Alexander Pope: Minor poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Speak, Gracious Lord, oh speak; thy Servant hears:
For I'm thy Servant, and I'l still be so:
Speak words of Comfort in my willing Ears;
And since my Tongue is in thy praises slow,
And since that thine all Rhetorick exceeds;
Speak thou in words, but let me speak in deeds!

Nor speak alone, but give me grace to hear
What thy cælestïal Sweetness does impart;
Let it not stop when entred at the Ear
But sink, and take deep rooting in my heart.
As the parch'd Earth drinks Rain (but grace afford)
With such a Gust will I receive thy word.

Nor with the Israelites shall I desire
Thy heav'nly word by Moses to receive,
Lest I should die: but Thou who didst inspire
Moses himself, speak thou, that I may live.
Rather with Samuel I beseech with tears
Speak, gracious Lord, oh speak; thy Servant hears.

Moses indeed may say the words but Thou
Must give the Spirit, and the Life inspire;
Our Love to thee his fervent Breath may blow,
But 'tis thy self alone can give the fire:
Thou without them may'st speak and profit too;
But without thee, what could the Prophets do?

They preach the Doctrine, but thou mak'st us do't;
They teach the Misteries thou dost open lay;
The Trees they water, but thou giv'st the fruit;
They to Salvation shew the arduous way,
But none but you can give us Strength to walk;
You give the Practise, they but give the Talk.

Let them be silent then; and thou alone
(My God) speak comfort to my ravish'd Ears;
Light of my eyes, my Consolation,
Speak when thou wilt, for still thy Servant hears.
What-ere thou speak'st, let this be understood;
Thy greater Glory, and my greater Good!

Verses in imitation of WALLER.

By a Youth of thirteen.

I. Of the Lady who could not sleep in a stormy Night.

As gods sometimes descend from heav'n and deign
On earth a while with mortals to remain,
So gentle sleep from Serenissa flies,
To dwell at last upon her lover's eyes.
That god's indulgence can she justly crave,
Who flies the tyrant to relieve the slave?
Or should those eyes alone that rest enjoy,
Which in all others they themselves destroy?
Let her whom fear denies repose to take,
Think for her love what crowds of wretches wake.
So us'd to sighs, so long inur'd to tears,
Are winds and tempests dreadful to her ears?
Jove with a nod may bid the world to rest,
But Serenissa must becalm the breast.

II. Of her Picture.

The nymph her graces here express'd may find,
And by this picture learn to dress her mind;
For here no frowns make tender love afraid,
Soft looks of mercy grace the flatt'ring shade,
And, while we gaze, the gracious form appears
T'approve our passion and forbid our fears.
Narcissus here a different fate had prov'd,
Whose bright resemblance by himself was lov'd;
Had he but once this fairer shade descry'd,
Not for his own, but hers, the youth had dy'd.

III. Of her Sickness.

Ah Serenissa, from our arms
Did you for death's preserve your charms;
From us that serv'd so long in vain,
Shall heav'n so soon the prize obtain?
Sickness, its courtship, makes the fair
As pale as her own lovers are.
Sure you, the goddess we adore,
Who all cœlestial seem'd before,
While vows and service nothing gain'd,
Which, were you woman, had obtain'd;
At last in pity, for our sake,
Descend an human form to take,
And by this sickness chuse to tell
You are not now invincible.

IV. Of her walking in a Garden after a Shower.

See how the sun in dusky skies
Veils his fair glories, while he spies
Th'unclouded lustre of her eyes!
Her bashful beauties once descry'd,
The vanquish'd roses lose their pride,
And in their buds their blushes hide.
Myrtles have lost their balmy smell,
And drooping lillies seem to tell
How much her sweets their own excel.
See! She retires: Nor can we say
If light breaks out or goes away,
For Sol's is now the only ray.

Lo how their heads the lillies rear,
And with fresh sweets perfume the air,
When their bright rival is not there.
Again grown proud, the spreading rose
Its bloomy beauties does disclose,
And to the skies its incense throws.
Her glorious charms eclipse the day;
Nature itself is only gay,
When Serenissa is away.
Like, yet unlike these flow'rs am I;
I languish when her charms draw nigh,
But if she disappears, I dye.

V. Of her Sighing.

When love would strike th'offending fair,
This incense bribes the god to spare;
And Cytheræa now does prize
No sweets but Serenissa's sighs.
The yielding nymph by these confest,
Encourag'd lovers seek her breast:
So spicy gales at once betray
Th'Arabian coast, and waft us on our way.

Verses in imitation of COWLEY.

By a Youth of thirteen.

I. Presenting a Lark.

Go tuneful bird, forbear to soar,
And the bright sun admire no more;
Go bask in Serenissa's eyes,
And turn a bird of paradise.

In those fair beams thy wings display,
Take shorter journies to the day,
And at an humbler pitch prefer
Thy musick to an angel's ear.

Nor, tho' her slave, thy lot deplore;
The god of love himself's no more:
Ev'n him to constancy she brings,
And clips, like thine, his wav'ring wings.

She gains from us, as now from thee,
Our songs by our captivity;
But happier you attention gain,
While wretched lovers sing in vain.

II. The River.

Hail sacred spring, whose fruitful stream
Fattens the flocks, and cloaths the plain;
The melancholy poets theme,
And solace of the thirsty swain.

Thou fly'st, like time, with eager haste;
Behind thy self thou still dost stay;
Thy stream, like his, is never past,
And yet is ever on the way.

While mankind boasts superior sight,
With eyes erect the heav'ns to see;
The starry eyes of heav'n delight
To gaze upon themselves in thee.

A second sun thou dost present,
And bring new heav'ns before our eyes;
We view a milder firmament,
And pleas'd, look downward to the skies.

Thy streams were once th'impartial test
Of untaught nature's humble pride,
When by thy glass the nymphs were drest,
In flow'rs, the honours of thy side.

Of thee they drank, till blushing fruit
Was ravisht from the tender vine;
And man, like thee, was impollute,
Till mischief learn'd to mix with wine.

To the AUTHOR of a POEM, intitled, SUCCESSIO.

Begone ye Criticks, and restrain your Spite,
Codrus writes on, and will for ever write;
The heaviest Muse the swiftest Course has gone,
As Clocks run fastest when most Lead is on.
What tho' no Bees around your Cradle flew,
Nor on your Lips distill'd their golden Dew?
Yet have we oft discover'd in their stead,
A Swarm of Drones, that buzz'd about your Head.
When you, like Orpheus, strike the warbling Lyre,
Attentive Blocks stand round you, and admire.

Wit, past thro' thee, no longer is the same,
As Meat digested takes a diff'rent Name;
But Sense must sure thy safest Plunder be,
Since no Reprizals can be made on thee.
Thus thou may'st Rise, and in thy daring Flight
(Tho' ne'er so weighty) reach a wondrous height;
So, forc'd from Engines, Lead it self can fly,
And pondrous Slugs move nimbly thro' the Sky.
Sure Bavius copy'd Mævius to the full,
And Chærilus taught Codrus to be dull;
Therefore, dear Friend, at my Advice give o'er
This needless Labour, and contend no more,
To prove a dull Succession to be true,
Since 'tis enough we find it so in You.

LINES from ALCANDER and the EARLY POEMS.

I. [Shields, helms, and swords all jangle as they hang]

Shields, helms, and swords all jangle as they hang,
And sound formidinous with angry clang.

II. [Whose honours with increase of ages grow]

Whose honours with increase of ages grow;
As streams roll down enlarging as they flow.

III. [As man's meanders to the vital spring]

As man's meanders to the vital spring
Roll all their tides, then back their circles bring.

IV. [So swift,—this moment here, the next 'tis gone]

So swift,—this moment here, the next 'tis gone,
So imperceptible the motion.

V. On a lady's drinking the Bath-waters.

She drinks! She drinks! Behold the matchless Dame!
To her 'tis Water, but to us 'tis Flame:
Thus Fire is Water, Water Fire, by turns,
And the same Stream at once both cools and burns.

VI. The same lady goes into the Bath.

Venus beheld her, 'midst her Crowd of Slaves,
And thought Herself just risen from the Waves.

VII. The Metonymy.

Lac'd in her Cosins new appear'd the Bride,
A Bubble-boy and Tompion at her Side,
And with an Air divine her Colmar ply'd.
Then oh! she cries, what Slaves I round me see?
Here a bright Redcoat, there a smart Toupee.

VIII. An Eye-witness of things never yet beheld by Man.

Thus have I seen, in Araby the blest,
A Phœnix couch'd upon her Fun'ral Nest.

IX. How inimitably circumstantial is this [description] of a War-Horse!

His Eye-Balls burn, he wounds the smoaking Plain,
And knots of scarlet Ribbond deck his Mane.

X. The Hyperbole.

Of a Scene of Misery.

Behold a Scene of Misery and Woe!
Here Argus soon might weep himself quite blind,
Ev'n tho' he had Briareus' hundred Hands
To wipe those hundred Eyes—

XI. The Periphrasis

A Country Prospect.

I'd call them Mountains, but can't call them so,
For fear to wrong them with a Name too low;
While the fair Vales beneath so humbly lie,
That even humble seems a Term too high.

An Epistle to Henry Cromwell, Esq

DEAR Mr. Cromwell,

May it please ye!
Sit still a Moment; pray be easy—
Faith 'tis not five; no Play's begun;
No Game at Ombre lost or won.
Read something of a diff'rent Nature,
Than Ev'ning Post, or Observator;
And pardon me a little Fooling,
—Just while your Coffee stands a Cooling.

Since your Acquaintance with one Brocas,
Who needs will back the Muses Cock-horse,
I know you dread all those who write,
And both with Mouth and Hand recite;
Who slow, and leisurely rehearse,

As loath t'enrich you with their Verse;
Just as a Still, with Simples in it,
Betwixt each Drop stays half a Minute.
(That Simile is not my own,
But lawfully belongs to Donne)
(You see how well I can contrive a
Interpolatio Furtiva)
To Brocas's Lays no more you listen
Than to the wicked Works of Whiston;
In vain he strains to reach your Ear,
With what it wisely, will not hear:
You bless the Powers who made that Organ
Deaf to the Voice of such a Gorgon,
(For so one sure may call that Head,
Which does not Look, but Read Men dead.)

I hope, you think me none of those
Who shew their Parts as Pentlow does,
I but lug out to one or two
Such Friends, if such there are, as you,
Such, who read Heinsius and Masson,
And as you please their Doom to pass on,
(Who are to me both Smith and Johnson)
So seize them Flames, or take them Tonson.

But, Sir, from Brocas, Fouler, me,
In vain you think to 'scape Rhyme-free,
When was it known one Bard did follow
Whig Maxims, and abjure Apollo?
Sooner shall Major-General cease
To talk of War, and live in Peace;
Yourself for Goose reject Crow Quill,
And for plain Spanish quit Brasil;
Sooner shall Rowe lampoon the Union

Tydcombe take Oaths on the Communion;
The Granvilles write their Name plain Greenfield,
Nay, Mr. Wycherly see Binfield.

I'm told, you think to take a Step some
Ten Miles from Town, t'a Place call'd Epsom,
To treat those Nymphs like yours of Drury,
With—I protest, and I'll assure ye;—
But tho' from Flame to Flame you wander,
Beware; your Heart's no Salamander!
But burnt so long, may soon turn Tinder,
And so be fir'd by any Cinder-
(Wench, I'd have said did Rhyme not hinder)
Shou'd it so prove, yet who'd admire?
'Tis known, a Cook-maid roasted Prior,
Lardella fir'd a famous Author,
And for a Butcher's well-fed Daughter
Great D---s roar'd, like Ox at Slaughter.

(Now, if you're weary of my Style,
Take out your Box of right Brasil,
First lay this Paper under, then,
Snuff just three Times, and read again.)

I had to see you some Intent
But for a curst Impediment,
Which spoils full many a good Design,
That is to say, the Want of Coin.
For which, I had resolv'd almost,
To raise Tiberius Gracchus Ghost;
To get, by once more murd'ring Caius,
As much as did Septimuleius;
But who so dear will buy the Lead,
That lies within a Poet's Head,
As that which in the Hero's Pate
Deserv'd of Gold an equal Weight?

Sir, you're so stiff in your Opinion,
I wish you do not turn Socinian;
Or prove Reviver of a Schism,
By modern Wits call'd Quixotism.
What mov'd you, pray, without compelling,
Like Trojan true, to draw for Hellen:
Quarrel with Dryden for a Strumpet,
(For so she was, as e'er show'd Rump yet,
Tho' I confess, she had much Grace,
Especially about the Face.)
Virgil, when call'd Pasiphae Virgo
(You say) he'd more good Breeding; Ergo—
Well argu'd, Faith! Your Point you urge
As home, as ever did Panurge:
And one may say of Dryden too,
(As once you said of you know who)
He had some Fancy, and cou'd write;
Was very learn'd, but not polite—
However from my Soul I judge
He ne'er (good Man) bore Hellen Grudge,
But lov'd her full as well it may be,
As e'er he did his own dear Lady.
You have no Cause to take Offence, Sir,
Z---ds, you're as sour as Cato Censor!
Ten times more like him, I profess,
Than I'm like Aristophanes.

To end with News—the best I know,
Is, I've been well a Week, or so.
The Season of green Pease is fled,
And Artichoaks reign in their Stead.
Th'Allies to bomb Toulon prepare;
G*d save the pretty Lady's there!
One of our Dogs is dead and gone,
And I, unhappy! left alone.

EPIGRAM.

Occasion'd by Ozell's Translation of Boileau's Lutrin.

[_]

Printed for E. Sanger, and recommended by Mr. Rowe, in which Mr. Wycherley's POEMS printed in 1704, were reflected on.

Ozell, at Sanger's Call, invok'd his Muse,
For who to sing for Sanger could refuse?
His Numbers such, as Sanger's self might use.
Reviving Perault, murd'ring Boileau, he
Slander'd the Ancients first, then Wycherley;
Not that it much that Author's Anger rais'd,
For those were slander'd most whom Ozell prais'd:
Nor had the toothless Satyr caus'd complaining,
Had not sage Rowe pronounc'd it Entertaining.
How great, how just, the Judgment of that Writer!
Who the Plain-dealer damns, and prints the Biter.

LETTER to CROMWELL.

Aprill ye 25. 1708.

Sir,

This Letter greets you from the Shades;
(Not those which thin, unbody'd Shadows fill,
That glide along th'Elysian Glades,
Or skim the flow'ry Meads of Asphodill:)
But those, in which a Learned Author said,
Strong Drink was drunk, and Gambolls play'd,
And two substantial Meals a day were made.
The Business of it is t'express,
From me and from my Holiness,
To you and to your Gentleness,
How much I wish you Health and Happiness;
And much good News, and little Spleen as may be;
A hearty Stomach, and sound Lady;
And ev'ry Day a double Dose of Coffee,
To make you look as sage as any Sophy.
If Wit or Critick blame the tender Swain,
Who stil'd the gentle Damsels in his Strain
The Nymphs of Drury, not of Drury-Lane;
Be this his Answer, and most just Excuse—
‘Far be it, Sirs, from my more civill Muse,
‘Those Loving Ladies rudely to traduce.
‘Allyes and Lanes are Terms too vile and base,
‘And give Idea's of a narrow Pass;
‘But the well-worn Paths of the Nymphs of Drury
‘Are large and wide; Tydcomb and I assure ye.

To Baker first my Service, pray;
To Tydcomb eke,
And Mr. Cheek;
Last to yourself my best Respects I pay,
And so remain, for ever and for ay,

Sir, Yr Affectionate, humble Servt: A. Pope.

ARGUS.

When wise Ulysses, from his native coast
Long kept by wars, and long by tempests tost,
Arriv'd at last, poor, old, disguis'd, alone,
To all his friends, and ev'n his Queen, unknown,
Chang'd as he was, with age, and toils, and cares,
Furrow'd his rev'rend face, and white his hairs,
In his own Palace forc'd to ask his bread,
Scorn'd by those slaves his former bounty fed
Forgot of all his own domestic crew;
The faithful Dog alone his rightful Master knew!
Unfed, unhous'd, neglected, on the clay,
Like an old servant now cashier'd, he lay;
Touch'd with resentment of ungrateful Man,
And longing to behold his ancient Lord again.
Him when he saw—he rose, and crawl'd to meet,

('Twas all he cou'd) and fawn'd, and lick'd his feet,
Seiz'd with dumb joy—then falling by his side,
Own'd his returning Lord, look'd up, and dy'd!

LINES

On Dulness

Thus Dulness, the safe Opiate of the Mind,
The last kind Refuge weary Wit can find,
Fit for all Stations and in each content
Is satisfy'd, secure, and innocent:
No Pains it takes, and no Offence it gives,
Un-fear'd, un-hated, un-disturb'd it lives.
—And if each writing Author's best pretence,
Be but to teach the Ignorant more Sense;
Then Dulness was the Cause they wrote before,
As 'tis at last the Cause they write no more;
So Wit, which most to scorn it does pretend,
With Dulness first began, in Dulness last must end.

LINES Added to WYCHERLEY's Poems.

I. SIMILITUDES.

(a) Of the Byass of a Bowl.

The Poize of Dulness to the heavy Skull,
Is like the Leaden Byass to the Bowl,
Which, as more pond'rous, makes its Aim more true,
And guides it surer to the Mark in view;
The more it seems to go about, to come
The nearer to its End, or Purpose, home.

(b) Of the Weights of a Clock.

So Clocks to Lead their nimble Motions owe,
The Springs above urg'd by the Weight below;
The pond'rous Ballance keeps its Poize the same,
Actuates, maintains, and rules the moving Frame.

II. SIMILITUDES.

Thus either Men in private useless Ease
Lose a dull Length of undeserving Days;
Or waste, for others Use, their restless Years
In busie Tumults, and in publick Cares,
And run precipitant, with Noise and Strife,
Into the vast Abyss of future Life;
Or others Ease and theirs alike destroy,
Their own Destruction by their Industry.
So Waters putrifie with Rest, and lose
At once their Motion, Sweetness, and their Use;
Or haste in headlong Torrents to the Main,
To lose themselves by what shou'd them maintain,
And in th'impetuous Course themselves the sooner drain:
Neglect their Native Channel, Neighb'ring Coast,
Abroad in foreign Service to be lost;
Or else their Streams, when hinder'd in their Course,
Quite o'er the Banks to their own Ruin force.

The Stream of Life shou'd more securely flow
In constant Motion, nor too swift nor slow,
And neither swell too high, nor sink too low;
Not always glide thro' gloomy Vales, and rove
('Midst Flocks and Shepherds) in the silent Grove;
But more diffusive in its wand'ring Race;
Serve peopled Towns, and stately Cities grace;
Around in sweet Meanders wildly range,
Kept fresh by Motion, and unchang'd by Change.

III. LINES

On Solitude and Retirement.

Honour and Wealth, the Joys we seek, deny
By their Encrease, and their Variety;
And more confound our Choice than satisfie:
Officious, bold Disturbances they grow,
That interrupt our Peace, and work our Woe:
Make Life a Scene of Pain, and constant Toil,
And all our Days in fresh Pursuits embroil.

But if to Solitude we turn our Eyes,
To View a thousand real Blessings rise;
Pleasures sincere, and unallay'd with Pain,
An easie Purchase, but an ample Gain!
There Censure, Envy, Malice, Scorn, or Hate,
Cannot affect Us in our tranquil State:
Those Cankers that on busie Honour prey,
And all their Spight on active Pomp display.

Alone, remov'd from Grandeur and from Strife,
And ev'ry Curse that loads a publick Life,
In Safety, Innocence, and full Repose,
Man the true Worth of his Creation knows.
Luxurious Nature's Wealth in Thought surveys,
And meditates her Charms, and sings her Praise.
To him, with humble Privacy content,
Life is, in Courts, and gawdy Pride, mis-spent.
To him, the Rural Cottage does afford
What he prefers to the Patrician Board:
Such wholsome Foods as Nature's Wants supply,
And ne'er reproach him with his Luxury.
He traverses the blooming verdant Mead,
Nor envies those that on rich Carpets tread.
Basks in the Sun, then to the Shades retires,
And takes a Shelter from his pointed Fires.
Wak'd by the Morning-Cock, unseals his Eyes,
And sees the Rusticks to their Labours rise;
And in the Ev'ning, when those Labours cease,
Beholds them cheary eat the Bread of Peace:
Sees no foul Discords at their Banquets bred,
Nor Emulations, nor Disgusts succeed:
But all is quiet, jocund, and serene,
A Type of Paradise, the Rural Scene!

IV. CONCLUSION of The Bill of Fare.

At length the Board, in loose disjointed Chat,
Descanted, some on this Thing, some on that;
Some, over each Orac'lous Glass, fore-doom
The Fate of Realms, and Conquests yet to come;
What Lawrels Marlbro' next shall reap, decree,
And swifter than His Arms, give Victory:
At the next Bottle, all their Schemes they cease,
Content at last to leave the World in Peace.
'Till having drown'd their Reason, they think fit
Railing at Men of Sense, to show their Wit;
Compare De Foe's Burlesque with Dryden's Satyr,
And Butler with the Lutrin's dull Translator,
Decry'd each past, to raise each present Writer,
Damn'd the Plain-dealer, and admir'd the Biter.

These Censures o'er, to different Subjects next,
'Till rallying all, the Feast became the Text;
So to mine Host, the greatest Jest, they past,
And the Fool Treater grew the Treat at last.
Thus having eaten, drunk, laught, at his Cost,
To the next Day's Repentance, as they boast,
They left their senseless, treating, drunken Host.

Soft be his Slumbers! But may this suffice
Our Friends the Wits and Poets to advise,
(Tho' Dinners oft they want and Suppers too)
Rather to starve, as they are us'd to do,
Than dine with Fools, that on their Guests will force
Mixt Wine, mixt Company, and mixt Discourse:
Since not much Wine, much Company, much Food,
Make Entertainments please us as they shou'd;
But 'tis of each, the Little, and the Good.

RONDEAU.

You know where you did despise
(T'other day) my little eyes,
Little legs, and little thighs,
And some things of little size,
You know where.

You, 'tis true, have fine black eyes,
Taper legs, and tempting thighs,
Yet what more than all we prize
Is a thing of little size,
You know where.

On the Statue of CLEOPATRA, made into a Fountain by Leo the Tenth.

Translated from the Latin of Count Castiglione.

Cleopatra speaks.

Whoe're thou art whom this fair statue charms,
These curling aspicks, and these wounded arms,
Who view'st these eyes for ever fixt in death,
Think not unwilling I resign'd my breath.
What, shou'd a Queen, so long the boast of fame,
Have stoop'd to serve an haughty Roman dame?
Shou'd I have liv'd, in Cæsar's triumph born,
To grace his conquests and his pomp adorn?
I, whom the blest Ægyptian climate bore
To the soft joys of Nile's delightful shore.
Whom prostrate Kings beheld unrival'd shine,
And the wide East ador'd with rites divine!
Deny'd to reign, I stood resolv'd to die,
Such charms has death when join'd with liberty.
Let future times of Cleopatra tell,
Howe're she liv'd none ever dy'd so well.
No chains I felt, but went a glorious ghost,
Free, and a Princess, to the Stygian coast.
Th'eluded victor, envious of my fate,
Vex'd with vain rage, and impotently great,
To Jove's high Capitol ignobly led
The mournful image of a Princess dead.
Yet not content with this to feast his eyes,
Lest kinder time shou'd hide our miseries,
Lest the last age our fortunes shou'd not know,
This breathing stone immortaliz'd my woe:
This with the noblest force of sculpture grac'd,
In Rome's proud Forum young Octavius plac'd,
And in the midst of that majestic band

Of Gods and heroes, made a Woman stand;
But in the rock my flowing tears supprest,
Those tears, which only cou'd have have eas'd my breast.
Not that I'd ask a single drop to mourn
A fate so glorious, and so nobly born,
(Not death it self from me cou'd force a tear,
Or teach the soul of Cleopatra fear)
But for my Antony—to whom these eyes
Give all his rites, and all his obsequies!
To his dear ashes and his honour'd shade,
My tears eternal tribute shou'd be paid:
My tears the want of off'rings had supply'd;
But these, ev'n these, remorseless Rome deny'd!

But thou great Leo! in whose golden days
Revive the honours of Rome's ancient praise;
If Heav'n, to pity human woes inclin'd,
Has sent thee down in mercy to mankind,
And boundless pow'r with boundless virtue join'd;
If all the Gods entrust thee to bestow
With bounteous hands their blessings here below;
Let not a suppliant Queen entreat in vain,
The only wretch beneath thy happy reign!
Sure just and modest this request appears,
Nor is it much to give me back my tears;
Release my eyes, and let them freely flow;
'Tis all the comfort fate has left me now!
The haughty Niobe whose impious pride
Scorn'd Heaven it self, and durst the Gods deride,
Still, tho' a rock, can thus relieve her woe,
And tears eternal from the marble flow.
No guilt of mine the rage of Heav'n cou'd move;
I knew no crime, if 'tis no crime to love.
Then as a lover give me leave to weep;
Lull'd by these fountains the distrest may sleep;
And while the Dogstar burns the thirsty field,
These to the birds refreshing streams may yield;

The birds shall sport amidst the bending sprays,
And fill the shade with never ceasing lays;
New greens shall spring, new flow'rs around me grow,
And on each tree the golden apples glow;
Here, where the fragrant Orange groves arise,
Whose shining scene with rich Hesperia vies.

PSALM XCI.

He who beneath thy shelt'ring wing resides,
Whom thy hand leads, and whom thy glory guides
To Heav'n familiar his bold vows shall send,
And fearless say to God—Thou art my friend!
'Tis Thou shalt save him from insidious wrongs,
And the sharp arrows of censorious tongues.
When gath'ring tempests swell the raging main,
When thunder roars, and lightning blasts the plain,
Amidst the wrack of nature undismay'd,
Safe shall he lye, and hope beneath thy shade.
By day no perils shall the just affright,
No dismal dreams or groaning ghosts by night.
His God shall guard him in the fighting field,
And o'er his breast extend his saving shield:
The whistling darts shall turn their points away,
And fires around him innocently play.
Thousands on ev'ry side shall yield their breath;
And twice ten thousand bite the ground in death;
While he, serene in thought, shall calm survey
The sinners fall, and bless the vengeful day!

Heav'n is thy hope: thy refuge fix'd above;
No harms can reach thee, and no force shall move.
I see protecting Myriads round thee fly,
And all the bright Militia of the sky.
These in thy dangers timely aid shall bring,
Raise in their arms, and waft thee on their wing,
These shall perform th'almighty orders given,

Direct each step, and smooth the path to Heaven.
Thou on the fiery Basilisk shalt tread,
And fearless crush the swelling Aspick's head,
Rouze the huge Dragon, with a spurn, from rest,
And fix thy foot upon the Lion's crest.
Lo I, his God! in all his toils am near:
I see him ever, and will ever hear:
When he the rage of sinners shall sustain,
I share his griefs, and feel my self his pain:
When foes conspiring rise against his rest,
I'll stretch my arm, and snatch him to my breast.
Him will I heap with honours, and with praise,
And glutt with full satiety of days;
Him with my glories crown; and when he dies,
To him reveal my joys, and open all my skies.

STANZA'S.

From the french of Malherbe .

At length, my soul! thy fruitless hopes give o'er,
Believe, believe the treach'rous world no more.
Shallow, yet swift, the stream of fortune flows,
Which some rude wind will always discompose;
As children birds, so men their bliss pursue,
Still out of reach, tho' ever in their view.

In vain, for all that empty greatness brings,
We lose our lives amidst the courts of kings,
And suffer scorn, and bend the supple knee;
The monarch dies—one moment's turn destroys
Long future prospects, and short present joys:
Oh unperforming, false mortality!

All is but dust, when once their breath is fled;
The fierce, the pompous majesty lyes dead!
The world no longer trembles at their pow'r!

Ev'n in those tombs where their proud names survive,
Where still in breathing brass they seem to live,
Th'impartial worms that very dust devour.

The lofty styles of happy, glorious great,
The Lords of fortune, Arbiters of fate,
And Gods of war, lye lost within the grave!
Their mighty minions then come tumbling down,
They lose their flatt'rers as they lose their crown,
Forgot of ev'ry friend, and ev'ry slave!

From BOETIUS, de cons. Philos.

O qui perpetua mundum ratione gubernas.

O thou, whose all-creating hands sustain
The radiant Heav'ns, and Earth, and ambient main!
Eternal Reason! whose presiding soul
Informs great nature and directs the whole!
Who wert, e're time his rapid race begun,
And bad'st the years in long procession run:
Who fix't thy self amidst the rowling frame,
Gav'st all things to be chang'd, yet ever art the same!
Oh teach the mind t'ætherial heights to rise,
And view familiar, in its native skies,
The source of good; thy splendor to descry,
And on thy self, undazled, fix her eye.
Oh quicken this dull mass of mortal clay;
Shine through the soul, and drive its clouds away!
For thou art Light. In thee the righteous find
Calm rest, and soft serenity of mind;
Thee they regard alone; to thee they tend;
At once our great original and end,
At once our means, our end, our guide, our way,
Our utmost bound, and our eternal stay!

COUPLETS & VERSICLES 1708–1710

I. EPIGRAM.

On Poets.

Damnation follows Death in other Men,
But your damn'd Poet lives and writes agen.

II. EPIGRAM.

On Authors and Booksellers.

What Authors lose, their Booksellers have won,
So Pimps grow rich, while Gallants are undone.

III. LINES.

[Fatis agimur, cedite fatis!]

i.

Fatis agimur, cedite fatis!
Which, in our Tongue, as I translate, is,
Fate rules us: then to Fate give way!
—Now, dreadful Critic! tell me pray,
What have you against this to say?

ii.

My Pylades! what Juv'nal says, no Jest is;
Scriptus & in tergo, nec dum finitus Orestes.

HYMN of St. FRANCIS XAVIER.

Thou art my God, sole object of my love;
Not for the hope of endless joys above;
Not for the fear of endless pains below,
Which they who love thee not must undergo.

For me, and such as me, thou deign'st to bear
An ignominious cross, the nails, the spear:
A thorny crown transpierc'd thy sacred brow,
While bloody sweats from ev'ry member flow.

For me in tortures thou resign'd'st thy breath,
Embrac'd me on the cross, and sav'd me by thy death.
And can these suff'rings fail my heart to move?
What but thyself can now deserve my love?

Such as then was, and is, thy love to me,
Such is, and shall be still, my love to thee—
To thee, Redeemer! mercy's sacred spring!
My God, my Father, Maker, and my King!

LINES FROM The Critical Specimen.

I. A Simile.

So on Mæotis' Marsh, (where Reeds and Rushes
Hide the deceitful Ground, whose waving Heads
Oft' bend to Auster's blasts, or Boreas' Rage,
The Haunt of the voracious Stork or Bittern,
Where, or the Crane, Foe to Pygmæan Race,
Or Ravenous Corm'rants shake their flabby Wings,
And from soak'd Plumes disperse a briny Show'r,
Or spread their feather'd Sails against the Beams,
Or, of the Rising or Meridian Sun)
A baneful Hunch-back'd Toad, with look Maligne,
Glares on some Traveller's unwary steps,
Whether by Chance, or by Misfortune led
To tread those dark unwholsome, misty Fens,
Rage strait Collects his Venom all at once,
And swells his bloated Corps to largest size.

II. A Rhapsody.

Fly Pegasæan Steed, thy Rider bear,
To breath the Sweets of pure Parnassian Air,
Aloft I'm swiftly born, methinks I rise,
And with my Head Sublime can reach the Sky.
Large Gulps of Aganippe's streams I'll draw,
And give to Modern Writers Classic Law;
In Grecian Buskins Tragedy shall Mourn,
And to its Ancient Mirth the Comic Sock return.

EPITAPH.

On John Lord Caryll .

A manly Form; a bold, yet modest mind;
Sincere, tho' prudent; constant, yet resign'd;
Honour unchang'd; a Principle profest;
Fix'd to one side, but mod'rate to the rest;
An honest Courtier, and a Patriot too;
Just to his Prince, and to his Country true:
All these were join'd in one, yet fail'd to save
The Wise, the Learn'd, the Virtuous, and the Brave;
Lost, like the common Plunder of the Grave!

Ye Few, whom better Genius does inspire,
Exalted Souls, inform'd with purer Fire!
Go now, learn all vast Science can impart;
Go fathom Nature, take the Heights of Art!
Rise higher yet: learn ev'n yourselves to know;
Nay, to yourselves alone that knowledge owe.
Then, when you seem above mankind to soar,
Look on this marble, and be vain no more!

The Balance of Europe.

Now Europe's balanc'd, neither Side prevails,
For nothing's left in either of the Scales.

VERSES To be prefix'd before BERNARD LINTOT's New MISCELLANY.

Some Colinæus praise, some Bleau,
Others account 'em but so so;
Some Plantin to the rest prefer,

And some esteem Old-Elzevir;
Others with Aldus would besot us;
I, for my part, admire Lintottus.—
His Character's beyond Compare,
Like his own Person, large and fair.
They print their Names in Letters small,
But Lintot stands in Capital:
Author and he, with equal Grace,
Appear, and stare you in the Face:
Stephens prints Heathen Greek, 'tis said,
Which some can't construe, some can't read:
But all that comes from Lintot's Hand
Ev'n Ra---son might understand.
Oft in an Aldus, or a Plantin,
A Page is blotted, or Leaf wanting:
Of Lintot's Books this can't be said,
All fair, and not so much as read.
Their Copy cost 'em not a Penny
To Homer, Virgil, or to any;
They ne'er gave Sixpence for two Lines,
To them, their Heirs, or their Assigns:
But Lintot is at vast Expence,
And pays prodigious dear for—Sense.
Their Books are useful but to few,
A Scholar, or a Wit or two:
Lintot's for gen'ral Use are fit;
For some Folks read, but all Folks sh---.

VERSES Occasion'd by an &c. at the End of Mr. D'Urfy's Name in the Title to one of his Plays.

Jove call'd before him t'other Day
The Vowels, U, O, I, E, A,
All Dipthongs, and all Consonants,
Either of England or of France;
And all that were, or wish'd to be,
Rank'd in the Name of Tom D'Urfy.

Fierce in this Cause, the Letters spoke all,
Liquids grew rough, and Mutes turn'd vocal:
Those four proud Syllables alone
Were silent, which by Fates Decree
Chim'd in so smoothly, one by one,
To the sweet Name of Tom D'Urfy.

N, by whom Names subsist, declar'd,
To have no Place in this was hard:
And Q maintain'd 'twas but his Due
Still to keep Company with U;
So hop'd to stand no less than he
In the great Name of Tom D'Urfy.

E shew'd, a Comma ne'er could claim
A Place in any British Name;
Yet making here a perfect Botch,
Thrusts your poor Vowell from his Notch:
Hiatus mî valde deflendus!
From which good Jupiter defend us!
Sooner I'd quit my Part in thee,
Than be no Part in Tom D'Urfy.

P protested, puff'd, and swore,
He'd not be serv'd so like a Beast;

He was a Piece of Emperor,
And made up half a Pope at least.
C vow'd, he'd frankly have releas'd
His double Share in Cæsar Caius,
For only one in Tom Durfeius.

I, Consonant and Vowel too,
To Jupiter did humbly sue,
That of his Grace he would proclaim
Durfeius his true Latin Name;
For tho' without them both, 'twas clear,
Himself could ne'er be Jupiter;
Yet they'd resign that Post so high,
To be the Genitive, Durfei.

B and L swore Bl--- and W---s
X and Z cry'd, P*x and Z---s
G swore, by G*d, it ne'er should be;
And W would not lose, not he,
An English Letter's Property,
In the great Name of Tom Durfy.

In short, the rest were all in Fray,
From Christcross to Et cætera.
They, tho' but Standers-by too, mutter'd;

Dipthongs, and Tripthongs, swore and stutter'd,
That none had so much Right to be
Part of the Name of stuttering T—
T—Tom—a—as—De—Dur—fe—fy.

Then Jove thus spake: With Care and Pain
We form'd this Name, renown'd in Rhyme;
Not thine, Immortal Neufgermain!
Cost studious Cabalists more Time.
Yet now, as then, you all declare,
Far hence to Egypt you'll repair,
And turn strange Hieroglyphicks there;
Rather than Letters longer be,
Unless i'th' Name of Tom D'Urfy.

Were you all pleas'd, yet what I pray,
To foreign Letters cou'd I say?
What if the Hebrew next should aim
To turn quite backward D'Urfy's Name?
Should the Greek quarrel too, by Styx, I
Cou'd ne'er bring in Psi and Xi;
Omicron and Omega from us
Wou'd each hope to be O in Thomas;
And all th'ambitious Vowels vie,
No less than Pythagorick Y,
To have a Place in Tom D'Urfy.

Then, well-belov'd and trusty Letters!
Cons'nants! and Vowels, (much their betters,)
WE, willing to repair this Breach,
And, all that in us lies, please each;
Et cæt'ra to our Aid must call,
Et cæt'ra represents ye all:
Et cæt'ra therefore, we decree,
Henceforth for ever join'd shall be
To the great Name of Tom Durfy.

I. Adriani morientis ad Animam,

OR, The Heathen to his departing Soul.

Ah fleeting Spirit! wand'ring Fire,
That long hast warm'd my tender Breast,
Must thou no more this Frame inspire?
No more a pleasing, chearful Guest?

Whither, ah whither art thou flying!
To what dark, undiscover'd Shore?
Thou seem'st all trembling, shivr'ing, dying,
And Wit and Humour are no more!

On a LADY who P---st at the TRAGEDY of CATO; Occasion'd by an EPIGRAM on a LADY who wept at it.

While maudlin Whigs deplor'd their Cato's Fate,
Still with dry Eyes the Tory Celia sate,
But while her Pride forbids her Tears to flow,
The gushing Waters find a Vent below:
Tho' secret, yet with copious Grief she mourns,
Like twenty River-Gods with all their Urns.
Let others screw their Hypocritick Face,
She shews her Grief in a sincerer Place;
There Nature reigns, and Passion void of Art,
For that Road leads directly to the Heart.

101

PROLOGUE,

Design'd for Mr. Durfy's last Play.

Grown old in Rhyme, 'twere barbarous to discard
Your persevering, unexhausted Bard:
Damnation follows Death in other Men,
But your damn'd Poet lives and writes again.
Th'advent'rous Lover is successful still,
Who strives to please the Fair against her Will:
Be kind, and make him in his Wishes easy,
Who in your own Despite has strove to please ye.
He scorn'd to borrow from the Wits of yore;
But ever writ, as none e'er writ before.
You modern Wits, should each Man bring his Claim,
Have desperate Debentures on your Fame;
And little wou'd be left you, I'm afraid,
If all your Debts to Greece and Rome were paid.
From his deep Fund our Author largely draws;
Nor sinks his Credit lower than it was.
Tho' Plays for Honour in old Time he made,
'Tis now for better Reasons—to be paid.
Believe him, he has known the World too long,
And seen the Death of much Immortal Song.
He says, poor Poets lost, while Players won,
As Pimps grow rich, while Gallants are undone.
Tho' Tom the Poet writ with Ease and Pleasure,
The Comick Tom abounds in other Treasure.
Fame is at best an unperforming Cheat;
But 'tis substantial Happiness to eat—
Let Ease, his last Request, be of your giving,
Nor force him to be damn'd, to get his Living.

TWO OR THREE;

OR A Receipt to make a Cuckold.

Two or Three Visits, and Two or Three Bows,
Two or Three civil Things, Two or Three Vows,
Two or Three Kisses, with Two or Three Sighs,
Two or Three Jesus's—and let me dyes—
Two or Three Squeezes, and Two or Three Towses,
With Two or Three thousand Pound lost at their Houses,
Can never fail Cuckolding Two or Three Spouses.

106

UPON A Girl of Seven Years old.

Wit's Queen, (if what the Poets sing be true)
And Beauty's Goddess Childhood never knew,
Pallas they say Sprung from the Head of Jove,
Full grown, and from the Sea the Queen of Love;
But had they, Miss, your Wit and Beauty seen,
Venus and Pallas both had Children been.
They, from the Sweetness of that Radiant Look,
A Copy of young Venus might have took:
And from those pretty Things you speak have told,
How Pallas talk'd when she was Seven Years old.

107

To BELINDA on the Rape of the Lock.

Pleas'd in these lines, Belinda, you may view
How things are priz'd, which once belong'd to you:
If on some meaner head this Lock had grown,
The nymph despis'd, the Rape had been unknown.
But what concerns the valiant and the fair,
The Muse asserts as her peculiar care.
Thus Helens Rape and Menelaus' wrong
Became the Subject of great Homer's song;
And, lost in ancient times, the golden fleece
Was rais'd to fame by all the wits of Greece.

Had fate decreed, propitious to your pray'rs,
To give their utmost date to all your hairs;
This Lock, of which late ages now shall tell,
Had dropt like fruit, neglected, when it fell.

108

Nature to your undoing arms mankind
With strength of body, artifice of mind;
But gives your feeble sex, made up of fears,
No guard but virtue, no redress but tears.
Yet custom (seldom to your favour gain'd)
Absolves the virgin when by force constrain'd.
Thus Lucrece lives unblemish'd in her fame,
A bright example of young Tarquin's shame.
Such praise is yours—and such shall you possess,
Your virtue equal, tho' your loss be less.
Then smile Belinda at reproachful tongues,
Still warm our hearts, and still inspire our songs.
But would your charms to distant times extend,
Let Jervas paint them, and let Pope commend.
Who censure most, more precious hairs would lose,
To have the Rape recorded by his Muse.

112

THE THREE gentle SHEPHERDS.

Of gentle Philips will I ever sing,
With gentle Philips shall the Vallies ring.
My Numbers too for ever will I vary,
With gentle Budgell, and with gentle Carey.
Or if in ranging of the Names I judge ill,
With gentle Carey and with gentle Budgell.
Oh! may all gentle Bards together place ye,
Men of good Hearts, and Men of Delicacy.
May Satire ne'er befool ye, or beknave ye,
And from all Wits that have a Knack Gad save ye.

115

VERSES in the SCRIBLERIAN MANNER.

116

I. [Tho the Dean has run from us in manner uncivil]

Tho the Dean has run from us in manner uncivil;
The Doctor, and He that's nam'd next to the Devil,
With Gay, who Petition'd you once on a time,
And Parnell, that would, if he had but a Rhyme.
(That Gay the poor Sec: and that arch Chaplain Parnell,
As Spiritual one, as the other is Carnal),
Forgetting their Interest, now humbly sollicit
You'd at present do nothing but give us a Visit.

A. Pope. T. Parnell Jo: Arbuthnot J. Gay. That all this true is Witness E. Lewis.

117

II. [My Lord, forsake your Politick Utopians]

My Lord, forsake your Politick Utopians,
To sup, like Jove, with blameless Ethiopians

Pope.

III. [The Doctor and Dean, Pope, Parnell and Gay]

The Doctor and Dean, Pope, Parnell and Gay
In manner submissive most humbly do pray,
That your Lordship would once let your Cares all alone
And Climb the dark Stairs to your Friends who have none:
To your Friends who at least have no Cares but to please you
To a good honest Junta that never will teaze you.

From the Doctor's Chamber past eight.

118

IV. [A pox of all Senders]

A pox of all Senders
For any Pretenders
Who tell us these troublesome stories,
In their dull hum-drum key
Of Arma Virumque
Hannoniae qui primus ab oris.

A fig too for H---r
Who prates like his Grand mere
And all his old Friends would rebuke
In spite of the Carle
Give us but our Earle,
And the Devil may take their Duke.

Then come and take part in
The Memoirs of Martin,
Lay by your White Staff and gray Habit,
For trust us, friend Mortimer
Should you live years forty more
Haec olim meminisse juvabit.

by order of ye Club A. Pope J. Gay J. Swift J. Arbuthnot T. Parnel

119

V. [Let not the whigs our tory club rebuke]

Let not the whigs our tory club rebuke;
Give us our earl, the devil take their duke.
Quaedam quae attinent ad Scriblerum,
Want your assistance now to clear 'em.
One day it will be no disgrace,
In scribbler to have had a place.
Come then, my lord, and take your part in
The important history of Martin.

120

VI. [How foolish Men on Expeditions goe!]

How foolish Men on Expeditions goe!
Unweeting Wantons of their wetting Woe!
For drizling Damps descend adown the Plain
And seem a thicker Dew, or thinner Rain;
Yet Dew or Rain may wett us to the Shift,
We'll not be slow to visit Dr. Swift.

IMPROMPTU, To Lady Winchelsea.

Occasion'd by four Satyrical Verses on Women-Wits, in the Rape of the Lock.

In vain you boast Poetic Names of yore,
And cite those Sapho's we admire no more:
Fate doom'd the Fall of ev'ry Female Wit,
But doom'd it then when first Ardelia writ.
Of all Examples by the World confest,
I knew Ardelia could not quote the best;
Who, like her Mistress on Britannia's Throne;
Fights, and subdues in Quarrels not her own.
To write their Praise you but in vain essay;
Ev'n while you write, you take that Praise away:
Light to the Stars the Sun does thus restore,
But shines himself till they are seen no more.

123

To EUSTACE BUDGELL, Esq.

On his Translation of the Characters of THEOPHRASTUS.

Tis rumour'd, Budgell on a time
Writing a Sonnet, cou'd not rhime;
Was he discouragd? no such matter;
He'd write in Prose—To the Spectator.
There too Invention faild of late:
What then? Gad damn him, he'd Translate,
Not Verse, to that he had a Pique—
From French? He scornd it; no, from Greek.
He'd do't; and ne'r stand Shill—I Shall—I,
Ay, and inscribe to Charles Lord Halli—
Our Gallo-Grecian at the last
Has kept his word, Here's Teophraste.
How e're be not too vain, Friend Budgell!
Men of Ill Hearts, you know, will judge ill.
Some flatly say, the Book's as ill done,
As if by Boyer, or by Gildon;
Others opine you only chose ill,
And that this Piece was meant for Ozell.
For me, I think (in spite of Blunders)
You may, with Addison, do wonders.
But faith I fear, some Folks beside
These smart, new Characters supplyd.
The honest Fellow out at Heels
Pray between Friends, was not that Steel's?
The Rustic Lout so like a Brute,
Was Philips's beyond Dispute.
And the fond Fop so clean contrary,
Tis plain, tis very plain, was Cary.
Howe're, the Coxcomb's thy own Merit,
That thou hast done, with Life and Spirit.

127

To a LADY with the Temple of Fame.

What's Fame with Men, by Custom of the Nation,
Is call'd in Women only Reputation:
About them both why keep we such a pother?
Part you with one, and I'll renounce the other.

128

A Farewell to LONDON.

In the Year 1715.

Dear, damn'd, distracting Town, farewell!
Thy Fools no more I'll teize:
This Year in Peace, ye Critics, dwell,
Ye Harlots, sleep at Ease!

Soft B*** and rough C***s, adieu!
Earl Warwick make your Moan,
The lively H****k and you
May knock up Whores alone.

To drink and droll be Rowe allow'd
Till the third watchman toll;
Let Jervase gratis paint, and Frowd
Save Three-pence, and his Soul.

129

Farewell Arbuthnot's Raillery
On every learned Sot;
And Garth, the best good Christian he,
Altho' he knows it not.

Lintot, farewell! thy Bard must go;
Farewell, unhappy Tonson!
Heaven gives thee for thy Loss of Rowe,
Lean Philips, and fat Johnson.

Why should I stay? Both Parties rage;
My vixen Mistress squalls;
The Wits in envious Feuds engage;
And Homer (damn him!) calls.

The Love of Arts lies cold and dead
In Hallifax's Urn;
And not one Muse of all he fed,
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****ll is a Jade.

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,
Deep Whimsies to contrive;
The gayest Valetudinaire,
Most thinking Rake alive.

130

Solicitous for others Ends,
Tho' fond of dear Repose;
Careless or drowsy with my Friends,
And frolick with my Foes.

Laborious Lobster-nights, farewell!
For sober, studious Days;
And Burlington's delicious Meal,
For Sallads, Tarts, and Pease!

Adieu to all but Gay alone,
Whose Soul, sincere and free,
Loves all Mankind, but flatters none,
And so may starve with me.

132

Four Poems from A KEY to the LOCK.

133

I. To my much Honoured and Esteemed Friend, Mr. E. Barnivelt, Author of the Key to the Lock. An Anagram and Acrostick. By N. Castleton, A Well-willer to the Coalition of Parties.

BARNIVELT. Anagram, UN BAREL IT.

Barrels conceal the Liquor they contain,
And Sculls are but the Barrels of the Brain.
Ripe Politicks the Nation's Barrel fill,
None can like thee its Fermentation still.
Ingenious Writer, lest thy Barrel split,
Vnbarrel thy just Sense, and broach thy Wit.
Extract from Tory Barrels all French Juice,
Let not the Whigs Geneva's Stumm infuse,
Then shall thy Barrel be of gen'ral Use.

N. CASTLETON.

134

II. To the Ingenious Mr. E. Barnivelt.

Hail, dear Collegiate, Fellow-Operator,
Censor of Tories, President of Satyr,
Whose fragrant Wit revives, as one may say,
The stupid World, like Assa fetida.
How safe must be the King upon his Throne,
When Barnivelt no Faction lets alone.
Of secret Jesuits swift shall be the Doom,
Thy Pestle braining all the Sons of Rome.
Before thy Pen vanish the Nation's Ills,
As all Diseases fly before thy Pills.
Such Sheets as these, whate'er be the Disaster,
Well spread with Sense, shall be the Nation's Plaister.

HIGH GERMAN DOCTOR.

III. To my Ingenious Friend, the Author of the Key to the Lock.

Tho' many a Wit from time to time has rose
T'inform the World of what it better knows,
Yet 'tis a Praise that few their own can call,
To tell Men things they never knew at all.
This was reserv'd, Great Barnivelt, for Thee,
To save this Land from dangerous Mystery.
But thou too gently hast laid on thy Satyr;
What awes the World is Envy and ill Nature.
Can Popish Writings do the Nations good?
Each Drop of Ink demands a Drop of Blood.

135

A Papist wear the Lawrel! is it fit?
O Button! summon all thy Sons of Wit!
Join in the common Cause e'er 'tis too late;
Rack your Inventions some, and some in time translate.
If all this fail, let Faggot, Cart, and Rope,
Revenge our Wits and Statesmen on a Pope.

The GRUMBLER.

IV. To the most Learned Pharmacopolitan, and Excellent Politician, Mr. Esdras Barnivelt.

By Sir JAMES BAKER, Knt.

The Spaniard hides his Ponyard in his Cloke,
The Papist masques his Treason in a Joke;
But ev'n as Coughs thy Spanish Liquorish heals,
So thy deep Knowledge dark Designs reveals.

136

Oh had I been Ambassador created,
Thy Works in Spanish shou'd have been translated,
Thy Politicks should ope the Eyes of Spain,
And, like true Sevil Snuff, awake the Brain.
Go on, Great Wit, contemn thy Foe's Bravado,
In thy defence I'll draw Toledo's Spado.
Knighthoods on those have been conferr'd of late,
Who save our Eyesight, or wou'd save our State,
Unenvy'd Titles grace our mighty Names,
The learn'd Sir William, or the deep Sir James.
Still may those Honours be as justly dealt,
And thou be stil'd Sir Esdras Barnivelt.

JAMES BAKER, Knt.

137

CHARACTERS

140

II. UMBRA.

Close to the best known Author, Umbra sits,
The constant Index to all Button's Wits.
Who's here? cries Umbra: “Only Johnson”—Oh!
Your Slave, and exit; but returns with Rowe,
Dear Rowe, lets sit and talk of Tragedies:
Not long, Pope enters, and to Pope he flies.
Then up comes Steele; he turns upon his Heel,
And in a Moment fastens upon Steele.
But cries as soon, Dear Dick, I must be gone,
For, if I know his Tread, here's Addison.
Says Addison to Steele, 'Tis Time to go.
Pope to the Closet steps aside with Rowe.
Poor Umbra, left in this abandon'd Pickle,
E'en sits him down, and writes to honest T---.

Fool! 'tis in vain from Wit to Wit to roam;
Know, Sense, like Charity, begins at Home.

142

III. ATTICUS.

Quod Te Roma legit, Rumpitur Invidia!

If meagre Gildon draws his venal quill,
I wish the Man a Dinner, and sit still;
If D---s rhymes, and raves in furious Fret,
I'll answer D---s, when I am in debt:
Hunger, not Malice, makes such Authors print,
And who'l wage War with Bedlam or the Mint?
But were there One whom better Stars conspire
To bless, whom Titan touch'd with purer Fire,
Who born with Talents, bred in Arts to please,
Was form'd to write, converse, and live, with ease:
Should such a man, too fond to rule alone,

143

Bear, like the Turk, no Brother near the Throne;
View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes,
And hate, for Arts that caus'd himself to rise;
Damn with faint praise, assent with civil Leer,
And without sneering, teach the rest to sneer;
Or pleas'd to wound, and yet afraid to strike,
Just hint a Fault, and hesitate Dislike;
Alike reserv'd to blame or to commend,
A tim'rous Foe and a suspitious Friend:
Fearing ev'n Fools, by Flatterers besieg'd;
And so obliging, that he ne'r oblig'd:
Who when two Wits on rival themes contest,
Approves them both, but likes the worst the best:
Like Cato, gives his little Senate Laws,
And sits attentive to his own Applause;
While Fops and Templars ev'ry Sentence raise,
And wonder with a foolish Face of Praise:
What pity, Heav'n! if such a Man there be?
Who would not weep, if A---n were He?

145

THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER.

DEO OPT. MAX.

Father of All! in every Age,
In every Clime ador'd,
By Saint, by Savage, and by Sage,
Jehovah, Jove, or Lord!

146

Thou Great First Cause, least understood!
Who all my Sense confin'd
To know but this,—that Thou art Good,
And that my self am blind:

Yet gave me, in this dark Estate,
To see the Good from Ill;
And binding Nature fast in Fate,
Left free the Human Will.

What Conscience dictates to be done,
Or warns me not to doe,
This, teach me more than Hell to shun,
That, more than Heav'n pursue.

What Blessings thy free Bounty gives,
Let me not cast away;
For God is pay'd when Man receives,
T'enjoy, is to obey.

147

Yet not to Earth's contracted Span,
Thy Goodness let me bound;
Or think Thee Lord alone of Man,
When thousand Worlds are round.

Let not this weak, unknowing hand
Presume Thy Bolts to throw,
And deal Damnation round the land,
On each I judge thy Foe.

If I am right, oh teach my heart
Still in the right to stay;
If I am wrong, Thy Grace impart
To find that better Way.

148

Save me alike from foolish Pride,
Or impious Discontent,
At ought thy Wisdom has deny'd,
Or ought thy Goodness lent.

Teach me to feel another's Woe;
To hide the Fault I see;
That Mercy I to others show,
That Mercy show to me.

Mean tho' I am, not wholly so
Since quicken'd by thy Breath,
O lead me wheresoe'er I go,
Thro' this day's Life, or Death:

This day, be Bread and Peace my Lot;
All else beneath the Sun,
Thou know'st if best bestow'd, or not;
And let Thy Will be done.

To Thee, whose Temple is all Space,
Whose Altar, Earth, Sea, Skies;
One Chorus let all Being raise!
All Nature's Incence rise!

161

To Mr. John Moore,

Author of the Celebrated Worm-Powder.

How much, egregious Moor, are we
Deceiv'd by Shews and Forms!
Whate'er we think, whate'er we see,
All Humankind are Worms.

Man is a very Worm by Birth,
Vile Reptile, weak, and vain!
A while he crawls upon the Earth,
Then shrinks to Earth again.

That Woman is a Worm we find,
E'er since our Grandame's Evil;
She first convers'd with her own Kind,
That antient Worm, the Devil.

The Learn'd themselves we Book-Worms name;
The Blockhead is a Slow-worm;
The Nymph whose Tail is all on Flame
Is aptly term'd a Glow-worm:

The Fops are painted Butterflies,
That flutter for a Day;

162

First from a Worm they take their Rise,
And in a Worm decay:

The Flatterer an Earwig grows;
Thus Worms suit all Conditions;
Misers are Muckworms, Silk-worms Beaus,
And Death-watches Physicians.

That Statesmen have the Worm, is seen
By all their winding Play;
Their Conscience is a Worm within,
That gnaws them Night and Day.

Ah Moore! thy Skill were well employ'd,
And greater Gain would rise,
If thou could'st make the Courtier void
The Worm that never dies!

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 can'st adjourn
Some few short Years, no more!
Ev'n Button's Wits to Worms shall turn,
Who Maggots were before.

164

A Roman Catholick Version OF THE FIRST PSALM,

For the Use of a YOUNG LADY

The Maid is Blest that will not hear
Of Masquerading Tricks,
Nor lends to Wanton Songs an Ear,
Nor Sighs for Coach and Six.

To Please her shall her Husband strive
With all his Main and Might,
And in her Love shall Exercise
Himself both Day and Night.

She shall bring forth most Pleasant Fruit,
He Flourish still and Stand,
Ev'n so all Things shall prosper well,
That this Maid takes in Hand.

165

No wicked Whores shall have such Luck
Who follow their own Wills,
But Purg'd shall be to Skin and Bone,
With Mercury and Pills.

For why? the Pure and Cleanly Maids
Shall All, good Husbands gain:
But filthy and uncleanly Jades
Shall Rot in Drury-Lane.

166

IMITATION OF MARTIAL,

Book 10, Epig. 23.

Jam numerat placido felix Antonius ævo, &c.

At length my Friend (while Time, with still career,
Wafts on his gentle wing his eightieth year)
Sees his past days safe out of fortune's pow'r,
Nor dreads approaching fate's uncertain hour;
Reviews his life, and in the strict survey
Finds not one moment he cou'd wish away,
Pleas'd with the series of each happy day.
Such, such a man extends his life's short space,

167

And from the goal again renews the race;
For he lives twice, who can at once employ
The present well, and ev'n the past enjoy.

168

Written over a Study; out of Maynard.

In English for Sir W. Trumbull.

Tir'd with vain hopes, and with complaints as vain,
Of anxious love's alternate joy and pain,
Inconstant fortune's favour and her hate,
And unperforming friendships of the great;
Here both contented and resign'd, I lye;
Here learn to live; nor wish, nor fear to die.

170

SANDYS's GHOST:

Or A Proper New BALLAD on the New OVID's METAMORPHOSIS:

As it was intended to be Translated by Persons of Quality.

Ye Lords and Commons, Men of Wit
And Pleasure about Town;
Read this, e'er you translate one Bit
Of Books of high Renown.

171

Beware of Latin Authors all!
Nor think your Verses Sterling,
Tho' with a Golden Pen you scrawl,
And scribble in a Berlin:

For not the Desk with silver Nails,
Nor Bureau of Expence,
Nor Standish well japan'd, avails
To writing of good Sense.

Hear how a Ghost in dead of Night,
With saucer Eyes of Fire,
In woful wise did sore affright
A Wit and courtly 'Squire.

Rare Imp of Phœbus, hopeful Youth!
Like Puppy tame that uses
To fetch and carry, in his Mouth,
The Works of all the Muses.

Ah! why did he write Poetry,
That hereto was so civil;
And sell his Soul for Vanity,
To Rhyming and the Devil?

A Desk he had of curious Work,
With glitt'ring Studs about;
Within the same did Sandys lurk,
Tho' Ovid lay without.

172

Now as he scratch'd to fetch up Thought,
Forth popp'd the Sprite so thin;
And from the Key-Hole bolted out,
All upright as a Pin,

With Whiskers, Band, and Pantaloon,
And Ruff compos'd most duly;
This 'Squire he dropp'd his Pen full soon,
While as the Light burnt bluely.

Ho! Master Sam, quoth Sandys' Sprite,
Write on, nor let me scare ye;
Forsooth, if Rhymes fall in not right,
To Budgel seek, or Carey.

I hear the Beat of Jacob's Drums,
Poor Ovid finds no Quarter!
See first the merry P--- comes
In haste, without his Garter.

Then Lords and Lordings, 'Squires and Knights,
Wits, Witlings, Prigs, and Peers;
Garth at St James's, and at White's,
Beats up for Volunteers.

173

What Fenton will not do, nor Gay,
Nor Congreve, Rowe, nor Stanyan,
Tom B---n*t or Tom D'Urfy may,
John Dunton, Steel, or any one.

If Justice Philip's costive Head
Some frigid Rhymes disburses;
They shall like Persian Tales be read,
And glad both Babes and Nurses.

Let W*rw*k's Muse with Ash---t join,
And Ozel's with Lord Hervey's:
Tickell and Addison combine,
And P*pe translate with Jervis.

L--- himself, that lively Lord
Who bows to ev'ry Lady,
Shall join with F--- in one Accord,
And be like Tate and Brady.

Ye Ladies too draw forth your Pen,
I pray where can the Hurt lie?
Since you have Brains as well as Men,
As witness Lady W---l*y.

174

Now, Tonson, list thy Forces all,
Review them, and tell Noses;
For to poor Ovid shall befal
A strange Metamorphosis.

A Metamorphosis more strange
Than all his Books can vapour;
“To what, (quoth 'Squire) shall Ovid change?”
Quoth Sandys: To Waste-Paper.

177

EPIGRAM.

On the Toasts of the Kit-Cat Club, Anno 1716.

Whence deathless Kit-Cat took its Name,
Few Criticks can unriddle;
Some say from Pastry Cook it came,
And some from Cat and Fiddle.
From no trim Beau's its Name it boasts,
Gray Statesman, or green Wits;
But from this Pell-mell-Pack of Toasts,
Of old Cats and young Kits.

178

PROLOGUE TO THE Three Hours after Marriage.

Authors are judg'd by strange capricious Rules,
The Great Ones are thought mad, the Small Ones Fools:
Yet sure the Best are most severely fated,
For Fools are only laugh'd at, Wits are hated.
Blockheads with Reason Men of Sense abhor;
But Fool 'gainst Fool, is barb'rous Civil War.
Why on all Authors then should Criticks fall?
Since some have writ, and shewn no Wit at all.
Condemn a Play of theirs, and they evade it,
Cry, damn not us, but damn the French who made it,
By running Goods, these graceless Owlers gain,
Theirs are the Rules of France, the Plots of Spain:
But Wit, like Wine, from happier Climates brought,
Dash'd by these Rogues, turns English common Draught:
They pall Moliere's and Lopez sprightly strain,
And teach dull Harlequins to grin in vain.
How shall our Author hope a gentler Fate,
Who dares most impudently—not translate.
It had been civil in these ticklish Times,
To fetch his Fools and Knaves from foreign Climes;
Spaniard and French abuse to the World's End,
But spare old England, lest you hurt a Friend.
If any Fool is by our Satyr bit,
Let him hiss loud, to show you all—he's hit.
Poets make Characters, as Salesmen Cloaths,
We take no Measure of your Fops and Beaus;
But here all Sizes and all Shapes you meet,
And fit your selves—like Chaps in Monmouth-Street.

Gallants look here, this Fool's-Cap has an Air—

179

Goodly and smart,—with Ears of Issachar.
Let no One Fool engross it, or confine:
A common Blessing! now 'tis yours, now mine.
But Poets in all Ages, had the Care
To keep this Cap, for such as will, to wear;
Our Author has it now, for ev'ry Wit
Of Course resign'd it to the next that writ:
And thus upon the Stage 'tis fairly thrown,
Let him that takes it, wear it as his own.

Shews a Cap with Ears.

Flings down the Cap and Exit.

180

THE COURT BALLAD.
[_]

To the Tune of “To all you Ladies now at Land,” &c.

To one fair Lady out of court
And two fair Ladies in
Who think the Turk and Pope a sport
And Wit and Love no Sin,
Come these soft lines, with nothing Stiff in
To B---n L---ll and G---n
With a fa.

181

What passes in the dark third row
And what behind the Scene,
Couches and crippled Chairs I know,
And Garrets hung with green;
I know the Swing of sinful Hack,
Where many a Damsel cries oh lack.
With a fa.

Then why to court should I repair
Where's such ado with Townsend.
To hear each mortal stamp and swear
And ev'ry speech in Z---nds end,
To hear 'em rail at honest Sunderland
And rashly blame the realm of Blunderland.
With a fa.

Alas, like Shutz I cannot pun
Like C---n court the Germans
Tell P---g how slim she's grown
Like M---s run to sermons,
To court ambitious men may roam,
But I and M---o' stay at home.
With a fa.

182

In truth by what I can discern,
Of Courtiers from you Three,
Some Wit you have and more may learn,
From Court than Gay or me,
Perhaps in time you'll leave High Diet,
And Sup with us on Mirth or Quiet,
With a fa.

In Leister fields, in house full nigh,
With door all painted green,
Where Ribbans wave upon the tye,
(A Milliner's I ween)
There may you meet us, three to three,
For Gay can well make two of me.
With a fa.

But shou'd you catch the Prudish itch,
And each become a coward,
Bring sometimes with you Lady R---
And sometimes Mistress H---d,
For Virgins, to keep chaste, must go
Abroad with such as are not so.
With a fa.

183

And thus fair Maids, my ballad ends,
God send the K. safe landing,
And make all honest ladies friends,
To Armies that are Standing.
Preserve the Limits of these nations,
And take off Ladies Limitations.
With a fa.

185

EPIGRAMS, Occasion'd by An Invitation to Court.

I. [In the Lines that you sent, are the Muses and Graces]

In the Lines that you sent, are the Muses and Graces;
You have the Nine in your Wit, and Three in your Faces.

II. [They may talk of the Goddesses in Ida Vales]

They may talk of the Goddesses in Ida Vales,
But you show your Wit, whereas they show'd their Tails.

III. [You B---n---ne, G---ff---n, and little La P---ll]

You B---n---ne, G---ff---n, and little La P---ll,
By G---d you all lie like the D---l in Hell;
To say that at Court there's a Dearth of all Wit,
And send what A---le, would he write, might have writ.

186

IV. [Adam had fallen twice, if for an apple]

Adam had fallen twice, if for an apple
The D---l had brought him B---n---ne and La P---ll.

V. [On Sunday at Six, in the Street that's call'd Gerrard]

On Sunday at Six, in the Street that's call'd Gerrard,
You may meet the Two Champions who are no Lord S---d.

VI. [They say A---'s a Wit, for what?]

They say A---'s a Wit, for what?
For writing? no,—for writing not.

189

VERSES Sent to Mrs. T. B. with his Works.

By an Author.

This Book, which, like its Author, You
By the bare Outside only knew,
(Whatever was in either Good,
Not look'd in, or, not understood)
Comes, as the Writer did too long,
To be about you, right or wrong;
Neglected on your Chair to lie,
Nor raise a Thought, nor draw an Eye;
In peevish Fits to have you say,
See there! you're always in my Way!
Or, if your Slave you think to bless,
I like this Colour, I profess!

190

That Red is charming all will hold,
I ever lov'd it—next to Gold.

Can Book, or Man, more Praise obtain?
What more could G---ge or S---te gain?

Sillier than G*ld*n cou'dst thou be,
Nay, did all J---c---b breath in thee,
She keeps thee, Book! I'll lay my Head,
What? throw away a Fool in Red:
No, trust the Sex's sacred Rule;
The gaudy Dress will save the Fool.

192

The PRAYER of BRUTUS.

Goddess of Woods, tremendous in the chace,
To Mountain-wolves and all the Savage race,
Wide o'er th'aerial Vault extends thy sway,
And o'er th'infernal Regions void of day,
On thy third Reign look down; disclose our Fate,
In what new Nation shall we fix our Seat?
When shall we next thy hallow'd Altars raise,
And Quires of Virgins celebrate thy praise?

194

A HYMN Written in WINDSOR Forest.

All hail! once pleasing, once inspiring Shade,
Scene of my youthful Loves, and happier hours!
Where the kind Muses met me as I stray'd,
And gently pressd my hand, and said, Be Ours!—
Take all thou e're shalt have, a constant Muse:
At Court thou may'st be lik'd, but nothing gain;
Stocks thou may'st buy and sell, but always lose;
And love the brightest eyes, but love in vain!

195

LINES to Lord BATHURST.

A wood? quoth Lewis; and with that,
He laughd, and shook his Sides so fat:
His tongue (with Eye that markd his cunning)
Thus fell a reas'ning, not a running.

Woods are (not to be too prolix)
Collective Bodies of strait Sticks.
It is, my Lord, a meer Conundrum
To call things Woods, for what grows und'r 'em.
For Shrubs, when nothing else at top is,
Can only constitute a Coppice.
But if you will not take my word,
See Anno quart. of Edward, third.
And that they're Coppice calld, when dock'd,
Witness Ann. prim. of Henry Oct.

If this a Wood you will maintain
Meerly because it is no Plain;
Holland (for all that I can see)
Might e'en as well be termd the Sea;
And C---by be fair harangu'd
An honest Man, because not hang'd.

196

VERSES in the SCRIBLERIAN Manner.

To the Rt. Honble. the Earl of OXFORD.

One that should be a Saint,
and one that's a Sinner,
And one that pays reckning
but ne'r eats a Dinner,
In short Pope and Gay (as
you'l see in the margin)
Who saw you in Tower, and since
your enlarging,
And Parnell who saw you not since
you did treat him,
Will venture it now—you have
no Stick to beat him—

197

Since these for your Jury, good
and true men, vous-avez;
Pray grant Us Admittance,
and shut out Miles Davies.

THREE EPITAPHS On John Hewet and Sarah Drew .

I. [When Eastern lovers feed the fun'ral fire]

When Eastern lovers feed the fun'ral fire,
On the same pile the faithful fair expire;
Here pitying heav'n that virtue mutual found,
And blasted both, that it might neither wound.

198

Hearts so sincere th'Almighty saw well pleas'd,
Sent his own lightning, and the Victims seiz'd.

199

II. EPITAPH On John Hewet and Sarah Drew .

In the Churchyard at Stanton Harcourt.

NEAR THIS PLACE LIE THE BODIES OF JOHN HEWET and SARAH DREW AN INDUSTRIOUS YOUNG MAN, AND VIRTUOUS MAIDEN OF THIS PARISH; CONTRACTED IN MARRIAGE WHO BEING WITH MANY OTHERS AT HARVEST WORK, WERE BOTH IN AN INSTANT KILLED BY LIGHTNING ON THE LAST DAY OF JULY 1718.

Think not by rigorous judgment seiz'd,
A pair so faithful could expire;
Victims so pure Heav'n saw well pleas'd
And snatch'd them in Cœlestial fire.

Live well and fear no sudden fate;
When God calls Virtue to the grave,
Alike tis Justice, soon or late,
Mercy alike to kill or save.

Virtue unmov'd can hear the Call,
And face the Flash that melts the Ball.

201

III. EPITAPH On the Stanton-Harcourt Lovers.

Here lye two poor Lovers, who had the mishap
Tho very chaste people, to die of a Clap.

ANSWER to Mrs. HOWE

What is Prudery?

'Tis a Beldam,
Seen with Wit and Beauty seldom.
'Tis a fear that starts at shadows.
'Tis, (no, 'tisn't) like Miss Meadows.
'Tis a Virgin hard of Feature,
Old, and void of all good-nature;
Lean and fretful; would seem wise;
Yet plays the fool before she dies.
'Tis an ugly envious Shrew,
That rails at dear Lepell and You.

211

A DIALOGUE.

Pope.
Since my old Friend is grown so great,
As to be Minister of State,
I'm told (but 'tis not true I hope)
That Craggs will be asham'd of Pope.

Craggs.
Alas! if I am such a Creature,
To grow the worse for growing greater;
Why Faith, in Spite of all my Brags,
'Tis Pope must be asham'd of Craggs.

On Lady Mary Wortley Montagu's Portrait.

The play full smiles around the dimpled mouth
That happy air of Majesty and Youth.
So would I draw (but oh, 'tis vain to try
My narrow Genius does the power deny)
The Equal Lustre of the Heavenly mind

212

Where every grace with every Virtue's join'd
Learning not vain, and wisdom not severe
With Greatness easy, and with wit sincere.
With Just Description shew the Soul Divine
And the whole Princesse in my work should shine.

TO Sir Godfrey Kneller,

On his painting for me the Statues of Apollo, Venus, and Hercules.

What God, what Genius did the Pencil move
When Kneller painted These?
Twas Friendship—warm as Phœbus, kind as Love,
And strong as Hercules.

214

In behalf of Mr. SOUTHERNE. To the Duke of ARGYLE.

EPIGRAM.

Argyle his Praise, when Southerne wrote,
First struck out this, and then that Thought;
Said this was Flatt'ry, that a Fault.
How shall your Bard contrive?

My Lord, consider what you do,
He'll lose his Pains and Verses too;
For if these Praises fit not You,
They'll fit no Man alive.

215

Lines from ACIS and GALATEA.

I. AIR.

The Flocks shall leave the Mountains,
The Woods the Turtle-Dove,
The Nymphs forsake the Fountains
Ere I forsake my Love.

Not Showers to Larks so pleasing,
Nor Sunshine to the Bee;
Nor Sleep to Toil so easing
As these dear Smiles to me.

216

II. CHORUS

Wretched Lovers, Fate has past
This sad Decree, no Joy shall last.
Wretched Lovers, quit your Dream,
Behold the Monster, Polypheme.
See what ample Strides he takes,
The Mountain nods, the Forest shakes,
The Waves run frighted to the Shores.
Hark! how the thund'ring Giant roars.

217

DUKE upon DUKE.

An excellent new Ballad. To the Tune of Chevy Chase.

To Lordings proud I tune my Lay,
Who feast in Bower or Hall:
Though Dukes they be, to Dukes I say,
That Pride will have a Fall.

218

Now, that this same it is right sooth,
Full plainly doth appear,
From what befel John Duke of Guise,
And Nic. of Lancastere.

When Richard Cœur de Lyon reign'd,
(Which means a Lion's Heart)
Like him his Barons rag'd and roar'd,
Each play'd a Lion's Part.

A Word and Blow was then enough,
(Such Honour did them prick)
If you but turn'd your Cheek, a Cuff,
And if your A---se, a Kick.

Look in their Face, they tweak'd your Nose,
At ev'ry Turn fell to 't;
Come near, they trod upon your Toes;
They fought from Head to Foot.

Of these, the Duke of Lancastere
Stood Paramount in Pride;
He kick'd, and cuff'd, and tweak'd, and trod
His Foes, and Friends beside.

Firm on his Front his Beaver sate,
So broad, it hid his Chin;
For why? he deem'd no Man his Mate,
And fear'd to tan his Skin.

With Spanish Wool he dy'd his Cheek,
With Essence oil'd his Hair;
No Vixen Civet-Cat so sweet,
Nor could so scratch and tear.

219

Right tall he made himself to show,
Though made full short by G---d:
And when all other Dukes did bow,
This Duke did only nod.

Yet courteous, blithe, and debonair,
To Guise's Duke was he;
Was never such a loving Pair,
How could they disagree?

Oh, thus it was. He lov'd him dear,
And cast how to requite him:
And having no Friend left but this,
He deem'd it meet to fight him.

Forthwith he drench'd his desp'rate Quill;
And thus he did indite:
“This Eve at Whisk ourself will play,
“Sir Duke! be here to Night.”

Ah no, ah no, the guileless Guise
Demurely did reply,
I cannot go, nor yet can stand,
So sore the Gout have I.

The Duke in Wrath call'd for his Steeds,
And fiercely drove them on;
Lord! Lord! how rattl'd then thy Stones,
Oh Kingly Kensington!

All in a Trice he rush'd on Guise,
Thrust out his Lady dear,
He tweak'd his Nose, trod on his Toes,
And smote him on the Ear.

220

But mark, how 'midst of Victory,
Fate plays her old Dog Trick!
Up leap'd Duke John, and knock'd him down,
And so down fell Duke Nic.

Alas, oh Nic! Oh Nic. alas!
Right did thy Gossip call thee:
As who should say, alas the Day,
When John of Guise shall maul thee.

For on thee did he clap his Chair,
And on that Chair did sit;
And look'd, as if he meant therein
To do—what was not fit.

Up didst thou look, oh woeful Duke!
Thy Mouth yet durst not ope,
Certes for fear, of finding there
A T---d instead of Trope.

“Lye there, thou Caitiff vile! quoth Guise,
“No Sheet is here to save thee:
“The Casement it is shut likewise;
“Beneath my Feet I have thee.

“If thou hast ought to speak, speak out.”
Then Lancaster did cry,
“Know'st thou not me, nor yet thy self?
“Who thou, and whom am I?

“Know'st thou not me, who (God be prais'd)
“Have brawl'd, and quarrel'd more,
“Than all the Line of Lancastere
“That battl'd heretofore?

221

“In Senates fam'd for many a Speech,
“And (what some awe must give ye,
“Tho' laid thus low beneath thy breech,)
“Still of the Council Privy.

“Still of the Dutchy Chancellor,
“Durante Life I have it;
“And turn, as now thou dost on me,
“Mine A---e on them that gave it.”

But now the Servants they rush'd in;
And Duke Nic. up leap'd he:
I will not cope against such odds,
But, Guise! I'll fight with thee:

To-morrow with thee will I fight
Under the Greenwood Tree;
“No, not to-morrow, but to night
“(Quoth Guise) I'll fight with thee.”

And now the Sun declining low
Bestreak'd with Blood the Skies;
When, with his Sword at Saddle Bow,
Rode forth the valiant Guise;

Full gently praunch'd he o'er the Lawn;
Oft' roll'd his Eyes around,
And from the Stirrup stretch'd, to find
Who was not to be found.

Long brandish'd he the Blade in Air,
Long look'd the Field all o'er:
At length he spy'd the Merry-men brown,
And eke the Coach and four.

222

From out the Boot bold Nicholas
Did wave his Wand so white,
As pointing out the gloomy Glade
Wherein he meant to fight.

All in that dreadful Hour, so calm
Was Lancastere to see,
As if he meant to take the Air,
Or only take a Fee.

And so he did—for to New Court
His rowling Wheels did run:
Not that he shunn'd the doubtful Strife,
But Bus'ness must be done.

Back in the Dark, by Brompton Park,
He turn'd up through the Gore;
So slunk to Cambden House so high,
All in his Coach and four.

Mean while Duke Guise did fret and fume,
A Sight it was to see;
Benumm'd beneath the Evening Dew,
Under the Greenwood Tree.

Then, wet and weary, home he far'd,
Sore mutt'ring all the way,
“The Day I meet him, Nic. shall rue
“The Cudgel of that Day.

223

“Mean Time on every Pissing-Post
“Paste we this Recreant's Name,
“So that each Pisser-by shall read,
“And piss against the same.

Now God preserve our gracious King!
And grant, his Nobles all
May learn this Lesson from Duke Nic.
That Pride will have a Fall.

224

An Inscription upon a Punch-Bowl, in the South-Sea Year for a Club, chas'd withJupiter placing Callista in the Skies & Europa with the Bull.

Come, fill the South-Sea Goblet full;
The Gods shall of our Stock take care:
Europa pleas'd accepts the Bull,
And Jove with Joy puts off the Bear.

225

To Mr. GAY,

Who wrote him a congratulatory Letter on the finishing his House.

Ah friend, 'tis true—this truth you lovers know—
In vain my structures rise, my gardens grow,
In vain fair Thames reflects the double scenes
Of hanging mountains, and of sloping greens:
Joy lives not here; to happier seats it flies,
And only dwells where Wortley casts her eyes.

What are the gay parterre, the chequer'd shade,
The morning bower, the ev'ning colonade,
But soft recesses of uneasy minds,
To sigh unheard in, to the passing winds?

226

So the struck deer in some sequester'd part
Lies down to die, the arrow at his heart;
There, stretch'd unseen in coverts hid from day,
Bleeds drop by drop, and pants his life away.

228

COUPLETS & VERSICLES 1711–1720

229

I. LINES

On Coffee.

As long as Moco's happy Tree shall grow,
While Berries crackle, or while Mills shall go;
While smoking Streams from Silver Spouts shall glide,
Or China's Earth receive the sable Tyde;
While Coffee shall to British Nymphs be dear;
While fragrant Steams the bended Head shall chear;
Or grateful Bitters shall delight the Tast;
So long her Honour, Name, and Praise shall last!

230

II. LINES.

On Writing a Tragedy.

Tell me, by all the melting joys of Love,
By the warm Transports and entrancing Languors,
By the soft Fannings of the wafting Sheets,
By the dear Tremblings of the Bed of Bliss;
By all these tender Adjurations tell me,
—Am I not fit to write a Tragedy?

III. COUPLET.

Jove was alike to Latian and to Phrygian,
For you well know, that Wit's of no Religion.

231

IV. Inscription.

Martha Blount; A: P:

Each pretty Carecter with pleasing Smart
Deepens the dear Idea in my heart.

V. A Winter Piece.

As when the freezing blasts of Boreas blow,
And scatter ore the Fields the driving Snow,
From dusky Clowds the fleecy Winter flyes,
Whose dazling Lustre whitens all the Skies.

232

VI. Lines suppressed at the End of the Epistle—

To Miss Blount, on leaving the Town, &c.

In this strange Town a different Course we take,
Refine ourselves to Spirit, for your Sake.
For Want of you, we spend our random Wit on
The first we find with Needham, Brooks, or Briton.
Hackney'd in Sin, we beat about the Town,
And like sure Spaniels, at first Scent lie down.
Were Virtue's self in Silks,—faith keep away!
Or Virtue's Virtue scarce would last a Day.

Thus, Madam, most Men talk, and some Men do:
The rest is told you in a Line or two.
Some strangely wonder you're not fond to marry—
A double Jest still pleases sweet Sir Harry—
Small-Pox is rife, and Gay in dreadful fear—
The good Priests whisper—Where's the Chevalier?
Much in your Absence B---'s Heart endures,
And if poor Pope is cl*pt, the Fault is yours.

233

VII. Lines from Horace III. iv.

While yet a Child, I chanc'd to stray,
And in a Desart sleeping lay;
The savage Race withdrew, nor dar'd
To touch the Muses future Bard:
But Cytheræa's gentle Dove
Myrtles and Bays around me spread,
And crown'd your Infant Poet's Head,
Sacred to Musick and to Love.

VIII. EPITAPH

On P. P. Clerk of the Parish, said to be written by himself.

O reader, if that thou canst read,
Look down upon this Stone;
Do all we can, Death is a Man
That never spareth none.

234

IX. Couplets on Wit.

i.

But our Great Turks in wit must reign alone
And ill can bear a Brother on the Throne.

ii.

Wit is like faith by such warm Fools profest
Who to be savd by one, must damn the rest.

iii.

Some who grow dull religious strait commence
And gain in morals what they lose in sence.

235

iv.

Wits starve as useless to a Common weal
While Fools have places purely for their Zeal.

v.

Now wits gain praise by copying other wits
As one Hog lives on what another sh---.

vi.

Woud you your writings to some Palates fit
Purge all your verses from the sin of wit
For authors now are so conceited grown
They praise no works but what are like their own

236

X. Lines on Curll .

So when Curll's Stomach the strong Drench o'ercame,
(Infus'd in Vengeance of insulted Fame)
Th'Avenger sees, with a delighted Eye,
His long Jaws open, and his Colour fly;
And while his Guts the keen Emeticks urge,
Smiles on the Vomit, and enjoys the Purge.

XI. Imitation of Tibullus .

(Lib. 1. Eleg. iv.)

Here stopt by hasty Death, Alexis lies,
Who crost half Europe, led by Wortley's eyes!

237

XII. Lines on Mr. Hatton 's Clocks.

From hour to hour melodiously they chime
With silver sounds, and sweetly tune out time.

244

To Mrs. M. B. on her Birth-day.

Oh be thou blest with all that Heav'n can send,
Long Health, long Youth, long Pleasure, and a Friend:
Not with those Toys the female world admire,

245

Riches that vex, and Vanities that tire.
With added years if Life bring nothing new,
But like a Sieve let ev'ry blessing thro',
Some joy still lost, as each vain year runs o'er,
And all we gain, some sad Reflection more;
Is that a Birth-day? 'tis alas! too clear,
'Tis but the Fun'ral of the former year.

Let Joy or Ease, let Affluence or Content,
And the gay Conscience of a life well spent,
Calm ev'ry thought, inspirit ev'ry Grace,
Glow in thy heart, and smile upon thy face.
Let day improve on day, and year on year,
Without a Pain, a Trouble, or a Fear;
Till Death unfelt that tender frame destroy,
In some soft Dream, or Extasy of joy:

246

Peaceful sleep out the Sabbath of the Tomb,
And wake to Raptures in a Life to come.

248

INSCRIPTION.

Nymph of the Grot, these sacred Springs I keep,
And to the Murmur of these Waters sleep;
Ah spare my Slumbers, gently tread the Cave!
And drink in silence, or in silence lave!

249

EPITAPH

On Lady Kneller .

One day I mean to Fill Sir Godfry's tomb,
If for my body all this Church has room.
Down with more Monuments! More room! (she cryd)
For I am very large, and very wide.

250

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 warp'd by Passion, aw'd by Rumour,
Not grave thro' Pride, or gay thro' Folly,
An equal Mixture of good Humour,
And sensible soft Melancholy.

“Has she no Faults then (Envy says) Sir?”
Yes she has one, I must aver:
When all the World conspires to praise her,
The Woman's deaf, and does not hear.

251

LINES

On Swift's Ancestors.

Jonathan Swift
Had the gift,
By fatherige, motherige,
And by brotherige,
To come from Gutherige,
But now is spoil'd clean,
And an Irish Dean.
In this church he has put
A stone of two foot;
With a cup and a can, Sir,
In respect to his grandsire;
So Ireland change thy tone,
And cry, O hone! O hone!
For England hath its own.

253

Receipt to make Soup.

For the Use of Dean Swift.

Take a knuckle of Veal
(You may buy it, or steal,
In a few peices cut it,
In a Stewing pan put it,
Salt, pepper and mace
Must season this knuckle,
Then what's join'd to a place,
With other Herbs muckle;
That which killed King Will,
And what never stands still,
Some sprigs of that bed
Where Children are bred,
Which much you will mend, if
Both Spinage and Endive,
And Lettuce and Beet,
With Marygold meet;
Put no water at all;
For it maketh things small:
Which, lest it should happen,
A close cover clap on;

254

Put this pot of Wood's mettle
In a hot boiling kettle,
And there let it be,
(Mark the Doctrine I teach)
About—let me see,—
Thrice as long as you preach.
So skimming the fat off,
Say Grace, with your hat off
O then, with what rapture
Will it fill Dean and Chapter!

255

[Presentation Verses to Nathaniel Pigott]

The Muse this one Verse to learn'd Pigot addresses,
In whose Heart, like his Writings, was never found flaw;
Whom Pope prov'd his Friend in his two chief distresses,
Once in danger of Death, once in danger of Law.

Sept. 23. 1726.

256

The CAPON'S TALE:

To a Lady who father'd her Lampoons upon her Acquaintance.

In Yorkshire dwelt a sober Yeoman,
Whose Wife, a clean, pains-taking Woman,
Fed num'rous Poultry in her Pens,
And saw her Cocks well serve her Hens.

A Hen she had, whose tuneful Clocks
Drew after her a Train of Cocks:
With Eyes so piercing, yet so pleasant,
You would have sworn this Hen a Pheasant.
All the plum'd Beau-monde round her gathers;

257

Lord! what a Brustling up of Feathers!
Morning from Noon there was no knowing,
There was such Flutt'ring, Chuckling, Crowing:
Each forward Bird must thrust his head in,
And not a Cock but would be treading.

Yet tender was this Hen so fair,
And hatch'd more Chicks than she could rear.

Our prudent Dame bethought her then
Of some Dry-Nurse to save her Hen;
She made a Capon drunk: In fine
He eat the Sops, she sipp'd the Wine:
His Rump well pluck'd with Nettles stings,
And claps the Brood beneath his Wings.

The feather'd Dupe awakes content,
O'erjoy'd to see what God had sent.
Thinks he's the Hen, clocks, keeps a Pother,
A foolish Foster-Father-Mother.

Such, Lady Mary, are your Tricks;
But since you hatch, pray own your Chicks:
You should be better skill'd in Nocks,
Nor like your Capons, serve your Cocks.

259

THE DISCOVERY:
[_]

To the Tune of High Boys! up go we; Chevy Chase; Or what you please.

OR, The Squire turn'd Ferret . An Excellent New BALLAD.

Most true it is, I dare to say,
E'er since the Days of Eve,
The weakest Woman sometimes may
The wisest Man deceive.

For D---nt circumspect, sedate,
A Machiavel by Trade,
Arriv'd Express, with News of Weight,
And thus, at Court, he said.

At Godliman, hard by the Bull,
A Woman, long thought barren,
Bears Rabbits,—Gad! so plentiful,
You'd take her for a Warren.

These Eyes, quoth He, beheld them clear:
What, do ye doubt my View?
Behold this Narrative that's here;
Why, Zounds! and Blood! 'tis true!

Some said that D---gl---s sent should be,
Some talk'd of W---lk---r's Merit,
But most held, in this Midwifery,
No Doctor like a Ferret.

But M---l---n---x, who heard this told,
(Right wary He and wise)
Cry'd sagely, 'Tis not safe, I hold,
To trust to D---nt's Eyes.

260

A Vow to God He then did make
He would himself go down,
St. A---d---re too, the Scale to take
Of that Phœnomenon.

He order'd then his Coach and Four;
(The Coach was quickly got 'em)
Resolv'd this Secret to explore,
And search it to the Bottom.

At Godliman they now arrive,
For Haste they made exceeding;
As Courtiers should, whene'er they strive
To be inform'd of Breeding.

The good Wife to the Surgeon sent,
And said to him, Good Neighbour,
'Tis pity that two Squires so Gent—
Should come and lose their Labour.

The Surgeon with a Rabbit came,
And first in Pieces cut it;
Then slyly thrust it up that same,
As far as Man could put it.

(Ye Guildford Inn-keepers take heed
You dress not such a Rabbit,
Ye Poult'rers eke, destroy the Breed,
'Tis so unsav'ry a-Bit.)

But hold! says Molly, first let's try,
Now that her Legs are ope,
If ought within we may descry
By Help of Telescope.

261

The Instrument himself did make,
He rais'd and level'd right,
But all about was so opake,
It could not aid his Sight.

On Tiptoe then the Squire he stood,
(But first He gave Her Money)
Then reach'd as high as e'er He cou'd,
And cry'd, I feel a Cony.

Is it alive? St. A---d---re cry'd;
It is; I feel it stir.
Is it full grown? The Squire reply'd,
It is; see here's the Fur.

And now two Legs St. A---d---re got,
And then came two Legs more;
Now fell the Head to Molly's Lot,
And so the Work was o'er.

The Woman, thus being brought to Bed,
Said, to reward your Pains,
St. A---nd---re shall dissect the Head,
And thou shalt have the Brains.

He lap'd it in a Linnen Rag,
Then thank'd Her for Her Kindness;
And cram'd it in the Velvet Bag
That serves his R---l H---

That Bag—which Jenny, wanton Slut,
First brought to foul Disgrace;
Stealing the Papers thence she put
Veal-Cutlets in their Place.

262

O! happy would it be, I ween,
Could they these Rabbits smother;
Molly had ne'er a Midwife been,
Nor she a shameful Mother.

Why has the Proverb falsly said
Better two Heads than one;
Could Molly hide this Rabbit's Head,
He still might shew his own.

FINIS

264

EPIGRAM, in a Maid of Honour's Prayer-Book.

When Israel's Daughters mourn'd their past Offences,
They dealt in Sackcloth, and turn'd Cynder-Wenches:
But Richmond's Fair-ones never spoil their Locks,
They use white Powder, and wear Holland-Smocks.
O comely Church! where Females find clean Linen
As decent to repent in, as to sin in.

266

Verses on GULLIVER's TRAVELS.

268

I. To Quinbus Flestrin, the Man-Mountain.

A Lilliputian Ode.

In Amaze
Lost, I gaze!
Can our Eyes
Reach thy Size?
May my Lays
Swell with Praise
Worthy thee!
Worthy me!
Muse inspire,
All thy Fire!
Bards of old
Of him told,
When they said
Atlas Head
Propt the Skies:
See! and believe your Eyes!

See him stride
Vallies wide:
Over Woods,
Over Floods.
When he treads,
Mountains Heads
Groan and shake;
Armies quake,
Lest his Spurn
Overturn
Man and Steed:

269

Troops take Heed!
Left and Right,
Speed your Flight!
Lest an Host
Beneath his Foot be lost.

Turn'd aside
From his Hide,
Safe from Wound
Darts rebound.
From his Nose
Clouds he blows;
When he speaks,
Thunder breaks!
When he eats,
Famine threats;
When he drinks,
Neptune shrinks!
Nigh thy Ear,
In Mid Air,
On thy Hand
Let me stand,
So shall I,
Lofty Poet! touch the Sky.

270

II. The Lamentation of Glumdalclitch, for the Loss of Grildrig.

A Pastoral.

Soon as Glumdalclitch mist her pleasing Care,
She wept, she blubber'd, and she tore her Hair.
No British Miss sincerer Grief has known,
Her Squirrel missing, or her Sparrow flown.
She furl'd her Sampler, and hawl'd in her Thread,
And stuck her Needle into Grildrig's Bed;
Then spread her Hands, and with a Bounce let fall
Her Baby, like the Giant in Guild-hall.
In Peals of Thunder now she roars, and now
She gently whimpers like a lowing Cow.
Yet lovely in her Sorrow still appears:
Her Locks dishevell'd, and her Flood of Tears
Seem like the lofty Barn of some rich Swain,
When from the Thatch drips fast a Show'r of Rain.
In vain she search'd each Cranny of the House,
Each gaping Chink impervious to a Mouse.
“Was it for this (she cry'd) with daily Care
“Within thy Reach I set the Vinegar?
“And fill'd the Cruet with the Acid Tide,
“While Pepper-Water-Worms thy Bait supply'd;
“Where twin'd the Silver Eel around thy Hook,
“And all the little Monsters of the Brook.
“Sure in that Lake he dropt—My Grilly's drown'd”—
She dragg'd the Cruet, but no Grildrig found.

271

“Vain is thy Courage, Grilly, vain thy Boast;
“But little Creatures enterprise the most.
“Trembling, I've seen thee dare the Kitten's Paw;
“Nay, mix with Children, as they play'd at Taw;
“Nor fear the Marbles, as they bounding flew:
“Marbles to them, but rolling Rocks to you.

272

“Why did I trust thee with that giddy Youth?
“Who from a Page can ever learn the Truth?
“Vers'd in Court Tricks, that Money-loving Boy
“To some Lord's Daughter sold the living Toy;
“Or rent him Limb from Limb in cruel Play,
“As Children tear the Wings of Flies away:
“From Place to Place o'er Brobdingnag I'll roam,
“And never will return, or bring thee home.
“But who hath Eyes to trace the passing Wind,
“How then thy fairy Footsteps can I find?
“Dost thou bewilder'd wander all alone,
“In the green Thicket of a Mossy Stone,
“Or tumbled from the Toadstool's slipp'ry Round,
“Perhaps all maim'd, lie grov'ling on the Ground?

273

“Dost thou, inbosom'd in the lovely Rose,
“Or sunk within the Peach's Down, repose?
“Within the King-Cup if thy Limbs are spread,
“Or in the golden Cowslip's Velvet Head;
“O show me, Flora, 'midst those Sweets, the Flow'r
“Where sleeps my Grildrig in his fragrant Bow'r!

“But ah! I fear thy little Fancy roves
“On little Females, and on little Loves;
“Thy Pigmy Children, and thy tiny Spouse,
“The Baby Play-things that adorn thy House,
“Doors, Windows, Chimnies, and the spacious Rooms,
“Equal in Size to Cells of Honeycombs.
“Hast thou for these now ventur'd from the Shore,
“Thy Bark a Bean-shell, and a Straw thy Oar?
“Or in thy Box, now bounding on the Main?
“Shall I ne'er bear thy self and House again?
“And shall I set thee on my Hand no more,
“To see thee leap the Lines, and traverse o'er
“My spacious Palm? Of Stature scarce a Span,
“Mimick the Actions of a real Man?
“No more behold thee turn my Watches Key,
“As Seamen at a Capstern Anchors weigh?
“How wert thou wont to walk with cautious Tread,
“A Dish of Tea like Milk-Pail on thy Head?
“How chase the Mite that bore thy Cheese away,
“And keep the rolling Maggot at a Bay?”

She said, but broken Accents stopt her Voice,
Soft as the Speaking Trumpet's mellow Noise:
She sobb'd a Storm, and wip'd her flowing Eyes,
Which seem'd like two broad Suns in misty Skies:
O squander not thy Grief, those Tears command
To weep upon our Cod in Newfound-land:

274

The plenteous Pickle shall preserve the Fish,
And Europe taste thy Sorrows in a Dish.

III. To Mr. Lemuel Gulliver ,

The Grateful ADDRESS of the Unhappy Houyhnhnms, now in Slavery and Bondage in England.

To thee, we Wretches of the Houyhnhnm Band,
Condemn'd to labour in a barb'rous Land,
Return our Thanks. Accept our humble Lays,
And let each grateful Houyhnhnm neigh thy Praise.

O happy Yahoo, purg'd from human Crimes,
By thy sweet Sojourn in those virtuous Climes,
Where reign our Sires! There, to thy Countrey's Shame,
Reason, you found, and Virtue were the same.
Their Precepts raz'd the Prejudice of Youth,
And even a Yahoo learn'd the Love of Truth.

Art thou the first who did the Coast explore;
Did never Yahoo tread that Ground before?
Yes, Thousands. But in Pity to their Kind,

275

Or sway'd by Envy, or through Pride of Mind,
They hid their Knowledge of a nobler Race,
Which own'd, would all their Sires and Sons disgrace.

You, like the Samian, visit Lands unknown,
And by their wiser Morals mend your own.
Thus Orpheus travell'd to reform his Kind,
Came back, and tam'd the Brutes he left behind.

You went, you saw, you heard: With Virtue fraught,
Then spread those Morals which the Houyhnhnms taught.
Our Labours here must touch thy gen'rous Heart,
To see us strain before the Coach and Cart;
Compell'd to run each knavish Jockey's Heat!
Subservient to New-market's annual cheat!
With what Reluctance do we Lawyers bear,
To fleece their Countrey Clients twice a Year?
Or manag'd in your Schools, for Fops to ride,
How foam, how fret beneath a Load of Pride!
Yes, we are slaves—but yet, by Reason's Force,
Have learnt to bear Misfortune, like a Horse.

O would the Stars, to ease my Bonds, ordain,
That gentle Gulliver might guide my Rein!
Safe would I bear him to his Journey's End,
For 'tis a Pleasure to support a Friend.
But if my Life be doom'd to serve the Bad,
O! may'st thou never want an easy Pad!

Houyhnhnm.

276

IV. Mary Gulliver to Captain Lemuel Gulliver.

Argument. The Captain, some Time after his Return, being retired to Mr. Sympson's in the Country, Mrs. Gulliver, apprehending from his late Behaviour some Estrangement of his Affections, writes him the following expostulating, soothing, and tenderly-complaining Epistle.

Welcome, thrice welcome to thy native Place!
—What, touch me not? what, shun a Wife's Embrace?
Have I for this thy tedious Absence born,
And wak'd and wish'd whole Nights for thy Return?
In five long Years I took no second Spouse;
What Redriff Wife so long hath kept her Vows?
Your Eyes, your Nose, Inconstancy betray;
Your Nose you stop, your Eyes you turn away.
'Tis said, that thou shouldst cleave unto thy Wife;
Once thou didst cleave, and I could cleave for Life.
Hear and relent! hark, how thy Children moan;
Be kind at least to these, they are thy own:
Behold, and count them all; secure to find
The honest Number that you left behind.
See how they pat thee with their pretty Paws:
Why start you? are they Snakes? or have they Claws?
Thy Christian Seed, our mutual Flesh and Bone:
Be kind at least to these, they are thy own.

Biddel, like thee, might farthest India rove;
He chang'd his Country, but retain'd his Love.
There's Captain Pennel, absent half his Life,
Comes back, and is the kinder to his Wife.
Yet Pennell's Wife is brown, compar'd to me;
And Mistress Biddel sure is Fifty three.

277

Not touch me! never Neighbour call'd me Slut!
Was Flimnap's Dame more sweet in Lilliput?
I've no red Hair to breathe an odious Fume;
At least thy Consort's cleaner than thy Groom.
Why then that dirty Stable-boy thy Care?
What mean those Visits to the Sorrel Mare?
Say, by what Witchcraft, or what Dæmon led,
Preferr'st thou Litter to the Marriage Bed?

Some say the Dev'l himself is in that Mare:
If so, our Dean shall drive him forth by Pray'r.
Some think you mad, some think you are possest
That Bedlam and clean Straw will suit you best:
Vain Means, alas, this Frenzy to appease!
That Straw, that Straw would heighten the Disease.

My Bed, (the Scene of all our former Joys,
Witness two lovely Girls, two lovely Boys)
Alone I press; in Dreams I call my Dear,
I stretch my Hand, no Gulliver is there!
I wake, I rise, and shiv'ring with the Frost,
Search all the House; my Gulliver is lost!
Forth in the Street I rush with frantick Cries:
The Windows open; all the Neighbours rise:
Where sleeps my Gulliver? O tell me where?
The Neighbours answer, With the Sorrel Mare.

At early Morn, I to the Market haste,
(Studious in ev'ry Thing to please thy Taste)
A curious Fowl and Sparagrass I chose,
(For I remember you were fond of those,)
Three Shillings cost the first, the last sev'n Groats;
Sullen you turn from both, and call for Oats.

278

Others bring Goods and Treasure to their Houses,
Something to deck their pretty Babes and Spouses;
My only Token was a Cup like Horn,
That's made of nothing but a Lady's Corn.
'Tis not for that I grieve; no, 'tis to see
The Groom and Sorrel Mare preferr'd to me!

These, for some Moments when you deign to quit,
And (at due distance) sweet Discourse admit,
'Tis all my Pleasure thy past Toil to know,
For pleas'd Remembrance builds Delight on Woe.
At ev'ry Danger pants thy Consort's Breast,
And gaping Infants squawle to hear the rest.
How did I tremble, when by thousands bound,
I saw thee stretch'd on Lilliputian Ground;
When scaling Armies climb'd up ev'ry Part,
Each Step they trod, I felt upon my Heart.
But when thy Torrent quench'd the dreadful Blaze,
King, Queen and Nation, staring with Amaze,
Full in my View how all my Husband came,
And what extinguish'd theirs, encreas'd my Flame.
Those Spectacles, ordain'd thine Eyes to save,
Were once my Present; Love that Armour gave.
How did I mourn at Bolgolam's Decree!
For when he sign'd thy Death, he sentenc'd me.

When folks might see thee all the Country round
For Six-pence, I'd have giv'n a thousand Pound.
Lord! when the Giant-Babe that Head of thine
Got in his Mouth, my Heart was up in mine!
When in the Marrow-Bone I see thee ramm'd;
Or on the House-top by the Monkey cramm'd;
The Piteous Images renew my Pain,
And all thy Dangers I weep o'er again!
But on the Maiden's Nipple when you rid,

279

Pray Heav'n, 'twas all a wanton Maiden did!
Glumdalclitch too!—with thee I mourn her Case.
Heav'n guard the gentle Girl from all Disgrace!
O may the King that one Neglect forgive,
And pardon her the Fault by which I live!
Was there no other Way to set him free?
My Life, alas! I fear prov'd Death to Thee!

O teach me, Dear, new Words to speak my Flame;
Teach me to wooe thee by thy best-lov'd Name!
Whether the Style of Grildrig please thee most,
So call'd on Brobdingnag's stupendous Coast,
When on the Monarch's ample Hand you sate,
And hollow'd in his Ear Intrigues of State:
Or Quinbus Flestrin more Endearment brings,
When like a Mountain you look'd down on Kings:
If Ducal Nardac, Lilliputian Peer,
Or Glumglum's humbler Title sooth thy Ear:
Nay, wou'd kind Jove my Organs so dispose,
To hymn harmonious Houyhnhnm thro' the Nose,
I'd call thee Houyhnhnm, that high sounding Name,
Thy Children's Noses all should twang the same.
So might I find my loving Spouse of course
Endu'd with all the Virtues of a Horse.

280

V. The Words of the KING of BROBDINGNAG,

As he held Captain Gulliver between his Finger and Thumb for the Inspection of the Sages and Learned Men of the Court.

In Miniature see Nature's Power appear;
Which wings the Sun-born Insects of the Air,
Which frames the Harvest-bug, too small for Sight,
And forms the Bones and Muscles of the Mite!
Here view him stretch'd. The Microscope explains,
That the Blood, circling, flows in human Veins;
See, in the Tube he pants, and sprawling lies,
Stretches his little Hands, and rolls his Eyes!

Smit with his Countrey's Love, I've heard him prate
Of Laws and Manners in his Pigmy State.
By Travel, generous Souls enlarge the Mind,
Which home-bred Prepossession had confin'd;
Yet will he boast of many Regions known,
But still, with partial Love, extol his own.
He talks of Senates, and of Courtly Tribes,
Admires their Ardour, but forgets their Bribes;
Of hireling Lawyers tells the just Decrees,
Applauds their Eloquence, but sinks their Fees.
Yet who his Countrey's partial Love can blame?
'Tis sure some Virtue to conceal its Shame.

The World's the native City of the Wise;
He sees his Britain with a Mother's Eyes;
Softens Defects, and heightens all its Charms,
Calls it the Seat of Empire, Arts and Arms!
Fond of his Hillock Isle, his narrow Mind
Thinks Worth, Wit, Learning, to that Spot confin'd;
Thus Ants, who for a Grain employ their Cares,

281

Think all the Business of the Earth is theirs.
Thus Honey-combs seem Palaces to Bees;
And Mites imagine all the World a Cheese.

When Pride in such contemptuous Beings lies,
In Beetles, Britons, Bugs and Butterflies,
Shall we, like Reptiles, glory in Conceit?
Humility's the Virtue of the Great.

EPITAPH

On James Craggs , Esq.; In Westminster-Abbey.

JACOBUS CRAGGS Regi Magnæ Britanniæ a Secretis Et Consiliis Sanctioribus, Principis Pariter ac Populi Amor & Deliciæ: Vixit Titulis et Invidia Major, Annos Heu paucos, xxxv. Ob. Feb. xvi. M dcc xx.

Statesman, yet Friend to Truth! of Soul sincere,
In Action faithful, and in Honour clear!

282

Who broke no promise, serv'd no private end,
Who gain'd no Title, and who lost no Friend,
Ennobled by Himself, by All approv'd,
Prais'd, wept, and honour'd, by the Muse he lov'd.

283

Fragment of a Satire.

If meagre Gildon draws his venal Quill,
I wish the Man a Dinner, and sit still.
If dreadful Dennis raves in furious Fret,
I'll answer Dennis when I am in Debt.
'Tis Hunger, and not Malice, makes them print,
And who'll wage War with Bedlam or the Mint?

Should some more sober Criticks come abroad,
If wrong, I smile; if right, I kiss the Rod.
Pains, Reading, Study, are their just Pretence,
And all they want is Spirit, Taste, and Sense.
Commas and Points they set exactly right;
And 'twere a Sin to rob them of their Mite.
Yet ne'er one Sprig of Laurel grac'd those Ribbalds,
From slashing B---y down to pidling Tibbalds:
Who thinks he reads when he but scans and spells,
A Word-catcher, that lives on Syllables.
Yet ev'n this Creature may some Notice claim,
Wrapt round and sanctify'd with Shakespear's Name;

284

Pretty, in Amber to observe the forms
Of Hairs, or Straws, or Dirt, or Grubs, or Worms:
The Thing, we know, is neither rich nor rare,
But wonder how the Devil it got there.

Are others angry? I excuse them too,
Well may they rage; I give them but their Due.
Each Man's true Merit 'tis not hard to find;
But each Man's secret Standard in his Mind,
That casting Weight, Pride adds to Emptiness;
This, who can gratify? For who can guess?
The Wretch whom pilfer'd Pastorals renown,
Who turns a Persian Tale for half a Crown,
Just writes to make his Barrenness appear,
And strains, from hard bound Brains, six Lines a Year;
In Sense still wanting, tho' he lives on Theft,
Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left:
Johnson, who now to Sense, now Nonsense leaning,
Means not, but blunders round about a Meaning;
And he, whose Fustian's so sublimely bad,
It is not Poetry, but Prose run mad:
Should modest Satire bid all these translate,
And own that nine such Poets make a Tate;
How would they fume, and stamp, and roar, and chafe!
How would they swear, not Congreve's self was safe!

Peace to all such! but were there one, whose Fires
Apollo kindled, and fair Fame inspires,
Blest with each Talent, and each Art to please,
And born to write, converse, and live with ease;
Should such a Man, too fond to rule alone,
Bear, like the Turk, no Brother near the Throne;
View him with scornful, yet with fearful eyes,
And hate for Arts that caus'd himself to rise;
Damn with faint Praise, assent with civil Leer,
And without sneering, teach the rest to sneer;

285

Wishing to wound, and yet afraid to strike,
Just hint a Fault, and hesitate Dislike;
Alike reserv'd to blame, or to commend,
A tim'rous Foe, and a suspicious Friend,
Dreading ev'n Fools, by Flatterers besieg'd,
And so obliging that he ne'er oblig'd:
Who, if two Wits on rival Themes contest,
Approves of each, but likes the worst the best;
Like Cato gives his little Senate Laws,
And sits attentive to his own Applause;
While Wits and Templars ev'ry Sentence raise,
And wonder with a foolish Face of Praise.
What Pity, Heav'n! if such a Man there be.
Who would not weep, if A---n were he?

286

SYLVIA,

A FRAGMENT

Sylvia my Heart in wond'rous wise alarm'd,
Aw'd without Sense, and without Beauty charm'd,
But some odd Graces and fine Flights she had,
Was just not ugly, and was just not mad;
Her Tongue still run, on credit from her Eyes,
More pert than witty, more a Wit than wise.
Good Nature, she declar'd it, was her Scorn,
Tho' 'twas by that alone she could be born.

287

Affronting all, yet fond of a good Name,
A Fool to Pleasure, yet a Slave to Fame;
Now coy and studious in no Point to fall,
Now all agog for D---y at a Ball:
Now deep in Taylor and the Book of Martyrs,
Now drinking Citron with his Gr--- and Ch---

Men, some to Business, some to Pleasure take,
But ev'ry Woman's in her Soul a Rake.
Frail, fev'rish Sex! their Fit now chills, now burns;
Atheism and Superstition rule by Turns;
And the meer Heathen in her carnal Part,
Is still a sad good Christian at her Heart.

288

LINES FROM The Art of Sinking.

Who knocks at the Door?

For whom thus rudely pleads my loud-tongu'd Gate,
That he may enter?—

Shut the Door.

The wooden Guardian of our Privacy
Quick on its Axle turn.—

289

Bring my Cloaths.

Bring me what Nature, Taylor to the Bear,
To Man himself deny'd: She gave me Cold,
But would not give me Cloaths.—

Light the Fire.

Bring forth some Remnant of Promethean theft,
Quick to expand th'inclement Air congeal'd
By Boreas's rude breath.—

Snuff the Candle.

Yon Luminary Amputation needs,
Thus shall you save its half-extinguish'd Life.

Uncork the Bottle, and chip the Bread.

Apply thine Engine to the spungy Door,
Set Bacchus from his glassy Prison free,
And strip white Ceres of her nut-brown Coat.

290

VERSES

To be placed under the Picture of England's Arch-Poet: Containing a compleat Catalogue of his Works.

See who ne'er was or will be half read!
Who first sung Arthur, then sung Alfred,
Prais'd great Eliza in God's anger,
Till all true Englishmen cry'd, hang her!
Made William's Virtues wipe the bare A---
And hang'd up Marlborough in Arras:

Then hiss'd from Earth, grew Heav'nly quite;
Made ev'ry Reader curse the Light;
Maul'd human Wit in one thick Satyr,
Next in three Books, sunk human Nature,
Un-did Creation at a Jerk,
And of Redemption made damn'd Work.

Then took his Muse at once, and dipt her
Full in the middle of the Scripture.
What Wonders there the Man grown old, did!
Sternhold himself he out-Sternholded,
Made David seem so mad and freakish,
All thought him just what thought King Achiz.
No Mortal read his Salomon,
But judg'd Roboam his own Son.
Moses he serv'd as Moses Pharaoh,
And Deborah, as She Sise-rah:
Made Jeremy full sore to cry,
And Job himself curse God and die.

What Punishment all this must follow?
Shall Arthur use him like King Tollo,

291

Shall David as Uriah slay him,
Or dext'rous Deb'rah Sisera-him?
Or shall Eliza lay a Plot,
To treat him like her Sister Scot,
Shall William dub his better End,
Or Marlb'rough serve him like a Friend?
No, none of these—Heav'n spare his Life!
But send him, honest Job, thy Wife.

294

To the Right Honourable the Earl of OXFORD.

[_]

Upon a piece of News in Mist, that the Rev. Mr W. refus'd to write against Mr Pope because his best Patron had a Friendship for the said P.

Wesley, if Wesley 'tis they mean,
They say, on Pope would fall
Would his best Patron let his Pen
Discharge his inward Gall.

What Patron this, a doubt must be
Which none but you can clear,
Or Father Francis cross the sea,
Or else Earl Edward here.

That both were good must be confest,
And much to both he owes;
But which to Him will be the best
The Lord of Oxford knows.

295

EPITAPH.

On G---.

Well then, poor G--- lies under ground!
So there's an end of honest Jack.
So little Justice here he found,
'Tis ten to one he'll ne'er come back.

297

EPITAPHS

From the Latin on the Count of Mirandula.

Joannes jacet hic Mirandula—cætera norunt
Et Tagus & Ganges—forsan & Antipodes.

I. Lord CONINGSBY's Epitaph.

Here lies Lord Coningsby—be civil,
The rest God knows—so does the Devil.

II. Applied to F. C.

Here Francis Ch---s lies—Be civil!
The rest God knows—perhaps the Devil.

298

EPIGRAMS from THE DUNCIAD. 1729–1730.

300

I. [On a Translation of Æschylus.]

Alas! poor Æschylus! unlucky Dog!
Whom once a Lobster kill'd, and now a Log.

II. On James Moore Smythe.

M---re always smiles whenever he recites;
He smiles (you think) approving what he writes;
And yet in this no Vanity is shown;
A modest man may like what's not his own.

301

III. On Roome.

You ask why Roome diverts you with his jokes,
Yet, if he writes, is dull as other folks?
You wonder at it—This Sir is the case,
The jest is lost, unless he prints his Face.

IV. On Burnet and Ducket.

Burnet and Ducket, friends in spite,
Came hissing forth in verse;
Both were so forward, each would write,
So dull, each hung an A---
Thus Amphisbœna (I have read)
At either end assails;
None knows which leads, or which is led,
For both Heads are but Tails.

302

V. On Shakespeare Restored.

'Tis generous, Tibald! in thee and thy brothers,
To help us thus to read the works of others:
Never for this can just returns be shown;
For who will help us e'er to read thy own?

VI. On his Busto.

Well, Sir, suppose, the Busto's a damn'd head,
Suppose, that Pope's an Elf;
All he can say for 't is, he neither made
The Busto nor Himself.

VII. On Cibber.

In merry old England it once was a rule,
The King had his Poet, and also his Fool:
But now we're so frugal, I'd have you to know it,
That Cibber can serve both for Fool and for Poet.

306

COUPLETS & VERSICLES 1721–1730

I. Verses to Mrs. Judith Cowper.

Tho' sprightly Sappho force our love and praise,
A softer wonder my pleas'd soul surveys,
The mild Erinna, blushing in her bays.
So while the sun's broad beam yet strikes the sight,
All mild appears the moon's more sober light,
Serene, in virgin majesty, she shines;
And, un-observed, the glaring sun declines.

307

II. Lines to Bolingbroke .

What pleasing Phrensy steals away my Soul?
Thro' thy blest Shades (La Source) I seem to rove
I see thy fountains fall, thy waters roll
And breath the Zephyrs that refresh thy Grove
I hear whatever can delight inspire
Villete's soft Voice and St John's silver Lyre.

III. LINES In Conclusion of a Satire.

But what avails to lay down rules for sense?
In ---'s Reign these fruitless lines were writ,
When Ambrose Philips was preferr'd for Wit!

IV. Inscriptio.

And thou! whose sense, whose humour, and whose rage,
At once can teach, delight, and lash the age,
Whether thou choose Cervantes' serious air,
Or laugh and shake in Rab'lais' easy chair,
Praise courts, and monarchs, or extol mankind,
Or thy grieved country's copper chains unbind;
Attend whatever title please thine ear,
Dean, Drapier, Bickerstaff, or Gulliver.
From thy Bœotia, lo! the fog retires,
Yet grieve not thou at what our Isle acquires;
Here dulness reigns, with mighty wings outspread,
And brings the true Saturnian age of lead.

308

V. CANTICLE

All hail, arch-poet without peer!
Vine, bay, or cabbage fit to wear,
And worthy of the prince's ear.

310

PROLOGUE TO SOPHONISBA. By a Friend.

When learning, after the long Gothic night,
Fair, o'er the western world, renew'd his light,
With arts arising Sophonisba rose:
The tragic muse, returning, wept her woes.
With her th'Italian scene first learnt to glow;
And the first tears for her were taught to flow.
Her charms the Gallic muses next inspir'd:
Corneille himself saw, wonder'd, and was fir'd.

What foreign theatres with pride have shewn,
Britain, by juster title, makes her own.
When freedom is the cause, 'tis hers to fight;
And hers, when freedom is the theme, to write.
For this, a British Author bids again
The heroine rise, to grace the British scene.
Here, as in life, she breathes her genuine flame:

311

She asks what bosom has not felt the same?
Asks of the British Youth—Is silence there?
She dares to ask it of the British Fair.

To night, our home-spun author would be true,
At once, to nature, history, and you.
Well-pleas'd to give our neighbours due applause,
He owns their learning, but disdains their laws.
Not to his patient touch, or happy flame,
'Tis to his British heart he trusts for fame.
If France excel him in one free-born thought,
The man, as well as poet, is in fault.

[Nature! informer of the poet's art,
Whose force alone can raise or melt the heart,
Thou art his guide; each passion, every line,
Whate'er he draws to please, must all be thine.
Be thou his judge: in every candid breast,
Thy silent whisper is the sacred test.]

316

EPIGRAM.

[When other Ladies to the Groves go down]

When other Ladies to the Groves go down,
Corinna still, and Fulvia stay in Town;
Those Ghosts of Beauty ling'ring here reside,
And haunt the Places where their Honour dy'd.

321

To MR. C.

St James 's Place. London , October 22.

Few words are best; I wish you well:
Bethel, I'm told, will soon be here:
Some morning-walks along the Mall,
And evening-friends will end the year.

If, in this interval, between
The falling leaf and coming frost,
You please to see, on Twit'nam green,
Your friend, your poet, and your host;

For three whole days you here may rest
From office, business, news, and strife:
And (what most folks would think a jest)
Want nothing else, except your wife.

324

EPIGRAMS.

from The GRUB-STREET JOURNAL. 1730–1731.

325

I. On J. M. S. Gent.

To prove himself no Plagiary, Moore,
Has writ such stuff, as none e'er writ before.
Thy prudence, Moore, is like that Irish Wit,
Who shew'd his breech, to prove 'twas not besh—

326

II. On Mr. M---re's going to Law with Mr. Gilliver.

Inscrib'd to Attorney Tibbald.

Once in his Life M---re judges right:
His Sword and Pen not worth a Straw,
An Author that cou'd never write,
A Gentleman that dares not fight,
Has but one way to teaze—by Law.

This suit dear Tibbald kindly hatch;
Thus thou may'st help the sneaking Elf:
And sure a Printer is his Match,
Who's but a Publisher himself.

III. [On J. M. S. Gent.]

A gold watch found on Cinder Whore,
Or a good verse on J---my M---e,
Proves but what either shou'd conceal,
Not that they're rich, but that they steal.

IV. EPITAPH

On James Moore Smythe .

Here lyes what had nor Birth, nor Shape, nor Fame;
No Gentleman! no man! no-thing! no name!

327

For Jammie ne'er grew James; and what they call
More, shrunk to Smith—and Smith's no name at all.
Yet dye thou can'st not, Phantom, oddly fated:
For how can no-thing be annihilated?

Ex nihilo nihil fit.

V. On the Candidates for the Laurel.

Shall Royal praise be rhym'd by such a ribald,
As fopling C---r, or Attorney T---d?
Let's rather wait one year for better luck;
One year may make a singing Swan of Duck.
Great G---! such servants since thou well can'st lack,
Oh! save the Salary, and drink the Sack!

VI. On the Same.

[Behold! ambitious of the British bays]

Behold! ambitious of the British bays,
C---r and Duck contend in rival lays:
But, gentle Colley, should thy verse prevail,
Thou hast no fence, alas! against his flail:
Wherefore thy claim resign, allow his right;
For Duck can thresh, you know, as well as write.

328

VII. On DENNIS.

Shou'd D---s print how once you robb'd your Brother,
Traduc'd your Monarch, and debauch'd your Mother;
Say what revenge on D---s can be had;
Too dull for laughter, for reply too mad?
Of one so poor you cannot take the law;
On one so old your sword you scorn to draw.
Uncag'd then let the harmless Monster rage,
Secure in dullness, madness, want, and age.

VIII. Occasion'd by seeing some Sheets of Dr. B---tly's Edition of Milton's Paradise Lost*.

Did Milton's Prose, O Charles, thy Death defend?
A furious Foe unconscious proves a Friend.
On Milton's Verse does B---t---ly comment?—Know
A weak officious Friend becomes a Foe.
While he but sought his Author's Fame to further,
The murd'rous Critic has aveng'd thy Murder.

333

LINES TO A FRIEND.

Written at his Mother's Bedside.

While ev'ry Joy, successful Youth! is thine,
Be no unpleasing Melancholy mine.
Me long, ah long! may these soft Cares engage;
To rock the Cradle of reposing Age,
With lenient Arts prolong a Parent's Breath,
Make Languor smile, and smooth the Bed of Death.
Me, when the Cares my better Years have shown
Another's Age, shall hasten on my own;
Shall some kind Hand, like B***'s or thine,
Lead gently down, and favour the Decline?
In Wants, in Sickness, shall a Friend be nigh,
Explore my Thought, and watch my asking Eye?
Whether that Blessing be deny'd, or giv'n,
Thus far, is right; the rest belongs to Heav'n.

336

On the Countess of B--- cutting Paper.

Pallas grew vap'rish once and odd,
She would not do the least right thing,
Either for Goddess or for God,
Nor work, nor play, nor paint, nor sing.

Jove frown'd, and “Use (he cry'd) those Eyes
“So skilful and those Hands so taper;
“Do something exquisite, and wise—”
She bow'd, obey'd him, and cut Paper.

337

This vexing him who gave her Birth,
Thought by all Heav'n a burning Shame;
What does she next, but bids on Earth
Her B---l---n do just the same.

Pallas, you give yourself strange Airs;
But sure you'll find it hard to spoil
The Sense and Taste of one that bears
The Name of Savil and of Boyle.

Alas! one bad Example shown,
How quickly all the Sex pursue!
See Madam! see, the Arts o'erthrown,
Between John Overton and You.

338

HORACE, Satyr 4. Lib. 1. Paraphrased.

Inscribed to the Honorable Mr ---

1. Absentem qui rodit Amicum 2. Qui non defendit, alio culpante: 3. Solutos Qui captat Risus hominum, Famamque dicacis: 4 Fingere qui Non Visa potest: 5 Commissa tacere Qui nequit:—Hic Niger est: Hunc, tu Romane, caveto.

339

1.

The Fop, whose Pride affects a Patron's name,
Yet absent, wounds an author's honest fame:

2.

That more abusive Fool, who calls me Friend,
Yet wants the honour, injur'd to defend:

3.

Who spreads a Tale, a Libel hands about,
Enjoys the Jest, and copies Scandal out:

4.

Who to the Dean and Silver Bell can swear,
And sees at C*n*ons what was never there;

5.

Who tells you all I mean, and all I say;
And, if he lyes not, must at least betray:
—Tis not the sober Satyrist you should dread,
But such a babling Coxcomb in his stead.

340

Wrote by Mr. P. in a Volume of Evelyn on Coins, presented to a painter by a parson.

T*m W---d of Ch*sw*c, deep divine,
To painter K---t presents his coin;
'Tis the first time I dare to say,
That Churchman e'er gave coin to Lay.

341

THE SIX MAIDENS.

A tower there is, where six Maidens do dwell;
This Tow'r it belongs to the Dev'l of Hell;
And sure of all Devils this must be the best,
Who by six such fair Maidens at once is possest.

So bright are their beauties, so charming their eyes,
As in spite of his Fall, might make Lucifer rise;
But then they're so blithe and so buxome withall,
As, tho ten Devils rose, they could make them to fall.

Ah why, good Lord Grantham, were you so uncivil
To send at a dash all these Nymphs to the Devil?
And yet why, Madam Dives, at your lot should you stare?
'Tis known all the Dives's ever went there.

342

There, Mordaunt, Fitzwilliams, &c. remain;
(I promis'd I never would mention Miss Vane.)
Ev'n Cart'ret and Meadows, so pure of desires,
Are lump'd with the rest of these charming Hell fires.

O! sure to King George 'tis a dismal disaster,
To see his own Maids serve a new Lord and Master.
Yet this, like their old one, for nothing will spare,
And treateth them all, like a Prince of the Air.

Who climbs these High Seats oh his joy shall be great!
Tho strait be the passage, and narrow the Gate;
And who now of his Court, to this place would not go,
Prepard for the Devil and his Angells also?

343

EPITAPH.

For Dr. Francis Atterbury, Bishop of Rochester, Who died in Exile at Paris, in 1732. [His only Daughter having expired in his arms, immediately after she arrived in France to see him.]

Dialogue.

SHE.
Yes, we have liv'd—one pang, and then we part!
May Heav'n, dear Father! now, have all thy Heart.
Yet ah! how once we lov'd, remember still,
Till you are Dust like me.

HE.
Dear Shade! I will:
Then mix this Dust with thine—O spotless Ghost!

344

O more than Fortune, Friends, or Country lost!
Is there on earth one Care, one Wish beside?
Yes—Save my Country, Heav'n,

—He said, and dy'd.

345

POEMS from Miscellanies. The Third Volume. 1732.

346

I. Epitaph [of By-Words.]

Here lies a round Woman, who thought mighty odd
Every Word she e'er heard in this Church about God.
To convince her of God the good Dean did indeavour,
But still in her Heart she held Nature more clever.
Tho' he talk'd much of Virtue, her Head always run
Upon something or other, she found better Fun.
For the Dame, by her Skill in Affairs Astronomical,
Imagin'd, to live in the Clouds was but comical.

347

In this World, she despis'd every Soul she met here,
And now she's in t'other, she thinks it but Queer.

II. Epigram from the French.

Sir, I admit your gen'ral Rule
That every Poet is a Fool:
But you yourself may serve to show it,
That every Fool is not a Poet.

348

III. [You beat your Pate, and fancy Wit will come]

You beat your Pate, and fancy Wit will come:
Knock as you please, there's no body at home.

IV. EPIGRAM.

[Peter complains, that God has given]

Peter complains, that God has given
To his poor Babe a Life so short:
Consider Peter, he's in Heaven;
'Tis good to have a Friend at Court.

353

The CRUX-EASTON Epigrams.

I. On seeing the LADIES at Crux-Easton Walk in the Woods by the Grotto.

Extempore by Mr. POPE.

Authors the world and their dull brains have trac'd,
To fix the ground where paradise was plac'd.
Mind not their learned whims and idle talk,
Here, here's the place, where these bright angels walk.

II. Inscription on a Grotto of Shells at Crux-Easton the Work of Nine young Ladies.

Here shunning idleness at once and praise,
This radiant pile nine rural sisters raise;
The glitt'ring emblem of each spotless dame,
Clear as her soul, and shining as her frame;
Beauty which Nature only can impart,
And such a polish as disgraces Art;
But Fate dispos'd them in this humble sort,
And hid in desarts what wou'd charm a court.

355

To the Earl of Burlington asking who writ the Libels against him.

You wonder Who this Thing has writ,
So full of Fibs, so void of Wit?
Lord! never ask who thus could serve ye?
Who can it be but Fibster H---y.

PROLOGUE, For the Benefit of Mr. DENNIS, 1733.

As when that Hero, who in each Campaign
Had brav'd the Goth, and many a Vandal slain,
Lay Fortune-struck, a Spectacle of Woe!
Wept by each Friend, forgiv'n by ev'ry Foe:
Was there a gen'rous, a reflecting Mind,
But pities Belisarius, Old and Blind?
Was there a Chief, but melted at the Sight?
A common Soldier, but who clubb'd his Mite?
Such, such Emotions should in Britons rise,

356

When prest by Want and Weakness, Dennis lies;
Dennis, who long had warr'd with modern Huns,
Their Quibbles routed, and defy'd their Puns;
A desp'rate Bulwark, sturdy, firm, and fierce,
Against the Gothick Sons of frozen Verse;
How chang'd from him, who made the Boxes groan,
And shook the Stage with Thunders all his own!
Stood up to dash each vain Pretender's Hope,
Maul the French Tyrant, or pull down the Pope!
If there's a Briton, then, true bred and born,
Who holds Dragoons and Wooden-Shoes in scorn;
If there's a Critick of distinguish'd Rage;
If there's a Senior, who contemns this Age;
Let him to Night his just Assistance lend,
And be the Critick's, Briton's, Old-man's Friend.

357

To Ld. Hervey & Lady Mary Wortley

When I but call a flagrant Whore unsound,
Or have a Pimp or Flaterer in the Wind,
Sapho enrag'd crys out your Back is round,
Adonis screams—Ah! Foe to all Mankind!

Thanks, dirty Pair! you teach me what to say,
When you attack my Morals, Sense, or Truth,
I answer thus—poor Sapho you grow grey,
And sweet Adonis—you have lost a Tooth.

358

[A CHARACTER]

[Mark by what wretched steps Great --- grows]

Mark by what wretched steps Great --- grows,
From dirt and sea-weed as proud Venice rose;
One equal course how Guilt and Greatness ran,
And all that rais'd the Hero sunk the Man.
Now Europe's Lawrels on his brows behold,
But stain'd with Blood, or ill exchang'd for Gold.
What wonder tryumphs never turn'd his brain
Fill'd with mean fear to lose mean joy to gain.
Hence see him modest free from pride or shew
Some Vices were too high but none too low
Go then indulge thy age in Wealth and ease
Stretch'd on the spoils of plunder'd palaces
Alas what wealth, which no one act of fame
E'er taught to shine, or sanctified from shame
Alas what ease those furies of thy life
Ambition Av'rice and th'imperious Wife.
The trophy'd Arches, story'd Halls invade,
And haunt his slumbers in the pompous Shade.
No joy no pleasure from successes past
Timid and therefore treacherous to the last
Hear him in accents of a pining Ghost
Sigh, with his Captive for his ofspring lost
Behold him loaded with unreverend years
Bath'd in unmeaning unrepentant tears
Dead, by regardless Vet'rans born on high
Dry pomps and Obsequies without a sigh.
Who now his fame or fortune shall prolong
In vain his consort bribes for venal song
No son nor Grandson shall the line sustain

359

The husband toils the Adulterer sweats in vain:
In vain a nations zeal a senate's cares
“Madness and lust” (said God) “be you his heirs”
“O'er his vast heaps in drunkenness of pride
“Go wallow Harpyes and your prey divide”
Alas! not dazled with his Noontide ray,
Compute the Morn and Evening of his Day:
The whole amount of that enormous Fame
A Tale! that blends the Glory with the Shame!

360

EPIGRAMS Occasioned by Cibber's Verses in Praise of Nash.

I. [O Nash! more blest in ev'ry other thing]

O Nash! more blest in ev'ry other thing,
But in thy Poet wretched as a King!
Thy Realm disarm'd of each offensive Tool,
Ah! leave not this, this Weapon to a Fool.
Thy happy Reign all other Discord quells;
Oh doe but silence Cibber, and the Bells.
Apollo's genuine Sons thy fame shall raise
And all Mankind, but Cibber, sing thy praise.

II. [Cibber! write all thy Verses upon Glasses]

Cibber! write all thy Verses upon Glasses,
The only way to save 'em from our A---s.

362

EPITAPH.

On Edmund Duke of Buckingham, who died in the Nineteenth Year of his Age, 1735.

If modest Youth, with cool Reflection crown'd,
And ev'ry opening Virtue blooming round,
Could save a Mother's justest Pride from fate,
Or add one Patriot to a sinking state;
This weeping marble had not ask'd thy Tear,
Or sadly told, how many Hopes lie here!
The living Virtue now had shone approv'd,
The Senate heard him, and his Country lov'd.
Yet softer Honours, and less noisy Fame
Attend the shade of gentle Buckingham:
In whom a Race, for Courage fam'd and Art,
Ends in the milder Merit of the Heart;
And Chiefs or Sages long to Britain giv'n,
Pays the last Tribute of a Saint to Heav'n.

363

EPIGRAM.

On One who made long Epitaphs.

Friend! for your Epitaphs I'm griev'd,
Where still so much is said,
One half will never be believ'd,
The other never read.

364

EPITAPH On John Knight.

JOANNI KNIGHT De Goss-field Com. Essex. Armig. Qui obiit Oct. 2. 1733. Æt. 50. ANNA CRAGGS, JACOBI CRAGGS, Regi GEORGIO I A Secretis, Soror, MEMORIÆ & AMORI SACRUM Conjugi suo Charissimo H.S.P.

O fairest Pattern to a failing Age!
Whose Publick Virtue knew no Party rage:
Whose Private Name all Titles recommend,
The pious Son, fond Husband, faithful Friend:
In Manners plain, in Sense alone refind,
Good without Show, and without weakness kind:
To Reason's equal dictates ever true,
Calm to resolve, and constant to pursue.
In Life, with ev'ry social Grace adorn'd,
In Death, by Friendship, Honour, Virtue; mourn'd.

366

BOUNCE TO FOP.

AN HEROICK EPISTLE From a DOG at TWICKENHAM To a Dog at Court .

To thee, sweet Fop, these Lines I send,
Who, tho' no Spaniel, am a Friend.
Tho, once my Tail in wanton play,
Now frisking this, and then that way,
Chanc'd, with a Touch of just the Tip,
To hurt your Lady-lap-dog-ship;
Yet thence to think I'd bite your Head off!
Sure Bounce is one you never read of.

Fop! you can dance, and make a Leg,
Can fetch and carry, cringe and beg,
And (what's the Top of all your Tricks)
Can stoop to pick up Strings and Sticks.
We Country Dogs love nobler Sport,
And scorn the Pranks of Dogs at Court.
Fye, naughty Fop! where e'er you come
To f---t and p---ss about the Room,
To lay your Head in every Lap,
And, when they think not of you—snap!
The worst that Envy, or that Spite
E'er said of me, is, I can bite:
That sturdy Vagrants, Rogues in Rags,

367

Who poke at me, can make no Brags;
And that to towze such Things as flutter,
To honest Bounce is Bread and Butter.

While you, and every courtly Fop,
Fawn on the Devil for a Chop,
I've the Humanity to hate
A Butcher, tho' he brings me Meat;
And let me tell you, have a Nose,
(Whatever stinking Fops suppose)
That under Cloth of Gold or Tissue,
Can smell a Plaister, or an Issue.

Your pilf'ring Lord, with simple Pride,
May wear a Pick-lock at his Side;
My Master wants no Key of State,
For Bounce can keep his House and Gate.

When all such Dogs have had their Days,
As knavish Pams, and fawning Trays;
When pamper'd Cupids, bestly Veni's,
And motly, squinting Harvequini's,
Shall lick no more their Lady's Br—,
But die of Looseness, Claps, or Itch;
Fair Thames from either ecchoing Shoare
Shall hear, and dread my manly Roar.

368

See Bounce, like Berecynthia, crown'd
With thund'ring Offspring all around,
Beneath, beside me, and a top,
A hundred Sons! and not one Fop.

Before my Children set your Beef,
Not one true Bounce will be a Thief;
Not one without Permission feed,
(Tho' some of J---'s hungry Breed)
But whatsoe'er the Father's Race,
From me they suck a little Grace.
While your fine Whelps learn all to steal,
Bred up by Hand on Chick and Veal.

My Eldest-born resides not far,
Where shines great Strafford's glittering Star:
My second (Child of Fortune!) waits
At Burlington's Palladian Gates:
A third majestically stalks
(Happiest of Dogs!) in Cobham's Walks:
One ushers Friends to Bathurst's Door;
One fawns, at Oxford's, on the Poor.

Nobles, whom Arms or Arts adorn,
Wait for my Infants yet unborn.

369

None but a Peer of Wit and Grace,
Can hope a Puppy of my Race.

And O! wou'd Fate the Bliss decree
To mine (a Bliss too great for me)
That two, my tallest Sons, might grace
Attending each with stately Pace,
Iülus' Side, as erst Evander's,
To keep off Flatt'rers, Spies, and Panders,
To let no noble Slave come near,
And scare Lord Fannys from his Ear:
Then might a Royal Youth, and true,
Enjoy at least a Friend—or two:
A Treasure, which, of Royal kind,
Few but Himself deserve to find.

Then Bounce ('tis all that Bounce can crave)
Shall wag her Tail within the Grave.

And tho' no Doctors, Whig or Tory ones,
Except the Sect of Pythagoreans,
Have Immortality assign'd
To any Beast, but Dryden's Hind:
Yet Master Pope, whom Truth and Sense
Shall call their Friend some Ages hence,

370

Tho' now on loftier Themes he sings
Than to bestow a Word on Kings,
Has sworn by Sticks (the Poet's Oath,
And Dread of Dogs and Poets both)
Man and his Works he'll soon renounce,
And roar in Numbers worthy Bounce.

372

EPIGRAM.

Engraved on the Collar of a Dog which I gave to his Royal Highness.

I am his Highness' Dog at Kew;
Pray tell me Sir, whose Dog are you?

373

SONNET

Written upon Occasion of the Plague, and found on a Glass-Window at Chalfont.

(In Imitation of Milton.)

Fair Mirrour of foul Times! whose fragile Sheene
Shall as it blazeth, break; while Providence
(Aye watching o'er his Saints with Eye unseen,)
Spreads the red Rod of angry Pestilence,
To sweep the wicked and their Counsels hence;

Yea all to break the Pride of lustful Kings,
Who Heaven's Lore reject for brutish Sense;
As erst he scourg'd Jessides' Sin of yore
For the fair Hittite, when on Seraph's Wings
He sent him War, or Plague, or Famine sore.

376

EPITAPH

For One who would not be buried in Westminster Abbey.

Heroes, and Kings! your distance keep:
In peace let one poor Poet sleep,
Who never flatter'd Folks like you:
Let Horace blush, and Virgil too.

378

On receiving from the Right Hon. the LADY FRANCES SHIRLEY A STANDISH AND TWO PENS

Yes, I beheld th'Athenian Queen
Descend in all her sober charms;
“And take (she said, and smil'd serene)
“Take at this hand celestial arms:

“Secure the radiant weapons wield;
“This golden lance shall guard Desert,
“And if a Vice dares keep the field,
“This steel shall stab it to the heart.”

Aw'd, on my bended knees I fell,
Receiv'd the weapons of the sky;
And dipt them in the sable Well,
The fount of Fame or Infamy.

“What well? what weapon? (Flavia cries)
“A standish, steel and golden pen;
“It came from Bertrand's, not the skies;
“I gave it you to write again.

“But, Friend, take heed whom you attack;
“You'll bring a House (I mean of Peers)
“Red, Blue, and Green, nay white and black,
“L--- and all about your ears.

“You'd write as smooth again on glass,
“And run, on ivory, so glib,
“As not to stick at fool or ass,
“Nor stop at Flattery or Fib.

379

“Athenian Queen! and sober charms!
“I tell ye, fool, there's nothing in't:
“'Tis Venus, Venus gives these arms;
“In Dryden's Virgil see the print.

“Come, if you'll be a quiet soul,
“That dares tell neither Truth nor Lies,
“I'll list you in the harmless roll
“Of those that sing of these poor eyes.”

380

On lying in the Earl of ROCHESTER's Bed at ATTERBURY.

With no poetick ardors fir'd,
I press the bed where Wilmot lay:
That here he lov'd, or here expir'd,
Begets no numbers grave or gay.

But 'neath thy roof, Argyle, are bred
Such thoughts, as prompt the brave to lie,
Stretch'd forth in honour's nobler bed,
Beneath a nobler roof, the sky.

381

Such flames, as high in patriots burn,
Yet stoop to bless a child or wife:
And such as wicked kings may mourn,
When freedom is more dear than life.

382

VERSES on a GROTTO by the River Thames at Twickenham, composed of Marbles, Spars, and Minerals.

Thou who shalt stop, where Thames' translucent Wave
Shines a broad Mirrour thro' the shadowy Cave;
Where lingering Drops from Mineral Roofs distill,
And pointed Crystals break the sparkling Rill,
Unpolish'd Gemms no Ray on Pride bestow,
And latent Metals innocently glow:
Approach. Great Nature studiously behold!
And eye the Mine without a Wish for Gold.

383

Approach: But aweful! Lo th'Ægerian Grott,
Where, nobly-pensive, St. John sate and thought;
Where British Sighs from dying Wyndham stole,
And the bright Flame was shot thro' Marchmont's Soul.
Let such, such only, tread this sacred Floor,
Who dare to love their Country, and be poor.

385

EPIGRAM.

[On lopping Trees in his Garden.]

My Ld. complains, that P--- (stark mad with Gardens)
Has lopp'd three Trees, the Value of three Farthings:
But he's my Neighbour, cries the Peer polite,
And if he'll visit me, I'll wave my Right.
What? on Compulsion? and against my Will
A Lord's Acquaintance?—Let him file his Bill.

386

EPITAPH.

On Himself.

Under this Marble, or under this Sill,
Or under this Turf, or e'en what they will;
Whatever an Heir, or a Friend in his stead,
Or any good Creature shall lay o'er my Head;
Lies He who ne'er car'd, and still cares not a Pin,
What they said, or may say of the Mortal within.
But who living and dying, serene still and free,
Trusts in God, that as well as he was, he shall be.

388

Verbatim from Boileau,

Un jour, dit un Auteur, &c. EPISTLE II.

Once (says an Author, where, I need not say)
Two Trav'lers found an Oyster in their Way;
Both fierce, both hungry, the Dispute grew strong,
While, Scale in Hand, Dame Justice past along.
Before her each with Clamour pleads the Laws,
Explain'd the Matter, and would win the Cause;
Dame Justice, weighing long the doubtful Right,
Takes, opens, swallows it, before their Sight.
The Cause of Strife remov'd so rarely well,
There, take (says Justice) take ye each a Shell.
We thrive at Westminster on Fools like you,
'Twas a fat Oyster—Live in Peace—Adieu.

389

On the Benefactions in the late Frost, 1740.

Yes, 'tis the time! I cry'd, impose the chain!
Destin'd and due to wretches self-enslav'd!
But when I saw such Charity remain,
I half could wish this people might be sav'd.
Faith lost, and Hope, their Charity begins;
And 'tis a wise design on pitying heav'n,
If this can cover multitudes of sins,
To take the only way to be forgiven.

390

COUPLETS & VERSICLES 1731–1740

I. Lines from Horace.

Our ancient kings (and sure those kings were wise)
Judged for themselves, and saw with their own eyes.

II. On Queen Caroline's Death-bed.

Here lies wrapt up in forty thousand towels
The only proof that C--- had bowels.

III. On a Picture of Queen Caroline, drawn by Lady Burlington.

Alas! what room for Flattry, or for Pride!
She's dead!—but thus she lookd the hour she dy'd,
Peace, blubbring Bishop! peace thou flattring Dean!
This single Crayon, Madam, saints the Queen.

391

IV. LINES

On Ministers

—But Ministers like Gladiators live;
Tis half their business, Blows to ward, or give,
The good their Virtue might effect, or sense,
Dies between Exigents, and self defence.

V. COUPLET

May THESE put Money in your Purse,
For I assure you, I've read worse.

A. P.

VI. On Dr. Alured Clarke

Let Clarke make half his life the poor's support,
But let him give the other half to court.

VII. COUPLET

From Horace .

In unambitious silence be my lot,
Yet ne'er a friend forgetting, till forgot.

392

VIII. COUPLET.

On his Grotto.

And life itself can nothing more supply
Than just to plan our projects, and to die.

IX. LINES

To King George II.

O all-accomplish'd Cæsar! on thy Shelf
Is room for all Pope's Works—and Pope himself:
'Tis true, Great Bard, thou on my shelf shall lye
With Oxford, Cowper, Noble Strafford by:
But for thy Windsor, a New Fabric Raise
And There Triumphant Sing Thy Soverain's Praise.

395

EPIGRAMS.

[On Shakespear's Monument]

I. [After an hundred and thirty years' nap]

After an hundred and thirty years' nap,
Enter Shakespear, with a loud clap.

II. [Thus Britain lov'd me; and preserv'd my Fame]

Thus Britain lov'd me; and preserv'd my Fame,
Clear from a Barber's or a Benson's Name.

397

EPIGRAM.

On Cibber's Declaration that he will have the Last Word with Mr. Pope.

Quoth Cibber to Pope, tho' in Verse you foreclose,
I'll have the last Word, for by G*d I'll write Prose.
Poor Colley, thy Reas'ning is none of the strongest,
For know, the last Word is the Word that lasts longest.

398

TOM SOUTHERNE's Birth-day Dinner at LD. ORRERY's.

Resign'd to live, prepar'd to die,
With not one sin but poetry,
This day Tom's fair account has run
(Without a blot) to eighty one.
Kind Boyle before his poet lays
A table with a cloth of bays;
And Ireland, mother of sweet singers,
Presents her harp still to his fingers,
The feast, his towring genius marks
In yonder wildgoose, and the larks!
The mushrooms shew his wit was sudden!
And for his judgment lo a pudden!

399

Roast beef, tho' old, proclaims him stout,
And grace, altho' a bard, devout.
May Tom, whom heav'n sent down to raise
The price of prologues and of plays,
Be ev'ry birth-day more a winner,
Digest his thirty-thousandth dinner;
Walk to his grave without reproach,
And scorn a rascal and a coach!

EPIGRAM

[On Bishop Hough .

A Bishop by his Neighbours hated
Has Cause to wish himself translated.
But why shou'd Hough desire Translation,
Lov'd and esteem'd by all the Nation?
Yet if it be the old Man's Case,
I'll lay my Life, I know the Place:
'Tis where God sent some that adore him,
And whither Enoch went before him.

400

EPITAPH On Mr. ROWE.

In Westminster-Abbey.

Thy Reliques, Rowe! to this sad Shrine we trust,
And near thy Shakespear place thy honour'd Bust,
Oh next him skill'd to draw the tender Tear,
For never Heart felt Passion more sincere:
To nobler Sentiment to fire the Brave,
For never Briton more disdain'd a Slave!
Peace to thy gentle Shade, and endless Rest,
Blest in thy Genius, in thy Love too blest;
And blest, that timely from Our Scene remov'd
Thy Soul enjoys that Liberty it lov'd.

To these, so mourn'd in Death, so lov'd in Life!
The childless Parent and the widow'd Wife
With tears inscribes this monumental Stone,
That holds their Ashes and expects her own.

402

EPIGRAM.

[On Laureates.]

When Laureates make Odes, do you ask of what sort?
Do you ask if they're good, or are evil?
You may judge—From the Devil they come to the Court,
And go from the Court to the Devil.

404

Fragment of Brutus, an Epic

The Patient Chief, who lab'ring long, arriv'd
On Britains Shore and brought with fav'ring Gods
Arts Arms and Honour to her Ancient Sons:
Daughter of Memory! from elder Time
Recall; and me, with Britains Glory fir'd,
Me, far from meaner Care or meaner Song,
Snatch to thy Holy Hill of Spotless Bay,
My Countrys Poet, to record her Fame.

405

Lines on BOUNCE.

Ah Bounce! ah gentle Beast! why wouldst thou dye,
When thou had'st Meat enough, and Orrery?