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Their several graces in my Sharpen meet;
Strong as the footinan, as the master sweet.
Cease your contention, which has been too long 3 'Twas my own lord that drew the fatal card.
I grow iinpatient, and the tea's too strong. In complaisance I took the qne en he gave; Attend, and yield to what I now decide; Though my own secret wish was for the knave.
The «quipage shall grace Smilinda's side: The knave won sonica, which I had chose;
The snuff-box to Cardelia I decree; sad the next pull, mv septleva I lose.
Now leave complaining, and begin your tea.
But ah! wint aggraiis ihe killing smart,
VERBATIM FROM BOILEAU.
UN JOUR, DIT UN AUTEUR, &c.
Before her each with clamour pleads the laws, I introduc'd her to the park and plays;
Explain'd the matter, and would win the cause. And by my interest, Crizains made her stays. Dame Justice weighing long the doubtful right, Ungrateful wr tch, with mimic airs grown pert, Takes, opens, swallows it, before their sight. She dares to steal my favourite lover's heart ! The cause of strife remov'd so rarely well, CARDELIA.
* There take, (says Justice) take you each a shell. Wreth that I was! how often have I swore,
We thrive at Westminster on fools like you: Wen Winnall tally'd, I would punt no more!
'Twas a fat oyster, Live in peaceAdicu."
TO THE FOLLOWING QUESTION OF MRS. HOWE.
'Tis a beldam, CARDETTA.
Seen with wit and beauty seldom.
"Us (no, 'tis n't) like miss Meadows.
'Tis an ugly, envious shrew,
OCCASIONED BY SOME VERSES OF
HIS GRACE TIE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM.
This more than pays whole years of thankless pain, Such unfeigo'd passion in his looks appears, Tiine, health, and fortune, are not lost in vain. I lose my inemory of my former fears;
Sheffield approves, consenting Phoebus bends, My panting heart confesses all his charms,
And I and Malice from this hour are friends.
BY MR. POPE,
TO A PLAY FOR MR. DENNIS'S BENEFIT, IN 1733, To Basset's heavenly joys, and pleasing cares?
WHEN UE WAS OLD, BLIND, AND IN GREAT DISTRESS,
A LITTLE BEFORE HIS DEATH. Soft Simplicetta doats upon a beau ;
As when that hern, who in each campaign Prudina likes a man, and laughs at show,
Had brav'd the Goth, and many a Vandal slain,
Lay fortune-struck, a spectacle of woe!
A CHARACTER. But pitied Belisarius old and blind? Was there a chief but melted at the sight? When simple Macer, now of high renown, A common soldier, but who clubb'd his unite ? First sought a poet's fortune in the town, Such, such emotions should in Britons rise, 'Twas all th' ambition his high soul could feel, When press'd by want and weakness Dennis lies; To wear red stockings, and to dine with Steel. Dennis, who long bad warr'd with modern Huns, Some ends of verse his betters might afford; Their quibbles routed, and defy'd their puns ; And gave the harmless fellow a good word. A desperate bulwark, sturdy, firm, and fierce, Set up with these, he ventur'd on the town, Against the Gothic sons of trozen verse :
And with a borrow'd play out did poor Crown. How chang'd from him who made the boxes There he stopp'd short, nor since has writ a tittle, groan,
But has the wit to make the most of little: And shook the stage with thunder all his own! Like stunted hide-bound trees, that just have got Stood up to dash each vain pretenler's hope, Sufficient sap at once to bear and rot. Maul the French tyrant, or pull down the pope e!
Now he begs verse, and what he gets commends, If there's a Briton then, true bred and born, Not of the wits his foes, but fools bis friends. Who holds dragoons and wooden shoes in scorn ; So some coarse country wench, almost decay'd, If there's a critic of distinguish'd rage;
Trudges to town, and first turns chambermaid; If there's a senior, who contemns this age; Awkward and supple, each devoir to pay, Let him to-night his just assistance lend,
She flatters her good lady twice a-day ;
And strangely lik'd for her simplicity :
With borrow'd pins, and patches not her own :
But just endur'd the winter she began,
And in four months a batter'd harridan.
Now nothing left, but wither'd, pale and shrunk,
To bawd for others, and go shares with punk. When learning, after the long Gothic night, Fair, o'er the western world, renew'd its light, With arts arising, Sophonisba rose : The tragic Muse, returning, wept her woes.
TO MR. JOHN MOORE, With her th' Italian scene first learn’d to glow; AUTHOR OF THE CELEBRATED WORM-POWDER And the first tears for her were taught to flow. Her charms the Gallic Muses next inspir'd:
How much, egregious Moore, are we Corneille himself saw, wonder'd, and was fir'd.
Deceiv'd by shows and forms ! What foreign theatres with pride have shown,
Whate'er we think, whate'er we see, Britain, by juster title, makes her own.
All human kind are worms. When freedom is the cause, 'tis hers to fight; Man is a very worm by birth, And hers, when freedom is the theme, to write. Vile, reptile, weak, and vain ? For this a British author bids again
A while he crawls upon the earth, The heroine rise, to grace the British scene.
Then shrinks to earth again. Here, as in life, she breathes her genuine flame:
That woman is a worm, we find She asks, what bosom has not felt the same?
E'er since our grandame's evil ; Asks of the British youth-Is silence there?
She first convers'd with her own kind, She dares to ask it of the British fair.
That ancient worm, the Devil. To-night our home-spun author would be true,
The learn'd themselves we book-worms name, At once, to nature, history, and you.
The blockhead is a slow-worm ;
The nymph whose tail is all on flame,
The fops are painted butterflies, 'Tis to his British heart be trusts for fame.
That flutter for a day;
And in a worm decay.
The flatterer an earwig grows;
That statesmen hare the worm, is seen
By all their winding play ;
Their conscience is a worm within, ' I have been told by Savage, that of the Pro
That gnaws thein night and day. logue to Sophonisba, the first part was written by Ah Moore! thy skill were well employ'd, Pope, who could not be persuaded to finish it; and that the concluding lines were written by If thou could'st make the courtier void
And greater gain would rise, Mallet.
The worin that never dies !
ON HIS GROTTO AT TWICKENHAM.
O learned friend of Abchurch-lane,
Who sett'st our entrails free; Vain is thy art, thy powder vain,
Since worms shall eat ev'n thee. Our fate thou only canst adjourn
Some few short years, no more! Ev'n Button's wits to worms shall turn,
Who maggots were before.
COMPOSED OF MARBLE, SPARS, GEMS, ORES, AND
MINERALS Thou who shalt stop, where Thames' translucent Shines a broad mirrour through the shadowy cave; Where lingering drops from mineral roofs distil, And pointed crystals break the sparkling rill, Unpolish'd gems no ray on pride bestow, And latent metals innocently glow ; Approach. Great Nature studiously behold! And eye the mine without a wish for gold. Approach : but awful! Lo! the Ægerian grot, Where, nobly pensive, St. John sat and thought; Where British sighs from dying Windham stole, And the bright flame was shot through Marchmont's Let such, such only, tread this sacred floor, (soul, Who dare to love their couutry, and be poor.
BY A PERSON OF QUALITY.
WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1733,
FLUTTERING spread thy purple pinions,
Gentle Cupid, o'er my heart; I a slave in thy, dominions;
Nature must give way to art. Mild Arcadians, ever blooming,
Nightly nodding o'er your flocks, See my weary days consuming,
All beneath yon flowery rocks. Thus the Cyprian goddess weeping,
Mourn'd Adonis, darling youth ; Him the boar, in silence creeping,
Gor'd with unrelenting tooth. Cynthia, tune harmonious numbers
Fair Discretion, string the lyre; Sooth my ever-waking slumbers :
Bright Apollo, lend thy choir, Gloomy Pluto, king of terrours,
Arm'd in adamantine chains, Lead me to the crystal mirrours,
Watering soft Elysian plains, Mournful cypress, verdant willow,
Gilding my Aurelia's brows, Morpheus hovering o'er my pillow,
Hear me pay my dying vows Melancholy smooth Mæander,
Swiftly purling in a round, On thy margin lovers wander,
With thy flowery chaplets crown'da Thus when Philomela drooping,
Softly seeks her silent mate, See the bird of Juno stooping;
Melody resigns to Fate.
TO MRS, M. B, ON HER BIRTH-DAY. Oh, be thou blest with all that Heaven can send, Long health, long youth, long pleasure, and a friend! Not with those toys the female world admire, Riches that vex, and vanities that tire. With added years, if life bring nothing new, But like a sjeve let every blessing through, Some joy still lost, as each vain year runs o'er, And all we gain, some sąd reflection more ;
that a birth day; 'tis alas ! too clear, 'Tis but the funeral of the former year.
Let joy or ease, let altluence or content, And the gay conscience of a life well spent, Calm every thought, inspirit every grace, Glow in thy heart, and smile upon thy face. Let day improve on day, and year on year,
13 Without a pain, a trouble, or a fear; Till Death unfelt that tender frame destroy, In some soft dream, or ecstasy of joy, Peaceful sleep out the sabbath of the tomb, And wake to raptures in a life to come.
TO MR. THOMAS SOUTHERN,
ON HIS BIRTH-DAY, 1742,
ON A CERTAIN LADY AT COURT, I know the thing that's most uncommon;
(Envy, be silent and attend !) I know a reasonable woman,
Handsome and witty, yet a friend.
Not grave through pride, nor gay through folly; An equal mixture of good-humour,
And sensible soft melancholy.
Yes, she has one, I must aver:
The woman's deaf, and does not bear,
Ver. 15. Originally thus in the MS.
And oh, since Death must that fair frame destroy,
Roast beef, though old, proclaims him stout, What schemes of politics, or laws,
In Gallic lands the patriot draws !
Than all the tomes of Haines's band ? Be every birth-day more a winner,
" Or shoots he folly as it flies? Digest his thạrty-thousandth dinner ;
“ Or catches manners as they rise ?" 4 Walk to his grave without reproach,
Or, urg'd by unqnench'd native heat,
Does St. Jobn Greenwich sports repeat?
Where (emulous of Chartres' fame)
• To you (th' all-envy'd gift of Heaven) TO LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGUE'. Th’ indulgent gods, unask'd, have given In beauty or wit,
A form complete in every part,
And, to enjoy that gift, the art.
* What could a tender mother's care
Wish better to her favourite heir,
Than wit, and fame, and lucky hours,
A stock of health, and golden showers,
And graceful fluency of speech,
Precepts before unknown to teach?
a Amidst thy various ebbs of fear,
And gleaming hope, and black despair ;
Yet let thy friend this truth impart;
A truth I tell with bleeding heart, Lest flocks should be wise as their guide,
(In justice for your labours past) 'Twas a woman at first,
• That cvery day shall be your last ; (Indeed she was curst)
That every hour you life renew
Is to your injur'd country due.
In spite of fears, of mercy spite,
My genius still must rail, and write.
Haste to thy Twickenham's safe retreat,
And mingle with the grumbling great:
There, half devour'd by spleen, you'll find
The rhyming bubbler of mankind;
There (objects of our mutual hate)
We'll ridicule both church and state,
But if the first Eve
EPIGRAM ON MRS. TOFTS.
A HANDSOME WOMAN WITH A FINE VOICE, BUT VERY
COVETOUS AND PROUD.
So bright is thy beauty, so charming thy song,
along; THE FOURTH EPISTLE OF THE FIRST But such is thy avarice, and such is thy pride, BOOK OF HORACE'S EPISTLES?, That the beasts must have starv'd, and the poet
have died. A MODERN IMITATION, SAYS, St. John, who alone peruse
4 The lines here quoted occur in the Essay on With candid eye, the mimic Muse,
Man. ? This panegyric on lady Mary Wortley Monta- * An tacitam silvas inter reptare salubres ? gue might have been suppressed by Mr. Pope, on
Di tibi formam account of her having satirized him in her verses to Di tibi divitias dederant, artemque fruendi. the Imitator of Horace; which abuse he returned
? Quid voveat dulci nutricula majus alumna, in the first Satire of the second book of Horace.
Quam sapere, et fari posset quæ sentiat, et cu From furious Sappho, scarce a milder fate, Gratia, fama, valetudo contingat abunde, P'd by her love, or libeld by her hate. S.
non deficiente crumena? ? This satire on Lord Bolingbroke, and the praise * Inter spem, curamque, timores inter et iras, bestowed on him in a letter to Mr. Richardson, Omnem crede diem tibi dilaxisse supremum. where Mr. Pope says,
Me pinguem, et nitidum bene curata cute vises, The sons shall blush their fathers were his foes; Cum ridere voles Epicuri de grege porcum. being so contradictory, probably occasioned the
10 This epigram, first printed anonymously in former to be suppressed. $.
Steele's Collection, and copied in the Miscellanies Ad ALBIUM TIBULLUM.
of Swift and Pope, is ascribed to Pope by sir John 3 Albi, nostrorum sermonum candide judex, Hawkins, in his History of Music.—Mrs. Tofts, Quid nunc te dicam facere in regione Pedana? who was the daughter of a person in the family of Scribere, quod Cassi Parmensis opuscula vincat? 'bishop Burnet, is celebrated as a singer little in
Why make I friendships with the great,
When I no favour seek?
Or follow girls seven hours in eight ?-
I need but once a week.
Still idle, with a busy air, Where still so much is said ;
Deep whimsies to contrive; One half will never be believ'd,
The gayest valetudinaire,
Most thinking rake alive.
Thougb fond of dear repose ;
Careless or drowsy with my friends,
And frolic with my foes.
Luxurious lobster-nights, farewell,
For sober, studjous days!
And Burlington's delicious meal, When Kneller painted these?
For sallads, tarts, and pease !
Whose soul sincere and free,
And so may starve with me.
Pope. Since my old friend is grown so great, This year in peace, ye critics, dwell,
As to be ininister of state, Ye harlots, sleep at ease!
I'm told (but 'tis not true I hope) Soft B and rough C-, adieu !
That Craggs will be asham'd of Pope. Earl Warwick make your moan,
CRAGGS. Alas! if I am such a creature, The lively Hk and you
To grow the worse for growing greater ; May knock up whores alone.
Why faith, in spite of all my brags, To drink and droll be Rowe allow'd
"Tis Pope must be asham'd of Craggs. Till the third watchman toll; Let Jervis gratis paint, and Frowde
Save three-pence and his soul.
ENGRAVED ON THE COLLAR OP A DOG, WHICH I GAVE Although he knows it not.
TO HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS. Lintot, farewell! thy bard must go ;
Am his Highness' dog at Kew; Parewell, unhappy Tonson !
Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?
Lean Philips, and fat Johnson.
OCCASIONED BY AN INVITATION TO COURT. And Homer (damn him!) calls. The love of arts lies cold and dead
In the lines that you sent are the Muses and In Halifax's urn;
Graces; And not one Muse of all he fed,
You ’ve the Nine in your wit, and the Three in Has yet the grace to mourn. My friends, by turns, my friends confound,
Betray, and are betray'd : Poor Y-r's sold for fifty pound, And B- -11 is a jade.
ON AN OLD GATE
ERECTED IN CHISWICK GARDENS,
ferior, either for her voice or manner, to the best Italian women.
She lived at the introduction of the opera into this kingdom, and sung in O GATE, how cam’st thou here? company with Nicolini; but, being ignorant of
GATE. I was brought from Chelsea last year, Italian, chanted her recitative in English, in an
Batter'd with wind and weather. swer to his Italian; yet the charms of their voices
Inigo Jones put me together, overcame the absurdity.
Sir Hans Sloane
Let me alone : " It is not generally known that the person here
Burlington brought me hither. meant was Dr. Robert Freind, head master of