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

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.