Cold is that breaft which warm'd the world before, And those love-darting eyes must roll no more. Thus, if Eternal juftice rules the ball,

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Thus fhall your wives, and thus your children fall:
On all the line a fudden vengeance waits,
And frequent herfes fhall befiege your gates;
There paffengers shall stand, and pointing say,
(While the long fun'rals blacken all the way) 40
Lo! these were they, whofe fouls the Furies fteel'd,
And curs'd with hearts unknowing how to yield.
Thus unlamented pass the proud away,

46

The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day!
So perish all, whose breast ne'er learn'd to glow
For others good, or melt at others woe.
What can atone (oh ever-injur'd shade!)
Thy fate unpity'd, and thy rites unpaid?
No friend's complaint, no kind domestic tear,
Pleas'd thy pale ghoft, or grac'd thy mournful bier;
By foreign hands thy dying eyes were clos'd, 51
By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos'd,
By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd,
By strangers honour'd, and by strangers mourn'd!
What tho' no friends in fable weeds appear, 55
Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year,
And bear about the mockery of woe
To midnight dances, and the public show?
What tho' no weeping Loves thy ashes grace,
Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face?

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What though no facred earth allow thee room,
Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb?
Yet fhall thy grave with rifing flow'rs be drest,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast:
There shall the morn her earliest tears beftow, 65
There the first roses of the year fhall blow;
While angels with their filver wings o'ershade
The ground now facred by thy reliques made.
So, peaceful rests, without a stone, a name,
What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame.
How lov'd, how honour'd, once, avails thee not,
To whom related, or by whom begot ;
A heap of duft alone remains of thee,
'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be!

Poets themselves must fall, like those they fung,
Deaf the prais'd ear, and mute the tuneful tongue.
Ev'n he, whose soul now melts in mournful lays,
Shall shortly want the gen'rous tear he pays;
Then from his clofing eyes thy form shall part,
And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart,
Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er,
The Muse forgot, and thou belov'd no more!

THE FIRST SATIRE OF THE SECOND BOOK OF HORACE, IMITATED.

BY THE SAME.

TO MR. FORTESCUE.

THERE are (I fcarce can think it, but am told)
There are, to whom my Satire feems too bold:
Scarce to wife Peter complaifant enough,
And something faid of Chartres much too rough.
The lines are weak, another's pleas'd to say,
Lord Fanny spins a thousand such a day.
Tim'rous by nature, of the Rich in awe,

I come to Council learned in the Law;

You'll give me, like a friend, both fage and free Advice; and (as you use) without a Fee.

F. I'd write do more.

And for

5

10

P. Not write? but then I think, my foul I cannot fleep a wink;

I nod in company, I wake at night,

Fools rush into my head, and fo I write,

F. You could not do a worse thing for your life. Why, if the nights feem tedious—take a wife: Or rather truly, if your point be rest,

Lettuce and cowflip-wine; Probatum eft.

But talk with Celfus, Celfus will advise
Hartshorn, or fomething that shall close your eyes.
Or, if you needs muft write, write CÆSAR's praife,
You'll gain at leaft a Knighthood or the Bays.

P. What? like Sir Richard, rumbling, rough, and fierce,

With ARMS, and GEORGE, and BRUNSWICK crowd the verse,

Rend with tremendous found your ears asunder,
With Gun, Drum, Trumpet, Blunderbufs, and
Thunder?

Or nobly wild, with Budgell's fire and force,
Paint Angels trembling round his falling Horse?
F. Then all your Mufe's fofter arts display,
Let CAROLINA smooth the tuneful lay,
Lull with AMELIA's liquid name the Nine,
And fweetly flow thro' all the Royal Line.

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P. Alas! few verses touch their nicer ear; They scarce can bear their Laureate twice a year; And justly CESAR fcorns the Poet's lays,

It is to Hiftory he trusts for Praife.

F. Better be Cibber, I'll maintain it still, Than ridicule all Tafte, blafpheme Quadrille, Abuse the City's best good men in metre, And laugh at Peers that put their truft in Peter. Ev'n those you touch not, hate you.

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P. What fhould ail them?

F. A hundred fmart in Timon and in Balaam:

The fewer ftill you name, you wound the more; Bond is but one, but Harpax is a score.

P. Each mortal has his pleasure: none deny 45
Scarfdale his bottle, Darty his ham-pye;
Ridotta fips and dances, till fhe fee

The doubling Luftres dance as fast as fhe:
F- loves the Senate, Hockley-hole his brother,
Like in all else as one egg to another.

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;

55

I love to pour out all myself, as plain
As downright SHIPPEN, or as old Montagne:
In them, as certain to be lov'd as feen,
The Soul ftood forth, nor kept a thought within
In me what spots (for fpots I have) appear,
Will prove at leaft the Medium must be clear.
In this impartial glafs, my Mufe intends
Fair to expofe myself, my foes, my friends;
Publish the prefent age; but when my text
Is Vice too high, reserve it for the next:
My foes fhall with my life a longer date,
And ev'ry friend the lefs lament my fate.

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My head and heart thus flowing thro' my quill,
Verfe-man or Profe-man, term me which you will,

Papift, or Proteftant, or both between,
Like good Erafmus in an honest mean,

In moderation placing all my glory,

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Whilft Tories call me Whig, and Whigs a Tory. Satire's my weapon, but I'm too difcreet

To run a muck, and tilt at all I meet;

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