as they are,
Even to their own S-r-v--nce in a car?

Go, lofty Poet! and in fuch a crowd
Sing thy fonorous verfe-but not aloud.
Alas! to grottos and to groves we run;
To cafe and filence ev'ry Muse's fon :
Blackmore himself, for any grand effort,
Would drink and dofe at Tooting or Earl's-Court.
How fhall I rhyme in this eternal roar? [before?
How match the bards whom none e'er match'

The man who, ftretch'd in Ifis' calm retreat,
To books and study gives seven years complete,
See! ftrew'd with learned duft, his nightcap on,
He walks, an object new beneath the fun!
The boys flock round him, and the people ftare:
So ftiff, fo mute! fome ftatue, you would fwear,
Stept from its pedestal to take the air!

And here, while town, and court, and city roars,
With mobs, and duns, and foldiers, at their doors,
Shall I in London act this idle part?
Compofing fongs, for Fools to get by heart?

The Temple late two brother Serjeants faw, Who deem'd each other Oracles of Law; With equal talents, thefe congenial fouls, One lull'd th' Exchequer, and one ftunn'd the Rolls; Each had a gravity would make you split, | And shook his head at Murray, as a wit. 'Twas, "Sir, your law"-and Sir, your elo. quence ;' [fenfe.' "Yours, Cowper's manner;" and 'Yours, Talbot's Thus we difpofe of all poetic merit; Yours Milton's genius, and mine Homer's fpirit. Call Tibbald Shakespear, and he 'll fwear the Nine, Dear Cibber! never match'd one Ode of thine. Lord! how we ftrut thro' Merlin's Cave, to fee No Poets there but Stephen, you, and me. Walk with refpect behind, while we at ease Weave laurel Crowns, and take what names we

My dear Tibullus!” if that will not do, [please. "Let me be Horace, and be Ovid you : "Or, I'm content, allow me Dryden's ftrains, “And you shall rife up Otway for your pains." Much do I fuffer, much, to keep in peace This jealous, wafpifh, wrong-head, rhyming race; And much muft flatter, if the whim fhould bite To court applaufe, by printing what I write : But, let the fit pafs o'er, I'm wife enough To ftop my ears to their confounded stuff.

In vain bad Rhymers all mankind reject,
They treat themfelves with most profound refpect;
'Tis to fmall purpose that you hold your tongue,
Each, prais'd within, is happy all day long:
But how feverely with themfelves proceed
The men who write fuch Verfe as we can read!
Their own ftrict Judges, not a word they fpare
That wants or force, or light, or weight, or care.
Howe'er unwillingly it quits its place,

Nay tho' at Court (perhaps) it may find grace:
Such they'll degrade; and fometimes, in its stead,
In downright charity revive the dead;
Mark where a bold expreffive phrase appears,
Bright thro' the rubbish of fome hundred years;

Coinmand

Command old words that long have flept, to wake,
Words that wife Bacon or brave Rawleigh fpake;
Or bid the new be English, ages hence,
(For Ufe will father what's begot by Senfe)
Pour the full tide of eloquence along,
Serenely pure, and yet divinely ftrong,
Rich with the treafures of each foreign tongue:
Prune the luxuriant, the uncouth refine,
But fhew no mercy to an empty line:
Then polifh all with fo much life and ease,
You think 'tis Nature, and a knack to please:
"But ease in writing flows from art, not chance;
"Asthofe move eafieft who have learn'd to dance."
If fuch the plague and pains to write by rule,
Better (fay I) be pleas'd, and play the fool:
Call, if you will, bad rhyming a difeafe;
It gives men happiness, or leaves them ease.
There liv'd in primo Georgii (they record)
A worthy member, no fmall fool, a Lord;
Who, tho' the Houfe was up, delighted fate,
Heard, noted, anfwer'd, as in full debate:
In all but this, a man of fober life,

Fond of his Friend, and civil to his Wife;
Not quite a madman tho' a pasty fell,
And much too wife to walk into a well.
Him the damn'dDoctors and his Friends immur'd,
They bled, they cupp'd, they purg'd; in thort,
they cur'd:

Whereat the gentleman began to ftare-
My friends! he cried, p-x take you for your care!
That, from a Patriot of diftinguish'd note,
Have bled and purg'd me to a fimple Vote.
Well, on the whole, plain profe must be my fate:
Wisdom, curfe on it! will come foon or late.
There is a time when Poets will
grow dull:
I'll e'en leave verfes to the boys at school:
To rules of Poetry no more confin'd,
I'll learn to smooth and harmonize my Mind;
Teach ev'ry thought within its bounds to roll,
And keep the equal measure of the Soul.

1

Soon as I enter at my country door, My mind refumes the thread it dropt before; Thoughts which at Hyde-park-corner I forgot, Meet and rejoin me in the penfive Grot; There, all alone, and compliments apart, I afk thefe fober queftions of my heart: If,when the more you drink, the more you crave, You tell the Doctor; when the more you have, The more you want, why not with equal cafe Confefs as well your Folly, as Disease? The heart refolves this matter in a trice: "Men only feel the Smart, but not the Vice."

When golden Angels cease to cure the Evil, You give all royal Witchcraft to the Devil; When fervile Chaplains cry that birth and place Endue a Peer with honour, truth, and grace, Look if that breast, most dirty D-! be fair; Say, can you find out one fuch lodger there? Yet still, not heeding what your heart can teach, You go to church to hear thefe Flatt'rers preach. Indeed, could wealth beftow or wit or merit, A grain of courage, or a spark of spirit, The wifeft man might bluth, I must agree, If D* lov'd fixpence more than he.

If there be truth in Law, and Ufe can give A Property, that's yours on which you live. Delightful Abs-court, if its fields afford Their fruits to you, confeffes you its lord; All Worldly's hens, nay partridge, fold to town, His venifon too, a guinea makes your own : He bought at thousands what with better wit You purchase as you want, and bit by bit; Now, or long fince, what diff'rence will be found? You pay a penny, and he paid a pound.

Heathcote himfelf, and fuch large-acred men, Lords of fat E'fham, or of Lincoln-fen, Buy ev'ry stick of wood that lends them heat; Buy ev'ry pullet they afford to eat. Yet thefe are Wights who fondly call their own Half that the Devil o'erlcoks from Lincoln town. The Laws of God, as well as of the land, Abhor a Perpetuity should stand: Eftates have wings, and hang in Fortune's pow'r Loofe on the point of ev'ry wav'ring hour, Ready, by force, or of your own accord, By fale, at leaft by death, to change their lord. Man? and for ever? wretch! what wouldst thou Heir urges heir, like wave impelling wave. [have? All vaft poffeffions (juft the fame the cafe Whether you call them Villa, Park, or Chace) Alas, my Bathurft! what will they avail? Join Cotfwood hills to Saperton's fair dale; Let rifing Granaries and Temples here, There mingled farms and pyramids appear; Link towns to towns with avenues of oak; Inciofe whole downs in walls-'tis all a joke! Inexorable Death fhall level all,

And trees, and ftones, and farms, and farmer fall. Gold, Silver, Iv'ry, Vafes fculptur'd high, Paint, Marble, Gems, and robes of Perfian dye, There are who have not-and thank heaven there

Why one like Bu- with pay and fcorn content,
Bows, and votes on, in Court and Parliament;
One, driven by ftrong Benevolence of foul,
Shall fly, like Oglethorp, from pole to pole:
Is known alone to that Directing Pow'r
Who forms the Genius in the natal hour;
That God of Nature, who, within us ftill,
Inclines our action, not constrains our will;
Various of temper, as of face or frame,
Each individual; his great End the fame.

Yes, Sir, how fmall foever be my heap,
A part I will enjoy as well as keep.
My heir may figh, and think it want of grace
A man fo poor would live without a place :
But fure no ftatute in his favour fays,
How free or frugal I fhall pafs my days;
I, who at fome times fpend, at others ipare,
Divided between carcleliefs and care,

"Tis one thing madly to difperfe my store;
Another, not to heed to treasure more;
Glad, like a boy, to fnatch the first good day,
And pleas'd if fordid want be far away.

What is't to me (a paffenger, God wot).
Whether my veffel be first-rate or not?
The thip itfelf may make a better figure,
But I that fail am neither lefs nor bigger;
I neither strut with ev'ry fav'ring breath,
Nor ftrive with all the tempeft in my teeth:
In pow'r, wit, figure, virtue, fortune plac'd
Behind the foremost, and before the laft.

"But why all this of av'rice? I have none."
I with you joy, Sir, of a tyrant gone;
But does no other lord it at this hour,
As wild and mad-the avarice of pow'r?
Docs neither rage inflamme, nor fear appal?
Not the black fear of death, that faddens all?
With terrors round, can reafon hold her throne,
Defpife the known, nor tremble at th' unknown?
Survey both worlds, intrepid and entire,

In spite of witches, devils, dreams, and fire?
Pleas'd to look forward, pleas'd to look behind,
And count each birth-day with a grateful mind?
Has life no fournefs, drawn fo near its end?
Can't thou endure a foe, forgive a friend?
Has age but melted the rough parts away,
As winter fruits grow mild ere they decay?
Or will you think, my friend, your business done,
When, of a hundred thorns, you pull out one?

Learn to live well, or fairly make your will; You've play'd, and lov'd, and eat, and drank your Walk fober off, before a fprightlier age [fill: Comes titt'ring on, and fhoves you from the flage: Leave fuch to trifle with more grace and eafe, Whom folly pleases, and whofe follies please.

And own the Spaniard did a waggish thing, Who cropt our ears, and fent them to the King. His fly, polite, infinuating ftyle,

Could pleafe at Court, and make Auguftus fmile:
An artful manager, that crept between

His friend and shame, and was a kind of fereen.
But 'faith, your very friends will foon be fore;
Patriots there are who with you'd jeft no more—
And where's the Glory? 'twill be only thought
The great man never offer'd you a groat.
Go fee Sir Robert-

P. See Sir Robert !-hum-
And never laugh for all my life to come?
Seen him I have, but in his happier hour
Of Social Pleasure, ill exchang'd for Pow'r;
Seen him, uncumber'd with a venal tribe,
Smile without art, and win without a bribe.
Would he oblige me let me only find
He does not think me what he thinks mankind.
Come, come-at all I laugh he laughs, no doubt;
The only diff'rence is-I dare laugh out.

F. Why yes, with Scripture ftill you may be free; A horfe-laugh, if you pleafe, at Honefty; A Joke on JEKYL, or fome odd Whig, Who never chang'd his principle, or wig; A patriot is a fool in ev'ry age, Whom all Lord Chamberlains allow the Stage: Thefe nothing hurts; they keep their fathion ftill,

And wear their ftrange old virtue, as they will.

If any afk you, "Who's the man, so near

"His prince, that writes in verfe, and has his ear?"
Why anfwer, Lyttleton; and I'll engage
The worthy youth fhall ne'er be in a rage:
But were his verfes vile, his whisper bate,
You'd quickly find him in Lord Fanny's cafe.
Sejanus, Wolfey, hurt not honeft Fleury;
But well may put fome ftatelinen in a fury.

Laugh then at any but at fools or foes;
Thefe you but anger, and you mend not those.
Laugh at your friends; and, if your friends are fore,
So much the better, you may laugh the more.
To vice and folly to confine the jeft,

Sets half the world, God knows, against the reft;
Did not the freer of more impartial men
At fenfe and virtue balance all again.
Judicious wits fpread wide the ridicule,
And charitably comfort knave and fool.

P. Dear Sir, forgive the prejudice of youth :
Adieu, diftinction, fatire, warmth, and truth!
Come, harmlefs characters that no one hit;
Come, Henley's oratory, Ofborne's wit'
The honey dropping from Favonio's tongue,
The flow'rs of Bubo, and the flow of Y-ng!
The gracious dew of pulpit eloquence,
And all the well-whipp'd cream of courtly fenfe,
The first was H-vy's, F-'s next, and then
The S-te's, and then H-vy's once again.

* You don't, I hope, pretend to quit the trade,
Because you think your reputation made:
Like good Sir Paul, of whom fo much was faid,
That when his name was up, he lay a-bed.

Come, come, refresh us with a livelier fong, Or, like Sir Paul, you'll lie a-bed too long. P. Sir, what I write, fhould be correctly writ. F. Correct! 'tis what no genius can admit. Befides, you grow too moral for a Wit.

O comer