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ADDITIONS TO THE WORKS OF ALEXANDER POPE, ESQ.

☞ Entered in the HALL BOOK of the Company of STATIONERS.

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ADDITIONS TO THE WORKS OF ALEXANDER POPE, ESQ.

TOGETHER WITH MANY ORIGINAL POEMS AND LETTERS, OF COTEMPORARY WRITERS, NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED.

IN TWO VOLUMES.

VOL. I.

— foliis tantum ne carmina manda,
Ne turbata volent rapidis ludibria ventis.
VIRGIL.
— pulverem Olympicum
Collegiſſe juvat:
HOR.
[figure]

LONDON: PRINTED FOR H. BALDWIN, T. LONGMAN, R. BALDWIN, G. ROBINSON, T. CASLON, G. KEARSLY, AND J. RIDLEY. 1776.

PREFACE.

[]

HOWEVER ſparing modern Authors are in giving due praiſe to their Cotempora⯑ries, they ſeem to be more united in acknow⯑ledging the merit of thoſe who, to uſe the language of the Pſalmiſt, ‘"have ceaſed from their labours."’ Writers, whoſe works have ſtood the teſt of years, have acquired a kind of preſcriptive title to celebrity, not on ac⯑count of that ſuperior wiſdom which is often attributed to times we have ſurvived, or the ſuppoſed degeneracy of the preſent, but be⯑cauſe, what has been long known has been more reflected upon, and what undergoes this examination is better underſtood.

In the catalogue of Authors, whoſe wri⯑tings have met with public reception, none have been more juſtly celebrated than thoſe of POPE, and his Cotemporaries; inſomuch, [ii] that their names have not only been honour⯑ably recorded, but the period in which they lived has been pre-eminently diſtinguiſhed by the title of the Auguſtan Age. Other points of time have here and there given birth to a great genius, who, like a leading ſtar, has enlightened the horizon of literature, but no particular aera, at leaſt of our hiſtory, has produced ſo general, and collected a light as this; a light which, at once, ſhone upon every part of ſcience, at the ſame time that it il⯑luminated the circle of morality.

What could have been the cauſe why ſuch a cluſter of great men flouriſhed at the ſame period of time, and why we have had no ſimilar ſucceſſion ever ſince? Whether the firſt aroſe from the emulation of authorſhip, which, like the colliſion of hard bodies, ſtruck a fire from each other, or that the latter was occaſioned by the number of finiſhed pieces they gave to the world, which has ever ſince occaſioned a kind of literary ſatiety, is a queſtion, per⯑haps, not ſo readily decided. This however [iii] is as generally known, as aſſented to, that from the very few eminent geniuſes who have ariſen ſince the flouriſhing days of this illuſtrious Junto, nature ſeems to have in⯑dulged herſelf in a temporary repoſe.

When Authors, therefore, have thus long engaged the public attention, when their works are read with avidity, and univerſally receive a claſſical ſtamp, thoſe who can add any thing to their illuſtration, and recover by time what has eluded former diligence, bring an acceptable preſent to the public. It is with good Authors as with good men; the nearer, and more intimately they are viewed, the more we are able to ſet a proper value upon their characters, and look up to them as more enforcing examples of imitation and inſtruction.

Under this idea, the Editor thinks he need make no apology in preſenting the public with two additional volumes to the Works of Mr. POPE, which contain ſuch of that celebrated Bard's pieces, in proſe and verſe, together with [iv] many of his Cotemporaries, as for particular and local reaſons were then ſuppreſſed, might have been miſlaid, or perhaps got into too remote hands to be collected with eaſe. He is aware, at the ſame time, that the public rage for the remains of celebrated men, has occaſioned many ſpurious productions being fathered on them, under the well-known titles of ſecond parts, and poſthumous works. Our beſt Authors, and principally our beſt, have been ſubject to ſuch impoſitions, which, tho' they have been in time detected, have yet anſwered the illiberal purpoſes of ſuch a tem⯑porary publication. The Editor of the pre⯑ſent Work, to get clear of the ſhadow of an imputation in this line, is the firſt to remind the public, that ſeveral of the pieces here exhibited originally appeared in The St. James's Chronicle.

The favourable reception they met with in that fugitive mode of publication, firſt ſuggeſted to him a wiſh to give them a more durable form; he accordingly communicated [v] this wiſh to his friends, who aſſiſted him in his deſign, ſo much beyond his expectation, that inſtead of one volume (his original in⯑tention) he has, by their favour, been able to make out two; compoſed of ſuch materials, as he flatters himſelf will acquit him of the charge of an haſty, or ſelf-intereſted compiler.

Many of the Letters and Poems, of which this publication conſiſts, were tranſcribed with accuracy from the originals, in the collections of the late Lords Oxford and Bolingbroke, who are well known to have lived in the ſtricteſt intimacy with Mr. POPE, as well as his literary friends and aſſociates. Some of the latter will be found no way in⯑ferior to other productions of the ſame Au⯑thors. All of the fragments, more or leſs, carry the marks of a maſter. Others of the Letters are taken from pamphlets printed ſome years ago, which, in the detached man⯑ner they then appeared, will, it is to be hoped, fully juſtify their preſent mode of publica⯑tion. They, for the moſt part, treat of cri⯑tical, [vi] friendly, humorous, and literary ſub⯑jects, and abſtracted from theſe, throw new lights upon the character of Mr. POPE, as a man.

His Letters to his favourite Miſs Blount lead to the ſupport of a charge often urged againſt him — his want of original inven⯑tion; for tho' the extent of his erudition, and his elegant turn of thinking, gave him a ſuperiority to all his Cotemporaries in poliſhing, to a degree of originality, other people's ſen⯑timents; yet here, whether from the careleſs⯑neſs ariſing from intimate friendſhip, idleneſs, or the ſuppoſition of his not being detected by his fair correſpondent, he has committed a plagiariſm on Voiture, which would be un⯑worthy a much leſs celebrated pen than his.

His Letter to Jabez Hughes, Eſq. brother to the author of the Siege of Damaſcus, with that of his to Mr. Dennis, the critic, are melancholy proofs that the greateſt genius cannot always ſhield men from duplicity of conduct in their literary characters, and bring [vii] another corroboration to the teſtimony of Gay's aſſertion, that

"Wits are game-cocks to each other."

But if theſe Letters ſhew the weakneſſes, perhaps the inſeparable weakneſſes from hu⯑man nature, others will ſhew ſome of its faireſt, and brighteſt ſides; they will exhibit the ſtrongeſt traits of his humanity and friendſhip, his wit, his learning, and his morals; they will confirm his more than Roman affection to his parents, and parti⯑cularly to his aged mother, whoſe life he watched over with ſuch ſoothing ſolicitude and exemplary reverence, as force us for a while to turn from the luſtre of his talents to admire the ſuperiority of his ſilial character.

A few Poems and Letters will be found in this collection, which appeared only in ſome of the editions of his works, in none of them quite perfect, which are particularly diſtinguiſhed in the latter, by the additional paragraphs being printed in Italics. This will [viii] juſtify their republication here, more parti⯑cularly as many of them are written in that unreſerved, open manner, which his original Editor might have a wiſh to conceal for many reaſons, that now no longer remain; at pre⯑ſent, the reſtoration of them can neither in⯑dulge vanity, nor gratify ſpleen: they may be read without any other reaſon than the deſire of pleaſure, and are therefore only to be praiſed as that object is obtained.

To many, in an age like this, where hypocriſy in morals is much practiſed, (as is ſhewn by our dramatic, and other writers,) perhaps a few of the Poems may appear too looſe and deſcriptive, particularly "The Farewel to London," the concluſion of the "Addreſs to Miſs Blount on leaving Town," and ſome paſſages in "The Sober Advice from Horace, &c." by Mr. POPE; together with the Poem called "Virtue in Danger," and others by Lady Mary Wortley Montague: but on a proper examination this charge of in⯑decency will be found to lie more in the readers turn of thinking, than the defects of [ix] the writer. A poet who wants to give his ſub⯑ject due force, ſhould comply with the rules of his profeſſion, by uſing ‘"proper words in proper places,"’ and provided he keeps a ſteady eye on the moral of his piece, the more he colours from nature, the more he aſſiſts his deſign, whilſt the hint and double entendrez, thoſe mock draperies of delicacy, often create a more indecent meaning than the circum⯑ſtance will allow, and urge the young and in⯑experienced reader more to the exerciſe of his paſſions than his reaſon.

Swift's delicacy has been often arraigned on the ſame principle; and his "Lady's Dreſſing Room," and others of his Poems of a ſimilar ſtamp, are ever ſure to be ad⯑duced as convincing proofs of this charge. But where is the woman of real ſenſe and cleanlineſs offended at it? Conſcious ſhe de⯑ſerves no ſuch reprehenſion in her own con⯑duct, ſhe ſees the general force of the ſatire only directed to the ſlatterns of her ſex, and is pleaſed with the hope of a conſequent reformation. In ſhort, the Editor is entirely [x] of opinion, that the ſame rule reſpecting decency, which a modern artiſt has laid down in painting, will equally hold good in poetry.

‘"It is not in ſhewing, or concealing the naked, that modeſty or lewdneſs depend. They ariſe entirely from the choice and intentions of the artiſt himſelf. A great mind can raiſe great, or pleaſing ideas, though he ſhews all the parts of the body in their natural way, whilſt the Cheapſide prints of the Buck and Quaker Girl, the charms of the Garter and High-wind, are proofs that very lewd ideas might be pro⯑duced, though little or nothing of the naked be diſcovered; and there is no doubt, but that the Venus De Medicis might be converted into a very lewd figure by dreſſing her out for that purpoſe *."’

The letters which paſſed between Mr. POPE, and his bookſellers, which are to be found in the ſecond of theſe volumes, may appear to thoſe who are to be no otherwiſe [xi] pleaſed with human genius than ſeeing it eternally on the ſtretch, rather too triſling; and as the public voice is not a little raiſed upon like occaſions, the Editor thinks it may be neceſſary to ſay ſomething on this ſubject.

It is objected, that moſt of our great wri⯑ters no ſooner eſtabliſh a reputation for their works, but there are never wanting intereſted people, who preferring a private lucre either to the fame of the author, or national honour, buſy themſelves in gleaning up their moſt un⯑intereſting thoughts on the moſt unintereſting ſubjects; ſuch as letters to tradeſmen, &c. and that kind of domeſtic correſpondence, which, to uſe the language of a modern au⯑thor, ‘"a wiſe man ſhould be aſhamed to re⯑member."’

Was a collection of this kind purpoſely made for the filling up a volume without the leaſt regard to amuſement, curioſity, or in⯑ſtruction, it muſt ſoon defeat its own pur⯑poſes; for, however common readers may for [xii] a while be pleaſed with the novelty, the re⯑probation it muſt receive from men of ſenſe, would ſoon diſtinguiſh it as the mortal part of an author, and in this ſtate conſign it to ob⯑livion. But trifling as theſe Letters ap⯑pear to be, many of them referring to literary buſineſs, help to ſettle dates, and explain re⯑ferences, which perhaps before were not quite ſo intelligible, and like thoſe well digeſted queſtions on a legal examination, which how⯑ever ſimple they may appear in reſpect to their immediate enquiries are yet important, as they ſtrengthen, or elucidate a fact in their connections. Others will ſerve to ſhew the degree of intimacy between the poet and book⯑ſeller of that time, the proceſs of publica⯑tion, and many other little anecdotes of par⯑ties and places, too trifling to be otherwiſe recorded, but by this mode of preſervation, and yet too curious (at leaſt to literary enqui⯑rers) to fall down the ſtream of obſcurity.

The Editor having now made thoſe apo⯑logies which he thought neceſſary for offering theſe volumes to the public, he will no longer [xiii] detain them from the exerciſe of their own judgement. He cannot, however, conclude without aſſuring them that his deſign in this compilation was no more than to collect in one view, ſuch pieces of our celebrated Engliſh Bard, and his Cotemporaries, as may be loſt to the world from a fugitive mode of pub⯑lication, and others which might be equally loſt from their being only open to the inſpec⯑tion of the few. In this, as he has ſpared no induſtry, or expence himſelf, and ſtands much indebted to the reſearches and intereſt of many of his friends, he hopes to have the merit of a faithful and uſeful Com⯑piler, and that theſe volumes may not be thought improper appendages to the preſent edition of POPE'S WORKS.

[]

CONTENTS OF THE POEMS IN VOL. I.

  • A Farewell to London, in the year 1715 Page 1
  • Lines added to the Addreſs to Miſs Martha Blount on her leaving Town 4
  • Lines ſung by Duraſtanti on leaving the Engliſh Stage 6
  • A Burleſque of the ſame Lines, by Dr. Arbuthnot 7
  • A Fragment of Stanza's, taken from Mr. Pope's own hand-writing 8
  • Mr. Gay's Epitaph ibid
  • Lord Coningſhy's Epitaph 9
  • The beginning Lines of Homer's Iliad, as origi⯑nally tranſlated by Mr. Pope ibid
  • A Dialogue 10
  • Verſes to Mrs. Martha Blount on her Birth-Day, 1724 11
  • Epigram engraved on the Collar of a Dog, which Mr. Pope gave to his Royal Highneſs ibid
  • Epigrams occaſioned by an Invitation to Court 12
  • On Butler's Monument 13
  • Verſes to be prefixed before Bernard Lintot's New Miſcellany 14
  • On the Duke of Marlborough's Houſe at Woodſtock 15
  • To Lady Mary Wortley Montague 16
  • A Verſion of the Firſt Pſalm, for the Uſe of a young Lady 18
  • [] To Mr. Moore, Author of the celebrated Worm-Powder 19
  • A modern Imitation of the Fourth Epiſtle of the Firſt Book of Horace's Epiſtles 21
  • A Fragment, attributed by ſome to Mr. Pope, and by others to Mr. Congreve 23
  • Verſes left by Mr. Pope, on his lying in the ſame Bed which Wilmot the celebrated Earl of Ro⯑cheſter ſlept in at Adderbury, then belonging to the Duke of Argyle, July 9, 1739 24
  • Sober Advice from Horace, to the young Gentlemen about Town, as delivered in his ſecond Sermon, imitated in the Manner of Mr. Pope; together with the original Text, as reſtored by the Rev. Richard Bentley, D. D. and ſome Remarks on the Verſion 25, 29
  • An Epiſtle to Henry Cromwell, Eſq. 44
  • The Tranſlator 49
  • Roxana, or the Drawing-Room ibid
  • The Looking-Glaſs 52
  • The Challenge: A Court Ballad 53
  • The Three Gentle Shepherds 55
  • Lines copied from Mr. Pope's Hand-writing, on a Scrap of Paper 56
  • An Eſſay on Human Life 57
  • To the Prince of Orange, 1677. By Edmund Waller, of Beaconsfield 86
  • A true and faithful Inventory of the Goods belong⯑ing to the Dean of St. Patrick's. By Dr. Swift 89
  • Lines written under the Print of Tom Britton, the Small-Coal-Man, painted by Mr. Woolaſton. By Mr. Prior 90
  • By the ſame ibid
  • A Letter to Lady Margaret Cavendiſh Harley when a Child. By Mr. Prior 91
  • To Lord Oxford; written extempore by Mr. Prior, in Lady Oxford's Study ibid
  • [] Verſes written in Lady Howe's Ovid's Epiſtles. By Mr. Prior 92
  • By Mr. Prior, 1716 ibid
  • By the ſame ibid
  • True's Epitaph. By Mr. Prior 93
  • Mr. Pope's Welcome from Greece. By Mr. Gay, upon Mr. Pope's having finiſhed his Tranſlation of Homer's Iliad 94
  • Motto for the Opera of Mutius Scaevola. By Mr. Gay 104
  • Mr. Gay's Epigrammatical Petition to the Earl of Oxford, Lord High Treaſurer ibid
  • The Ducheſs of Queenſberry's Reply to King George II. when ſhe was forbid to appear at Court 105
  • Copies of Verſes written on the above ſubject 106, &c.
  • A Ballad on the ſame ſubject, to the tune of Lilli⯑bullero 109
  • Written in Mr. Gay's Works, preſented to a Lady in very ſplendid binding. To the Book 112
  • On the forbiddance of Gay's ſecond part of the Beggar's Opera, and the damnation of Cibber's Love in a Riddle ibid
  • On Lady Pembroke's promoting the Cat-Calling of Fauſtina, 1727 113
  • The Character of Lady Henrietta Cavendiſh Holles. By Mr. Hughes. ibid
  • To the ſame, on her choice of Truth, Honour, and Honeſty for her Motto. By Mr. Hughes 114
  • The humble Petition of a beautiful young Lady to the Rev. Dr. Berkley, Dean of Londonderry, which he quits to go and ſettle a College at Ber⯑mudas 115
  • Prologue to Muſic. By Dr. Garth 116
  • Butler's Complaint againſt his pretended Monument in Weſtminſter Abbey 117
  • [] Lines written with charcoal upon Butler's Monu⯑ment 118
  • Epigram on the Miracles wrought by Cuzzoni ibid
  • Epigram in behalf of Tom Southern, to the Duke of Argyle ibid
  • A Deſcription of Dr. Delany's Villa. By Dr. Sheridan 119
  • Verſes written in the Earl of Oxford's Library at Wimpole, 1729. By Soame Jenyns 121
  • Ragg's Verſes to J. Philips 123
  • The Duke of Buckingham's Epitaph. Written by Himſelf 125
  • — tranſlated by George Sewell, M. D. ibid
  • Epitaph on Mr. Craggs 126
  • On Sir Abraham Elt being knighted, and taking the name of Elton 127
  • A Weſtminſter Exerciſe 128
  • Epitaph on Mr. Thynne 129
  • A Parſon's Reſolution ibid
  • Verſes to a Lady ibid
  • Epitaph on Dr. John Friend 131
  • Epitaph intended by Mr. Dryden for his Wife ibid
  • Epitaph on Mr. Moleſworth, who erected a Monu⯑ment, and placed an Inſcription upon it in honour of his favourite Dog 132
  • Verſes on Dr. Evans, Burſar, cutting down the trees in St. John's College Grove. By Dr. Tadlow ibid
  • Dr. Evans upon Dr. Tadlow ibid
  • Verſes to be publiſhed in the next edition of Dryden's Virgil 133
  • To a Lady more cruel than fair. By Sir John Vanbrugh ibid
  • Verſes on the Royſton Bargain, or Ale-houſe Wed⯑ding 135
  • To Mrs. B. to invite her from Virginia to Bermudas 138
  • [] A Bermudan Ode 140
  • Sir Charles Hanbury to Sir Hans Sloane 145
  • Mr. Hanbury to Sir Harry Aſhurſt 148
  • Lord Harvey on the Ducheſs of Richmond 149
  • On a Collar preſented for Happy Gill. By Mr. Hughes 150
  • Lord Middleſex to Mr. Pope, on reading Mr. Ad⯑diſon's Account of the Engliſh Poets 151
  • The 21ſt Ode of the Third Book of Horace tranſ⯑lated. By Lord Middleſex 153
  • Verſes on a Gooſe. By Lord Middleſex 154
  • On Lady A. 155
  • Dr. Winter's Queſtions to Dr. Cheney 156
  • Dr. Cheney's Anſwer 157
  • Verſes on the Art of Politics. By the Rev. Mr. Bramſton 158
  • A Ballad found in a cottage in Lancaſhire, and ſent up to Lord Oxford 160
  • Verſes on Oxford Geniuſes 163
  • Knight verſus Parſon. By the Rev. Mr. Bramſton ibid
  • An Epiſtle to Lord Cobham. By Mr. Congreve 165
  • To Lady Irwin. By Lady Mary Wortley Montague 168
  • Lady Irwin's Anſwer 170
  • An Elegy on Mrs. Bowes. By Lady Mary Wortley Montague 171
  • Verſes on the above Elegy 172
  • The Anſwer to the above Elegy ibid
  • On a Lady miſtaking a dying Trader for a dying Lover. By Lady Mary Wortley Montague 173
  • Virtue in Danger: A lamentable ſtory how a virtu⯑ous Lady had like to have been raviſhed by her ſiſter's footman. By Lady Mary Wortley Montague 176
  • [] Epiſtle from Arthur Grey, the footman, after his condemnation for attempting a Rape. By Lady Mary Wortley Montague 182
  • Mr. John Philips's deſigned Dedication to his Poem called the Splendid Shilling 188

LETTERS, &c. IN VOL. I.

  • MR. PITT, the Tranſlator of Virgil, to Mr. Spence 192
  • Original Letter from Mr. George Vertue to Mr. Charles Chriſtian 195
  • Mr. Prior to Mr. Wanley 198, 199
  • Mr. E. Settle to Lord Oxford 200
  • Mr. Pope to a Lady 201, 204, 208, 209, 211, 214, 218, 221, 224, 225, 228, 231
  • Extract of a Letter from Lord Bolingbroke to Monſieur Pouilly de Champeaux 235

[]ADDITIONS TO THE WORKS OF POPE, &c.

A FAREWELL TO LONDON IN THE YEAR 1715.

By Mr. POPE.
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.
[2]
To drink and droll be Rowe allow'd
Till the third watchman toll*;
Let Jervaſe gratis paint, and Frowde†
Save three-pence and his ſoul.
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‖.
[3]
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 pounds,
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.
[4]
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 foul, ſincere and free,
Loves all mankind, but flatters none,
And ſo may ſtarve with me.

Theſe Lines were added by Mr. POPE after the pre⯑ſent Concluſion of his Addreſs to Miſs MARTHA BLOUNT on her leaving Town, &c. "As ſome fond Virgin, &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.
[5] 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.

The following Lines were ſung by DURASTANTI* when ſhe took her Leave of the ENGLISH STAGE. The Words were in Haſte put together by Mr. POPE, at the Requeſt of the Earl of PETERBOROW.

[6]
GENEROUS, gay, and gallant nation,
Bold in arms, and bright in arts;
Land ſecure from all invaſion,
All but Cupid's gentle darts!
From your charms, oh who would run?
Who would leave you for the ſun?
Happy ſoil, adieu, adieu!
Let old charmers yield to new.
In arms, in arts, be ſtill more ſhining;
All your joys be ſtill encreaſing;
All your taſtes be ſtill refining;
All your jars for ever ceaſing:
But let old charmers yield to new:—
Happy ſoil, adieu, adieu!

A BURLESQUE of the ſame Lines.

[7]
By Dr. ARBUTHNOT.
PUPPIES, whom I now am leaving,
Merry ſometimes, always mad,
who laviſh moſt when debts are craving,
On fool, and farce, and maſquerade!
Who would not from ſuch bubbles run,
And leave ſuch bleſſings for the ſun?
Happy ſoil, and ſimple crew!
Let old ſharpers yield to new:
All your taſtes be ſtill refining;
All your nonſenſe ſtill more ſhining:
Bleſt in ſome Berenſtadt or Boſchi*,
He more aukward, he more huſky;
And never want, when theſe are loſt t'us,
Another Heidegger and Fauſtus†.
Happy ſoil, and ſimple crew!
Let old ſharpers yield to new!
Bubbles all, adieu, adieu!

A FRAGMENT of STANZAS, taken from Mr. POPE's own Hand-writing.

[8]
XIII.
THEN he went to the ſide-board and call'd for much liquor,
And glaſs after glaſs he drank quicker and quicker;
So that Heidegger quoth,
Nay, faith on his oath,
Of two hogſheads of burgundy Satan drank both.
Then all like a [...] the Devil appear'd,
And ſtrait the whole table of diſhes he clear'd:
Then a friar, then a nun,
And then he put on
A face, all the company took for his own.
Even thine, O falſe Heidegger! who wort ſo wicked
To let in the Devil [...]

Mr. GAY's EPITAPH.

By Mr. POPE.
WELL then! poor Gay 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.

Lord CONINGSBY's EPITAPH*.

[9]
By Mr. POPE.
HERE lies Lord Coningſby—be civil;
The reſt God knows—ſo does the Devil.

The beginning Lines of HOMER's ILIAD as originally tranſlated by Mr. POPE.

THE ſtern Pelides' rage, O Goddeſs! ſing,
Of all the woes of Greece, the fatal ſpring,
That ſtrow'd with warriors dead the Phrygian plain,
And peopled the dark ſhades with heroes ſlain;
Whoſe limbs unburied on the hoſtile ſhore,
Devouring dogs and greedy vulturs tore.
Since firſt Atrides and Achilles ſtrove,
Such was the ſov'reign doom, and ſuch the will of Jove.
Declare, O Goddeſs! what offended pow'r
Enflam'd their rage in that ill-omen'd hour!
Phoebus himſelf the dire debate procur'd,
T'avenge the wrongs his injur'd prieſt endur'd.
[10]
For this the God a dire infection ſpread,
And heap'd the camp with millions of the dead.
The king of men the ſacred Sire defy'd,
And for the king's offence the people dy'd.

A DIALOGUE.

By Mr. POPE.
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*.

To Mrs. MARTHA BLOUNT, on her Birth-Day, 1724.

[11]
By Mr. POPE.
IF added days of life bring nothing new,
But, like a ſieve, let every pleaſure through;
Some joy ſtill loſt, as each vain year runs o'er,
And all we gain, ſome penſive notion more;
Is this a birth-day? ah! 'tis ſadly clear,
'Tis but the fun'ral of the former year.
If there's no hope with kind, tho' fainter ray,
To gild the evening of our future day;
If every page of life's long volume tell
The ſame dull ſtory—Mordaunt*! thou did'ſt well.

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

By Mr. POPE.
I Am his Highneſs' dog at Kew;
Pray tell me, Sir, whoſe dog are you?

EPIGRAMS,
Occaſioned by an Invitation to Court.

[12]
By Mr. POPE,
I.
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,
But you ſhew your wit, whereas they ſhew their tails.
III.
YOU Bellenden, Griffin, and little Lepell,
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 Argyle, would he write, might have writ.
IV.
ADAM had fallen twice, if for an apple
The D [...]l had brought him Bellenden and Lepell,
V.
ON Sunday at ſix, in the ſtreet that's call'd Gerrard,
You may meet the two champions who are no lord Sh [...]rd.
[13]VI.
YOU ſay A [...]'s a wit, for what?
For writing? no—for writing not.

On BUTLER's MONUMENT.
Perhaps by Mr. POPE*.

RESPECT to Dryden, Sheffield juſtly pay'd,
And noble Villers honour'd Cowley's ſhade:
But whence this Barber?—that a name ſo mean
Should, join'd with Butler's, on a tomb be ſeen:
This pyramid would better far proclaim,
To future ages humbler Settle's name:
Poet and patron then had been well pair'd,
The city printer, and the city bard.

VERSES to be prefixed before BERNARD LINTOT's NEW MISCELLANY.

[14]
By Mr. POPE.
SOME Colinaeus praiſe, ſome Bleau,
Others account 'em but ſo, ſo;
Some Plantin to the reſt prefer,
And ſome eſteem Old Elzevir;
Others with Aldus wou'd 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 Rawlinſon* 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,
[15] 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 [...].

Upon the Duke of MARLBOROUGH's Houſe at Woodſtock.

By Mr. POPE.
Atria longè patent; ſed nee coenantibus uſquam,
Nec ſomno locus eſt; quàm bene non habites!
MART. Epig.
SEE, Sir, here's the grand approach,
This way is for his Grace's coach;
There lies the bridge, and here's the clock,
Obſerve the lion and the cock,
The ſpacious court, the colonnade,
And mark how wide the hall is made!
The chimneys are ſo well deſign'd,
They never ſmoke in any wind.
This gallery's contriv'd for walking,
The windows to retire and talk in;
The council-chamber for debate,
And all the reſt are rooms of ſtate.
[16]
Thanks, Sir, cry'd I, 'tis very fine.
But where d'ye ſleep, or where d'ye dine?
I find by all you have been telling,
That 'tis a houſe, but not a dwelling.

To Lady MARY WORTLEY MONTAGUE*.

By Mr. POPE.
I.
IN beauty, or wit,
No mortal as yet
To queſtion your empire has dar'd;
But men of diſcerning
Have thought that in learning,
To yield to a lady was hard.
II.
Impertinent ſchools,
With muſty dull rules,
Have reading to females deny'd:
So papiſts refuſe
The Bible to uſe,
Leſt flocks ſhou'd be wiſe as their guide.
[17]III.
'Twas a woman at firſt,
(Indeed ſhe was curſt)
In knowledge that taſted delight,
And ſages agree
The laws ſhou'd decree
To the firſt of poſſeſſors the right.
IV.
Then bravely, fair dame,
Reſume the old claim,
Which to your whole ſex does belong;
And let men receive,
From a ſecond bright Eve,
The knowledge of right, and of wrong.
V.
But if the firſt Eve
Hard doom did receive,
When only one apple had ſhe,
What a puniſhment new
Shall be found out for you,
Who taſting, have robb'd the whole tree?

A Verſion of the FIRST PSALM. For the Uſe of a young Lady,

[18]
By Mr. POPE.
I.
THE maid is bleſt that will not hear
Of maſquerading tricks,
Nor lends to wanton ſongs an ear,
Nor ſighs for coach and ſix.
II.
To pleaſe her ſhall her huſband ſtrive
With all his main and might,
And in her love ſhall exerciſe
Himſelf both day and night.
III.
She ſhall bring forth moſt pleaſant fruit,
He flouriſh ſtill, and ſtand;
Even ſo all things ſhall proſper well
That this maid takes in hand.
IV.
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.
[19]V.
For why, the pure and cleanly maids
Shall all good huſbands gain;
But filthy and uncleanly jades
Shall rot in Drury-Lane.

To the ingenious Mr. MOORE, Author of the celebrated Worm-Powder.

By Mr. POPE.
HOW much, egregious Moore, are we
Deceiv'd by ſhows and forms!
Whate'er we think, whate'er we ſee,
All human race are Worms.
Man is a very Worm by birth,
Proud reptile*, vile and vain,
A while he crawls upon the earth,
Then ſhrinks to earth again.
[20]
That woman is a Worm, we find,
E'er ſince our grannum's evil;
She firſt convers'd with her own kind,
The ancient Worm, the devil.
But whether man, or he, God knows,
Foecundify'd her belly,
With that pure ſtuff from whence we roſe,
The genial vermicelli.
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;
Firſt from a Worm they took their riſe,
Then in a Worm decay.
The flatterer an ear-wig grows,
Some Worms ſuit all conditions;
Miſers are Muck-worms, Silk-worms, beaux,
And Death-watches, phyſicians.
That ſtateſmen have a Worm, is ſeen
By all their winding play:
Their conſcience is a Worm within,
That gnaws them night and day.
[21]
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 Ab-church-lane,
Who ſett'ſt our entrails free,
Vain is thy art, thy powder vain,
Since Worms ſhall eat ev'n thee.
Thou only canſt our fate adjourn,
Some few ſhort years; no more:
Ev'n Button's wits to Worms ſhall turn,
Who Maggots were before.

The Fourth Epiſtle of the Firſt Book of HORACE'S Epiſtles *.
A modern Imitation. By Mr. POPE.

SAY †, St. John, who alone peruſe
With candid eye, the mimick muſe,
[22] What ſchemes of politics, or laws,
In Gallic lands the patriot draws!
Is then a greater work in hand,
Than all the tomes of Haines's band?
" Or ſhoots he folly as it flies?
" Or catches manners as they riſe?"
Or urg'd by unquench'd native heat,
* Does St. John Greenwich ſports repeat?
Where (emulous of Chartres' fame)
Ev'n Chartres' ſelf is ſcarce a name.
† To you (th' all-envy'd gift of Heav'n)
Th'indulgent gods, unaſk'd, have giv'n
A form complete in ev'ry part,
And, to enjoy that gift, the art.
‡ What could a tender mother's care
Wiſh better, to her fav'rite heir,
Than wit, and fame, and lucky hours,
A ſtock of health, and golden ſhow'rs,
And graceful fluency of ſpeech,
Precepts before unknown to teach?
[23]
* Amidſt thy various ebbs of fear;
And gleaming hope, and black deſpair,
Yet let thy friend this truth impart,
A truth I tell with bleeding heart,
(In juſtice for your labours paſt)
† That ev'ry day ſhall be your laſt;
That ev'ry hour you life renew
Is to your injur'd country due.
In ſpight of fears, of mercy ſpight,
My genius ſtill muſt rail, and write.
Haſte to thy Twick'nham's ſafe retreat,
And mingle with the grumbling great:
There, half devour'd by ſpleen, you'll find
The rhyming bubbler of mankind;
There (objects of our mutual hate)
We'll ridicule both church and ſtate.

A FRAGMENT, attributed by ſome to Mr. POPE, and by others to Mr. CONGREVE. It has however been ſeen in the Hand-writing of the former.

WHAT are the falling rills, the pendant ſhades,
The morning bow'rs, the evening colonnades,
[24] But ſoft receſſes for th'uneaſy mind
To ſigh unheard in, to the paſſing wind!
So the ſtruck deer, in ſome ſequeſter'd part,
Lies down to die (the arrow in his heart)
There hid in ſhades, and waſting day by day,
Inly he bleeds, and pants his ſoul away.

VERSES left by Mr. POPE, on his lying in the ſame Bed which WILMOT the celebrated Earl of Roche⯑ſter ſlept in, at Adderbury, then belonging to the Duke of Argyle, July 9th, 1739.

WITH no poetic ardour 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 in thy roof, Argyle, are bred
Such thoughts as prompt the brave to lie
Stretch'd out in honour's nobler bed,
Beneath a nobler roof—the ſky.
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.

SOBER ADVICE FROM HORACE*, TO THE YOUNG GENTLEMEN ABOUT TOWN.
As delivered in his SECOND SERMON. IMITATED† in the Manner of Mr. POPE.
Together with the Original Text, as reſtored by The Rev. RICHARD BENTLEY, D. D.
And ſome REMARKS on the VERSION.

[]

TO ALEXANDER POPE, ESQ*.

[27]
SIR,

I HAVE ſo great a truſt in your indulgence to⯑wards me, as to believe you cannot but patronize this Imitation, ſo much in your own manner, and whoſe birth I may truly ſay is owing to you†. In that confidence, I would not ſuppreſs the criticiſms made upon it by the Reverend Doctor; the rather, ſince he has promiſed to mend the faults in the next edi⯑tion, with the ſame goodneſs he has practiſed to Milton. I hope you will believe that while I expreſs my regard for you, it is only out of modeſty I con⯑ceal my name; ſince, tho' perhaps I may not profeſs myſelf your admirer ſo much as ſome others, I can⯑not but be, with as much inward reſpect, good-will, and zeal, as any man,

Dear SIR,
Your moſt affectionate, And faithful ſervant.

HORATII FLACCI, S. II. L. I.
TEXTUM RECENSUIT V. R. RICARDUS BENTLEIUS, S. T. P.

[28]
AMbubajarum collegia, pharmacopolae,
Mendici, mimae, balatrones; hoc genus omne
Moeſtum ac ſollicitum eſt cantoris morte Tigelli:
Quippe benign us erat—
Contra hic, ne prodigus eſſe
Dicatur, metuens, inopi dare nolit amico,
Frigus quo duramque famem depellere poſſit,
Hunc ſi percon teris, avi cur atque parentis
Praeclaram ingrata ſtringat malus ingluvie rem,
Omnia conduct is coëmens obſonia nummis:
" Sordidus, atque animi quod parvi nolit haberi,"
Reſpondet. Laudatur ab his, culpatur ab illis,
[30]
Fufidius vappae famam timet ac nebulonis,
Dives agris, dives poſitis in foenore nummis.
Quinas hic capiti mercedes exſecat; atque
Quanto perditior quiſque eſt, tanto acrius urget.
Nomina ſectatur, modo ſumpta veſte virili
Sub patribus duris, tironum. Maxime, quis non,
Jupiter, exclamat, ſimul atque audivit? "At in ſe
" Pro quaeſtu ſumtum facit hic." Vix credere poſſis
Quam ſibi non ſit amicus: ita ut Pater ille, Terentî
Fabula quem miſerum gnato vixiſſe fugato
Inducit, non ſe pejus cruciaverit atque hic.
Si quis nunc quaerat, Quo res haec pertinet? Illuc:
" Dum vitant ſtulti vitia, in contraria currunt."
Malchinus tunicis demiſſis ambulat: eſt qui
Inguen ad obſcoenum ſubductis uſque facetus:
Paſtillos Ruſillus olet, Gargonius hircum.
Nil medium eſt. Sunt qui nolint tetigiſſe, niſi illas,
Quarum ſubſuta talos tegat inſtita veſte:
Contra alius nullam, niſi olente in fornice ſtantem.
Quidam notus homo cum exiret fornice; "Macte
[32] " Virtute eſto, inquit, ſententia dia Catonis,
" Nam ſimul ac venas inflavit tetra libido,
" Huc juvenes aequum eſt deſcendere, non alienas
" Permolere uxores.—"
—Nolim laudarier, inquit,
Sic me, mirator CUNNI CUPENNIUS ALBI*.
Audire eſt operae pretium, procedere recte
Qui moechos non voltis, ut omni parte laborent;
Utque illis multo corrupta dolore voluptas,
Atque haec rara, cadat dura inter ſaepe pericla.
Hic ſe praecipitem tecto dedit: ille flagellis
Ad mortem caeſus: fugiens hic decidit acrem
Praedonum in turbam: dedit hic pro corpore nummos:
Hunc perminxerunt calones; quin etiam illud
Accidit, ut† cuidam TESTIS, CAUDAMQUE SALACEM
Demeterent ferro. Jure omnes. Galba negabat.
[34]
Tutior at quanto merx eſt in claſſe ſecunda!
Libertinarum dico: Salluſtius in qua
Non minus inſanit, quam qui moechatur. At hic ſi,
Qua res, qua ratio ſuaderet, quaque modeſte
Munifico eſſe licet, vellet bonus atque benignus
Eſſe; daret quantum ſatis eſſet, nec ſibi damno
Dedecorique foret. Verum hoc ſe amplectitur uno,
Hoc amat & laudat: Matronam nullam ego tango.
Ut quondam Marſaeus amator Originis, ille
Qui patrium mimae donat fundumque laremque,
Nil fuerit mi, inquit, cum uxoribus unquam alienis.
Verum eſt cum mimis, eſt cum meretricibus: unde
Fama malum gravius, quam res, trahit. An tibi abunde
Perſonam ſatis eſt, non illud, quicquid ubique
Officit, evitare? bonam deperdere famam,
Rem patris oblimare, malum eſt ubicumque, Quid inter-
Eſt in matrona, ancilla, pecceſne togata?
Villius in Fauſta Sullae gener, hoc miſer uno
Nomine deceptus, poenas dedit uſque, ſuperque
Quam ſatis eſt; pugnis caeſus, ferroque petitus,
Excluſus fore, cum Longarenus foret intus.
[36]
Huic ſi, mutonis verbis, mala tanta videnti
Diceret haec animus: Quid vis tibi? numquid ego a te
Magno prognatum depoſco conſule* CUNNUM,
Velatumque ſtola, mea cum conferbuit ira?
Quid reſponderet? Magno patre nata puella eſt.
At quanto meliora monet, pugnantiaque iſtis,
Dives opis natura ſuae! ut ſi modo recte
Diſpenſare velis, ac non fugienda petendis
Inmiſcere.
—Tuo vitio, rerumne labores,
Nil referre putas? quare, non poeniteat te,
Define matronas ſectarier: unde laboris
Plus haurire mali eſt, quam ex re decerpere fructus.
Nec magis huic, inter niveos virideſque lapillos
Sit licet, o Cerinthe, tuo tenerum eſt femur, aut crus
Rectius: atque etiam melius perſaepe togatae eſt.
[38] Adde huc, quod mercem ſine fucis geſtat; aperte
Qucd venale habet, oſtendit; neque ſi quid honeſti eſt
Jactat habetque palam, quaerit quo turpia celet.
Regibus hic mos eſt, ubi equos mercantur opertos
Inſpiciunt: ne ſi facies, ut ſaepe, decora
Molli fulta pede eſt; emtorem ducat hiantem,
Quod pulchrae clunes, breve quod caput, ardua cervix.
Hoc illi recte. Tu corporis optima Lyncei
Contemplare oculis; Hypſaea caecior, illa
Quae mala ſunt, ſpectas, O crus, O brachia! verum
Depygis, naſuta, brevi latere, ac pede longo eſt.
Matronae, praeter faciem, nil cernere poſſis;
Caetera, ni Catia eſt, demiſſa veſte tegentis.
Si interdicta petes, vallo circumdata, (nam te
Hoc facit inſanum) multa tibi tum officient res;
Cuſtodes, lectica, ciniflones, parafitae;
Ad talos ſtola demiſſa, & circumdata palla:
Plurima, quae invideant purè apparere tibi rem.
[40] Altera nil obſtat: Cois tibi pene videre eſt
Ut nudam; ne crure malo, ne ſit pede turpi:
Metiri poſſis oculo latus, an tibi mavis
Inſidias fieri, pretiumque avellier, ante
Quam mercem oſtendi?
— LEPOREM venator ut alta
In nive ſectetur, poſitum ſic tangere nolit:
Cantat, & adponit MEUS eſt amor huic ſimilis, nam
Tranſvolat in medio poſita, & fugientia captat.
Hiſcene verſiculis ſperas tibi poſſe dolores,
Atque aeſtus, curaſque graves e pectore tolli?
Nonne, cupidinibus ſtatuat natura modum quem,
Quid latura, ſibi quid ſit dolitura negatum,
Quaerere plus prodeſt; & inane abſcindere ſoldo?
Num, tibi cum fauces urit ſitis, aurea quaeris
Pocula? num eſuriens faſtidis omnia praeter
* Pavonem rhombumque? tument tibi cum inguina, num, ſi
Ancilla aut verna eſt praeſto puer, impetus in quem
Continuo fiat, malis tentigine rumpi?
Non ego: namque "parabilem amo venerem, faci⯑lemque."
[42] ILLAM, poſt paulo, ſed pluris ſi exierit vir,
Gallis: hanc Philodemus ait ſibi, quae neque magno
Stet pretio; nec cunctetur, cum eſt juſſa venire.
Candida rectaque ſit; munda hactenus, ut neque longa,
Nec magis alba velit, quam det natura, videri.
Haec, ubi ſuppoſuit dextro corpus mihi laevum,
Ilia & Egeria eſt: do nomen quodlibet illi.
Nec vereor, ne, dum futuo, vir rure recurrat;
Janua frangatur; latret canis; undique magno
Pulſa domus ſtrepitu reſonet: ne pallida lecto
Defiliat mulier; miſeram ſe conſcia clamet;
Cruribus haec metuat, doti haec deprenſa, egomet mi.
Diſcincta tunica fugiendum eſt, ac pede nudo;
Ne nummi pereant, aut pyga, aut denique fama.
Deprendi miſerum eſt: Fabio vel judice vincam.

SOBER ADVICE FROM HORACE.

[29]
THE tribe of Templars, Play'rs, Apothecaries,
Pimps, Poets, Wits, Lord Fanny's, Lady Mary's,
And all the court in tears, and half the town,
Lament dear charming Oldfield, dead and gone!
Engaging Oldfield! who, with grace and eaſe,
Could join the arts, to ruin and to pleaſe.
Not ſo, who of ten thouſand gull'd her knight,
Then aſk'd ten thouſand for a ſecond night;
The gallant too, to whom ſhe pay'd it down,
Liv'd to refuſe that miſtreſs half a crown*.
Con. Philips cries, "A ſneaking dog I hate,"
That's all three lovers have for their eſtate!
" Treat on, treat on," is her eternal note,
And lands and tenements go down her throat.
Some damn the jade, and ſome the cullies blame,
But not Sir H [...]t, for he does the ſame.
[31]
With all a woman's virtues but the pox,
Fufidia thrives in money, land, and ſtocks:
For int'reſt, ten per cent. her conſtant rate is;
Her body! hopeful heirs may have it gratis.
She turns her very ſiſter to a Job,
And, in the happy minute, picks your fob:
Yet ſtarves herſelf, ſo little her own friend,
And thirſts and hungers only at one end:
A ſelf-tormentor, worſe than (in the* Play)
The wretch, whoſe av'rice drove his ſon away.
But why all this? Beloved, 'tis my theme:
" Women and fools are always in extreme."
Rufa's at either end a common-ſhoar,
Sweet Moll and Jack are civet-cat and boar:
Nothing in nature is ſo lewd as Peg,
Yet, for the world, ſhe would not ſhew her leg!
While baſhful Jenny, ev'n at morning prayer,
† Spreads her fore-buttocks to the navel bare.
But diff'rent taſte in diff'rent men prevails,
And one is fir'd by heads, and one by tails;
Some feel no flames but at the court or ball,
And others hunt white aprons in the Mall.
My lord of L [...]n, chancing to remark
A noted Dean much buſy'd in the Park,
[33] " Proceed (he cry'd) proceed, my reverend brother,
" 'Tis fornicatio ſimplex, and no other.
" Better than luſt for boys, with Pope and Turk,
" Or others ſpouſes, like * my Lord of [...]."
May no ſuch praiſe (cries J [...]s) e'er be mine,
J [...]s, who bows at Hi [...]ſb [...]w's hoary ſhrine.
All you, who think the city ne'er can thrive,
'Till ev'ry cuckold maker's flead alive,
Attend, while I their miſeries explain,
And pity men of pleaſure ſtill in pain!
Survey the pangs they bear, the riſques they run,
Where the moſt lucky are but laſt undone.
See wretched Monſieur flies to ſave his throat,
And quits his miſtreſs, money, ring, and note!
K [...] of his footman's borrow'd livery ſtript,
By worthier footmen piſt upon and whipt!
Plunder'd by thieves, or lawyers, which is worſe,
One bleeds in perſon, and one bleeds in purſe;
This meets a blanket, and that meets a cudgel—
And all applaud the Juſtice—All, but † Budgell.
[35]
How much more ſafe, dear countrymen! his ſtate,
Who trades in frigates of the ſecond rate?
And yet ſome care of S [...]ſt ſhould be had,
Nothing ſo mean for which he can't run mad;
His wit confirms him but a ſlave the more,
And makes a princeſs whom he found a whore.
The youth might ſave much trouble and expence,
Were he a dupe of only common ſenſe.
But here's his point; a wench (he cries) for me!
" I never touch a dame of quality."
To P [...]l [...]r's bed no actreſs comes amiſs,
He courts the whole perſonae dramatis:
He too can ſay, "With wives I never ſin:"
But ſinging-girls and mimicks draw him in.
Sure, worthy Sir, the diff'rence is not great,
With whom you loſe your credit and eſtate?
This, or that perſon, what avails to ſhun?
What's wrong is wrong, where-ever it be done:
The eaſe, ſupport, and luſtre of your life,
Deſtroy'd alike with ſtrumpet, maid, or wife.
What puſh'd poor E [...]s on th' imperial whore?
'Twas but to be where CHARLES had been before.
The fatal ſteel unjuſtly was apply'd,
When not his luſt offended, but his pride:
Too hard a penance for defeated ſin,
Himſelf ſhut out, and Jacob Hall* let in.
[37]
Suppoſe that honeſt part that rules us all,
Should riſe, and ſay—"Sir Robert! or Sir Paul!
" Did I demand, in my moſt vig'rous hour,
" A thing deſcended from the conqueror?
" Or when my pulſe beat higheſt, aſk for any
" Such nicety as Lady or Lord Fanny?"—
What would you anſwer? could you have the face,
When the poor ſuff'rer humbly mourn'd his caſe,
To cry, "You weep the favours of her * GRACE?"
Hath not indulgent nature ſpread a feaſt,
† And giv'n enough for man, enough for beaſt?
But man corrupt, perverſe in all his ways,
In ſearch of vanities from nature ſtrays:
Yea, tho' the bleſſing's more than he can uſe,
Shuns the permitted, the forbid purſues!
Weigh well the cauſe from whence theſe evils ſpring,
'Tis in thyſelf, and not in God's good thing:
Then, leſt repentance puniſh ſuch a life,
Never, ah! never! kiſs thy neighbour's wiſe.
Firſt, ſilks and diamonds veil no finer ſhape,
Or plumper thigh, than lurk in humble crape:
[39] And ſecondly, how innocent a belle
Is ſhe who ſhews what ware ſhe has to ſell;
Not lady-like, diſplays a milk-white breaſt,
And hides in ſacred ſluttiſhneſs the reſt.
Our ancient kings (and ſure thoſe kings were wiſe,
Who judg'd themſelves, and ſaw with their own eyes)
A war-horſe never for the ſervice choſe,
But ey'd him round, and ſtript of all the cloaths;
For well they knew, proud trappings ſerve to hide
A heavy cheſt, thick neck, or heavy ſide.
But fools are ready chaps, agog to buy,
Let but a comely fore-hand ſtrike the eye:
No eagle ſharper, every charm to find,
To all defects, Ty [...]y not ſo blind:
Gooſe-rump'd, hawk-nos'd, ſwan-footed, is my dear:
They'll praiſe her elbow, heel, or tip o' th' ear.
A lady's face is all you ſee undreſs'd;
(For none but Lady M [...] ſhow'd the reſt)
But if to charms more latent you pretend,
What lines encompaſs, and what works defend!
Dangers on dangers! obſtacles by dozens!
Spies, guardians, gueſts, old women, aunts, and cozens*!
Could you directly to her perſon go,
Stays will obſtruct above, and hoops below,
And if the dame ſays yes, the dreſs ſays no.
[41] Not thus at Needham's*; your judicious eye
May meaſure there the breaſt, the hip, the thigh!
And will you run to perils, ſword, and law,
All for a thing you ne'er ſo much as ſaw?
" The hare once ſeiz'd, the hunter heeds no more
" The little ſcut he ſo purſu'd before,
" Love follows flying game (as Sucklyn) ſings
" And 'tis for that the wanton boy has wings."
Why let him ſing—but when you're in the wrong,
Think you to cure the miſchief with a ſong?
Has nature ſet no bounds to wild deſire?
No ſenſe to guide, no reaſon to enquire,
What ſolid happineſs, what empty pride?
And what is beſt indulg'd, or beſt deny'd?
If neither gems adorn, nor ſilver tip
The flowing bowl, will you not wet your lip?
When ſharp with hunger, ſcorn you to be fed,
Except on Pea-Chicks, at the Bedford-head†?
Or when a tight, neat girl, will ſerve the turn,
In errant pride continue ſtiff, and burn?
I'm a plain man, whoſe maxim is proſeſt,
" The thing at hand is of all things the beſt."
[43] But her who will, and then will not comply,
Whoſe word is If, Perhaps, and By-and-by,
Z [...]ds! let ſome eunuch or platonic take—
So B [...]t cries, philoſopher and rake!
Who aſks no more (right reaſonable peer)
Than not to wait too long, nor pay too dear.
Give me a willing nymph! 'tis all I care,
Extremely clean, and tolerably fair,
Her ſhape her own, whatever ſhape ſhe have,
And juſt that white and red which nature gave.
Her I tranſported touch, tranſported view,
And call her Angel! Goddeſs! M [...]ue!
No furious huſband thunders at the door;
No barking dog, no houſhold in a roar;
From gleaming ſwords no ſhrieking women run;
No wretched wife cries out, Undone! Undone!
Seiz'd in the fact, and in her cuckold's pow'r,
She kneels, ſhe weeps, and worſe! reſigns her dow'r.
Me, naked me, to poſts, to pumps they draw,
To ſhame eternal, or eternal law.
Oh love! be deep tranquillity my luck*!
No miſtreſs H [...]yſh [...]m near, no Lady B [...]ck!
For, to be taken, is the dev'l in hell;
This truth, let L [...]l, J [...]ys, O [...]w tell.

An Epiſtle to HENRY CROMWELL, Eſq*.

[44]
By Mr. POPE.
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 Evening Poſt, or Obſervator;
And pardon me a little fooling,
—Juſt while the 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 loth 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)
[45] To Brocas' 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 power 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 to paſs their doom,
(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 Granville's write their name plain Greenfield,
Nay, Mr. Wycherly ſee Binfield.
[46]
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,
[47] 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.
[48]
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 artichokes reign in their ſtead.
Th' allies to bomb Toulon prepare;
G [...]d ſave the pretty ladies there!
One of our dogs is dead and gone,
And I, unhappy! left alone.
If you have any conſolation
T' adminiſter on this occaſion,
Send it, I pray, by the next poſt,
Before my ſorrow be quite loſt.
The twelfth or thirteenth day of July,
But which, I cannot tell you truly*.

The TRANSLATOR.

[49]
By Mr. POPE.
OZELL, at Sanger's* call, invok'd his Muſe,
For who to ſing for Sanger cou'd refuſe?
His numbers ſuch as Sanger's ſelf might uſe.
Reviving Perault, murd'ring Boileau, he
Slander'd the ancients firſt, then Wycherley;
Which yet not much that old bard's anger rais'd,
Since thoſe were ſlander'd moſt, whom Ozell prais'd.
Nor had the gentle ſatire caus'd complaining,
Had not ſage Rowe pronounc'd it entertaining;
How great muſt be the judgment of that writer,
Who the Plain-dealer damns, and prints the Biter†!

ROXANA, or the DRAWING-ROOM.

By Mr. POPE.
ROXANA from the court returning late,
Sigh'd her ſoft ſorrow at St. James's gate:
Such heavy thoughts lay brooding in her breaſt;
Not her own chairmen with more weight oppreſt:
[50] They curſe the cruel weight they're doom'd to bear;
She in more gentle ſounds expreſs'd her care.
Was it for this, that I theſe roſes wear?
For this, new-ſet the jewels for my hair?
Ah Princeſs! with what zeal have I purſu'd?
Almoſt forgot the duty of a prude.
This King, I never could attend too ſoon;
I miſs'd my pray'rs, to get me dreſs'd by noon.
For thee, ah! what for thee did I reſign?
My paſſions, pleaſures, all that e'er was mine:
I've ſacrific'd both modeſty, and eaſe;
Left operas, and went to filthy plays:
Double entendres ſhock'd my tender ear;
Yet even this, for thee, I chuſe to bear:
In glowing youth, when nature bids be gay,
And ev'ry joy of life before me lay;
By honour prompted, and by pride reſtrain'd,
The pleaſures of the young my ſoul diſdain'd:
Sermons I ſought, and with a mien ſevere,
Cenſur'd my neighbours, and ſaid daily pray'r.
Alas, how chang'd! with this ſame ſermon-mien,
The filthy What-d'ye-call-it—I have ſeen.
Ah, royal Princeſs! for whoſe ſake I loſt
The reputation, which ſo dear had coſt;
I, who avoided ev'ry public place,
When bloom and beauty bid me ſhow my face,
Now near thee, conſtant, I each night abide,
With never-failing duty by thy ſide;
[51] Myſelf and daughters ſtanding in a row,
To all the foreigners a goodly ſhow.
Oft had your drawing-room been ſadly thin,
And merchants wives cloſe by your ſide had been;
Had I not amply fill'd the empty place,
And ſav'd your Highneſs from the dire diſgrace:
Yet Cockatilla's artifice prevails,
When all my duty and my merit fails:
That Cockatilla, whoſe deluding airs
Corrupts our virgins, and our youth enſnares;
So ſunk her character, and loſt her fame,
Scarce viſited, before your Highneſs came;
Yet for the bed-chamber 'tis ſhe you chuſe,
Whilſt zeal, and fame, and virtue you refuſe.
Ah worthy choice! not one of all your train
Which cenſures blaſt not, or diſhonours ſtain.
I know the court, with all its treach'rous wiles,
The falſe careſſes, and undoing ſmiles.
Ah Princeſs! learn'd in all the courtly arts,
To cheat our hopes, and yet to gain our hearts.

The LOOKING-GLASS*

[52]
By Mr. POPE.
WITH ſcornful mien, and various toſs of air,
Fantaſtic, vain, and inſolently fair,
Grandeur intoxicates her giddy brain,
She looks ambition, and ſhe moves diſdain.
Far other carriage grac'd her virgin life,
But charming G [...]y's loſt, in P [...]y's wife.
Not greater arrogance in him we find,
And this conjunction ſwells at leaſt her mind:
O could the fire, renown'd in glaſs, produce
One faithful mirrour for his daughter's uſe!
Wherein ſhe might her haughty errors trace,
And by reflection learn to mend her face:
The wonted ſweetneſs to her form reſtore,
Be what ſhe was, and charm mankind once more.

The CHALLENGE. A Court Ballad.

[53]
By Mr. POPE.
To the Tune of, To all you Ladies now at Land, &c.
I.
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 Bellenden, Lepell, and Griffin.
With a fa, la, la.
II.
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 back,
Where many damſels cry alack.
With a fa, la, la.
III.
Then why to courts ſhould I repair,
Where's ſuch ado with Townſhend?
To hear each mortal ſtamp and ſwear,
And every ſpeech with Zounds end;
To hear 'em rail at honeſt Sunderland,
And raſhly blame the realm of Blunderland ‡
With a fa, la, la.
[54]IV.
Alas! like Schutz I cannot pun,
Like Grafton court the Germans;
Tell Pickenbourg how ſlim ſhe's grown,
Like Meadows run to ſermons;
To court ambitious men may roam,
But I and Marlbro' ſtay at home.
With a fa, la, la.
V.
In truth, by what I can diſcern,
Of courtiers 'twixt you three,
Some wit you have, and more may learn
From court, than Gay or Me:
Perhaps, in time, you'll leave high diet,
To ſup with us on milk and quiet.
With a fa, la, la.
VI.
At Leiceſter-Fields, a houſe full high,
With door all painted green,
Where ribbons wave upon the tye,
(A Milliner I mean;)
There may you meet us three to three,
For Gay can well make two of Me.
With a fa, la, la.
VII.
But ſhou'd you catch the prudiſh itch,
And each become a coward,
Bring ſometimes with you lady Rich,
And ſometimes miſtreſs Howard;
For virgins to keep chaſte muſt go
Abroad with ſuch as are not ſo.
With a fa, la, la.
[55]VIII.
And thus, fair maids, my ballad ends;
God ſend the king 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, la, la.

The THREE GENTLE SHEPHERDS*.

By Mr. POPE.
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.

LINES copied from Mr. POPE's Hand-writing, on a Scrap of Paper.

[56]
BUT our great Turks in wit muſt reign alone,
And ill can bear a brother on the throne.
Can bear no living brother on the throne.
Wit has its bigots, who can bear no jeſt,
Who to be ſav'd by one, muſt damn the reſt.
Wit is like faith by ſuch warm tools profeſt.
Wits ſtarve, as uſeleſs to a common-weal,
While fools have places, purely for their zeal.
Some who grow dull, religious ſtraight commence,
And gain in morals, what they loſe in ſenſe.
Now wits gain praiſe by copying other wits,
As one hog lives on what another ſh [...].
Would 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.

AN ESSAY ON HUMAN LIFE.

[]
— Sapientia prima eſt
Stultitia caruiſſe —
HOR.

THE PREFACE.

[]

OF all kinds of poetry the Didaſcalic is the moſt valuable, if aiming at the good of mankind be what juſtly entitles any thing to that character. The de⯑ſcriptive kind is like a fine landſkip, where you meet with two or three principal figures; the reſt is all rocks, rivulets, hanging woods and verdant lawns, amuſing to the eye, ſhewing the taſte of the painter, but carrying little inſtruction along with it. But the Didaſcalic is like a curious piece of hiſtory paint⯑ing, where every figure muſt be highly wrought, every paſſion ſtrongly repreſented, all contributing in their ſeveral degrees to expreſs the main deſign; in ſhort, it muſt be a finiſhed piece.

That this is a very difficult work may be collected from the ſmall number of thoſe poets who have ever attempted it. In the early ages of the Grecians, I remember none who have wrote any thing in this way but old Heſiod, Aratus, and Nicander; for Diony⯑ſius, the Periegetic, and * Oppian, liv'd not 'till the [60] time of the Roman Emperors. Heſiod's works and days is the only piece remaining that is allow'd to be genuine without diſpute; but by Virgil's, and eſpeci⯑ally Manilius's compliments to him, 'tis highly pro⯑bable he wrote others, and perhaps more valuable ones, tho' Quintilian allows him the Palma in illo medio genere dicendi only, and Le Fevre is much more hard upon him when he makes him little better than an almanack-maker, and his work a mean perform⯑ance. Paterculus and Plutarch ſet him next to Homer, as well in the value of his works, as in the period of his age, ſays Mr. Kennet; but perhaps that may be the other extreme. Aratus wrote a poem, in two books, which he calls the Phaenomena, and Dioſemeia, the one aſtronomical, giving an account of the ſituation and the affection of the heavenly bodies, the other aſtrological, ſhewing the particular influences ariſing from their various diſpoſitions and relations†. Tully commends him for his verſifica⯑tion, [61] and Quintilian ſays, he has fully anſwer'd his argument, which put together, ſhould make up a pretty good character. As to Nicander, Voſſius places him amongſt his Greek hiſtorians, but allows him to have been egregius grammaticus, poeta, & medicus. His ſurviving works are, however, only poetry upon poiſons, and the methods of cure for them. Of the two latter Greek poets, Dionyſius and Oppian, the one wrote a ſurvey of the world, and the other Cynegetics and Halieutics, in both which 'tis certain there are very fine parts, however judg⯑ments may differ about them.

Amongſt the Romans, Lucretius and Manilius may juſtly be ſaid to be the chief of the Didaſcalic poets. They both wrote with all the fire of their youth about 'em; for neither of them liv'd to be old. I have always fancy'd Manilius imitated Lucretius in his manner, the beginning of his books being pretty much in the ſame way, beſides, that he loſes no oc⯑caſion of launching out into deſcriptions, and is florid to a fault. He has likewiſe ſome reflections* on the follies of men, ſo very much of a piece with what you meet with in the 5th book of Lucretius, that one would almoſt think them taken from thence. In general it may be ſaid, they are both very noble poems, tho' that of Manilius is far from being finiſh'd, as it might have been, if the author had liv'd. What errors are to be found in the philoſophy of the one, [62] and the aſtronomy of the other, are owing, perhaps, as much to the age of the world at that time, as their own, and their beauties may, in ſome meaſure, atone for their faults.

Virgil's Georgics are in the ſame kind, tho' the ſubjects are of leſs dignity; and I don't know whe⯑ther I might not likewiſe add Ovid, on the account of his Faſti, the moſt correct of all his works: Gratius too, about the ſame time, wrote his Cynege⯑tics, which are very juſtly eſteem'd.

Amongſt the moderns, Fracaſtorius's Syphilis, Quil⯑let's Callipaedia, and Vida's Art of Poetry, are the beſt poems of this ſort; Rapin of gardens, and Vanier's Praedium Ruſticum, are not without their merit, but much inferior to the others. In our own language too we have ſome poems of this inſtructive kind: The Eſſays on Poetry, Tranſlated Verſe, and Criticiſm, are fine inſtances of the worth and excel⯑lency of this manner of writing, to which may be very truly apply'd what Dr. Young ſays of Satyr,

" Heroes and gods make other poems fine,
" Plain ſatyr calls for ſenſe in every line*."

The ſtrength of juſt obſervations, convey'd in ſmooth and flowing numbers, has a prevailing influence, inſinuates itſelf into the mind almoſt imperceptibly, and makes a more laſting impreſſion there than one would eaſily imagine. 'Tis true theſe ſubjects are purely critical, and ſo of leſs conſequence to man⯑kind [63] in general; but yet, poliſhing the underſtand⯑ing, improving the judgment, and regulating the taſte, are far from being things indifferent to the world, ſince they tend not a little to the ſhaming out of it that ruſticity and barbariſm, thoſe follies and affectations, in one word, all that littleneſs of mind which is ſo effectual a bar in the way of ge⯑nerous and noble undertakings. But we have had of late an undeniable proof that the fineſt and moſt uſe⯑ful ſort of philoſophy, which conſiſts in the know⯑ledge of ourſelves, may be convey'd in ſuch clear, ſtrong, eaſy, and affecting ſtrains, at the ſame time convincing and captivating the underſtanding, that there remains no doubt but that poetry in the hands of a great genius, may be made as beneficial as ever it has been entertaining to mankind. The latter effect is indeed what has been generally moſt aim'd at, as it is compaſs'd with leſs difficulty to the writer, and meets with a more univerſal reception amongſt the common ſort of readers.* Imagery, fine colour⯑ing, and bright antitheſes, often diſguiſe the want of juſtneſs and force, and by pleaſing the imagination, do, as it were, ſteal away from the judgment, or ſometimes impoſe upon it, as ſhadows paſs for ſub⯑ſtances with weak, diſtemper'd or fanciful men.

The Os magna ſonaturum of Horace would make one almoſt think the muſe muſt never appear without [64] her buſkins, and that all ſimplicity of expreſſion were to be totally baniſh'd out of poetical writings. 'Tis true, the Epic Poem, the Ode, and the Tragedy very often require, and conſequently juſtify the uſe of ele⯑vated language, as it may be more ſuitable to the greatneſs of the ſubjects, and better fitted to raiſe the ſeveral paſſions they are deſign'd to work upon. But where the appeal lies only to the underſtanding, ſelf⯑evident truths, naturally and beautifully expreſs'd, can never fail of the approbation of a ſound head and a good taſte: And even Horace himſelf, as elevated and great a poet as he muſt be allow'd in his Odes, appears to much more advantage in his Sermones and Epiſtles, where, as my Lord Roſcommon obſerves on another occaſion,

" Fancy labours leſs, but judgment more."

Sir John Denham's Cooper's Hill has met with univerſal applauſe, tho' its ſubject ſeems rather de⯑ſcriptive than inſtructing; but 'tis not the hill, the river, nor the ſtag chace; 'tis the good ſenſe and the fine reflections ſo frequently interſpers'd, and as it were interwoven with the reſt, that gives it the value, and will make it, as was ſaid of true wit, everlaſting like the ſun.

The late Mr. Prior's Solomon ſeems to have coſt him much time and pains, and was, I believe, his favourite performance: He is in ſome doubt whe⯑ther to call it a Didaſcalic or Heroic poem. It has, [65] indeed, ſomething of both, and yet ſtrictly ſpeaking, is perfectly neither: It has not fable, machinery, nor variety enough to be an Heroic poem, and it is too diffuſive and luxuriant in the ſtyle, too florid and full of deſcriptions to be of the Didaſcalic ſort. In general, it may be juſtly ſaid to be a very fine piece; though I muſt confeſs I cannot help giving the preference to his Alma, in which the deſign is more cloſely purſued, carried on with more ſpirit, and never loſes your attention.

Upon the whole, what Mr. Dryden has ſaid in the preface to his Religio Laici, is, I think, very true. ‘"The expreſſions of a poem, deſign'd purely for inſtruction, ought to be plain and natural, and yet majeſtic: for here the poet is preſum'd to be a kind of lawgiver, and thoſe three qualities which I have named, are proper to the legiſlative ſtyle. The florid, elevated and figurative way, is for the paſſions; for love and hatred, fear and anger are begotten in the ſoul by ſhewing their objects out of their true proportion; either greater than the life or leſs; but inſtruction is to be given by ſhewing them what they naturally are. A man is to be cheated into paſſion, but to be reaſoned into truth."’

The following ſhort piece may be perhaps a little too pompouſly introduced by the foregoing obſer⯑vations; all I ſhall ſay for it is, I endeavoured to [66] follow Mr. Dryden's rules: how far I have ſucceeded, I can be no proper judge myſelf. But whatever may be ſaid of the poetry, and about that I am very indif⯑ferent, the ſentiments muſt ſurely be allowed to be juſt and good; and I am entirely of Mr. Prior's opi⯑nion: ‘"I had rather be thought a good Engliſhman, (which is but another word for an honeſt man) than the beſt poet, or greateſt ſcholar that ever wrote."’

AN ESSAY ON HUMAN LIFE*

[67]
By Mr. POPE.
PLEASURE but cheats us with an empty name,
Still ſeems to vary, yet is ſtill the ſame;
Amuſement's all its utmoſt ſkill can boaſt,
By uſe it leſſens, and in thought is loſt.
The youth that riots and the age that hoards,
Folly that ſacrifices things to words;
Pride, wit and beauty in one taſte agree,
'Tis ſenſual, or 'tis mental luxury.
[68] Sad ſtate of nature, doom'd to fruitleſs pain,
Something to wiſh and want, but never gain:
Reſtleſs we live, and diſappointed die,
Unhappy, tho' we know not how nor why.
Reaſon, perhaps, may lend her gen'rous aid;
Reaſon, which never yet her truſt betray'd:
Let her direct us in the doubtful ſtrife,
Let her conduct us thro' the maze of life.
Is human reaſon then from weakneſs free?
Partakes ſhe not of our infirmity?
Can ſhe apply, with never-failing art,
The healing balſam to the wounded part?
Correct thoſe errors, which the paſſions cauſe,
And teach the will to follow wiſdom's laws?
Alas! experience but too plainly ſhews,
That man can act againſt the truths he knows:
By cuſtoms led, or by allurements won,
Diſcern that evil which he cannot ſhun.
Whate'er we do, the motive's much the ſame,
'Tis impulſe governs under reaſon's name;
Each eagerly ſome fav'rite end purſues,
And diff'rent tempers furniſh diff'rent views.
Is it for fear of wrong, or love of right,
That ſtateſmen labour, or that warriors fight?
T'enrich his country, does the ſailor brave
The cruel pirate, and the threat'ning wave?
[69] In ſearch of truth, unwearied ſages try,
By certain rules, to fix uncertainty?
No! 'tis deſire and hope that drive them on:
Thus greateſt things for meaneſt ends are done.
Self-love, howe'er diſguis'd, miſunderſtood,
Howe'er miſplac'd, is ſtill the ſov'reign good:
Virtue or wiſdom but the vain pretence;
Theſe may direct, but paſſions influence.
Preſumptuous man! why boaſts thou thy free-will,
By conſtitution doom'd to good or ill?
What feeble checks are all thoſe ſtudied rules,
Unpractis'd leſſons of the uſeleſs ſchools?
Say, can thy art, oppos'd to nature's force,
Obſtruct her motions, or ſuſpend her courſe?
Go, change in Africa their ſable hue,
Or make our Europe bring her negroes too;
Roll back the tides, forbid the ſtreams to flow,
Nor let this earth returning ſeaſons know.
Slave to thyſelf, whilſt lord of all beſide,
Surmount thy weakneſs, or renounce thy pride.
That moving pow'r, which firſt produc'd the whole,
To every thing has fix'd a certain goal:
Thither all tend, and muſt their circles run,
For ſuch the order when the whole begun.
[70] To diff'rent creatures diff'rent ranks aſſign'd,
Man claims the firſt, as of a nobler kind;
How juſt that claim, what wiſdom muſt decide?
Reaſon is his alone, by which 'tis try'd:
Inferior creatures ſilently ſubmit,
'Tis his to talk, and therefore to have wit.
Thus haughty Greece deſpis'd the world around,
And barb'rous, all ſhe underſtood not, found.
Look o'er the wide creation, ſee how all
Its ſeveral parts obey the Maker's call:
The earth how fertile, and how rich the ſea,
In various ſalts, for nature's chymiſtry;
Slow air digeſts what burning ſuns exhale,
And dews, and ſnows, and rains, by turns, prevail.
Beaſts, birds, and reptiles, ſee 'em all conſpire,
To act whate'er their ſev'ral ſtates require.
But wiſer man diſdains this meaner part,
Nature, with him, muſt ſtill give way to art;
Vain of conceit, he boaſts his fancy'd ſkill;
And, arbitrary, rules the world at will:
Now fierce and cruel, then as mild and kind,
Each action owing to each turn of mind;
One day a friend, the next as great a foe,
As humour, pique, caprice, or int'reſts go;
Wiſdom and folly thus, by turns, preſide,
And chance alone inclines to either ſide.
[71]
Aſk the bold freeman, or the coward ſlave,
What makes one abject, and the other brave?
What gives to ſools their faith, to knaves their wiles,
To cynicks fourneſs, and to flatt'rers ſmiles?
This one great truth muſt ſtand by all confeſt,
Some ruling paſſion lurks in ev'ry breaſt;
That weakneſs by a ſpecious name they call,
For 'tis that weakneſs ſtill which governs all.
Wiſely the ſprings of action we conceal:
Thus ſordidneſs is prudence; fury, zeal;
Ambition makes the public good her care,
And hypocrites the maſk of ſaintſhip wear.
Inur'd to falſhood, we ourſelves deceive;
Oft what we wiſh, we fancy we believe;
We call that judgment which is only will,
And as we act, we learn to argue ill;
Like bigots, who their various creeds deſend
By making reaſon ſtill to ſyſtem bend.
Cuſtoms or int'reſts govern all mankind,
Some biaſs cleaves to the unguarded mind;
Thro' this, as in a falſe or flatt'ring glaſs,
Things ſeem to change their natures as they paſs.
Objects the ſame in diff'rent lights appear,
And but the colours which we give 'em wear.
[72] Error and fraud from this great ſource ariſe,
All fools are modiſh, and all knaves are wiſe.
Who does not boaſt ſome merit of his own,
Tho' to himſelf perhaps 'tis only known?
Each ſuits reward to his own fav'rite vice,
Pride has its crowns, and luſt its paradiſe:
Bonze, prieſt and derviſe, all in this agree,
That heaven muſt be pomp or luxury;
Man, ſlave to ſenſe, no higher bliſs can know,
Still meaſures things above by things below.
Joys much the ſame, but differ in degree,
As time enlarg'd becomes eternity.
How vain is all that ſcience we purſue!
Scorn'd by the many, uſeleſs to the few:
Since ſhort of truth our utmoſt labours end,
Who knows but ign'rance is our greateſt friend?
The fruitleſs pains but ſhew the weakneſs more,
And we, like miſers, 'midſt our wealth are poor.
Much hoarded learning but like lumber lies,
Or ends in gueſs-work and obſcurities.
What tho' proud Greece her ſeven ſages boaſt?
The names alone remain, the race is loſt.
Satyrs, and Centaurs too, might live of old,
(For ſo we are in ancient ſtory told)
[73] But ſhould we doubt in this our faithleſs age;
Who can produce a Centaur or a ſage?
Such mighty births were nature's firſt eſſays,
The luſty offspring of her youthful days;
Our latter times can no ſuch wonders ſhew,
But what were giants then, are pigmies now.
Of all the painful follies of mankind,
Still to be ſeeking what they ne'er muſt find,
Is ſure the greateſt, not unlike the toil
Of him who labours in a barren ſoil.
Beyond our ſtate if our fond wiſhes tend,
Means muſt be vain where we miſtake the end.
Pride whiſpers mighty projects in the ear,
Bids us be great, be wiſe, be happy here;
But ſad experience ſhews the laws of fate,
And teaches us to know ourſelves too late.
Error is a diſtemper of the mind,
Hard to be cur'd, becauſe 'tis hard to find;
So mixt and blended with our very frame,
It lurks ſecure and borrows reaſon's name.
In diff'rent perſons diff'rent ways it ſprings,
'Tis factiouſneſs in ſubjects, pride in kings;
Boundleſs alike they in extremes agree,
Theſe in oppreſſion, thoſe in anarchy;
[74] Both aim at what 'twere ruin to obtain,
A civil phrenzy, or a tyrant reign.
The wiſe muſt into nature's ſecrets pry,
The weak believe they know not what nor why;
And we may equally deluded call,
Who doubt of nothing, as who doubt of all.
Profane or pious, bigotry's the ſame,
The motives terror, avarice, or fame.
Opinion is but int'reſt in diſguiſe,
And right and wrong in ſtrength of parties lies.
Some wou'd be happy, know nor want nor care,
Others ſtill find more evils than there are;
Whilſt truth unheeded in the midway lies,
And all extremes are like abſurdities.
Wrong turns of head are nature's greateſt curſe,
Improving everyday from bad to worſe.
In ſome odd light all objects ſtill they view,
Thus true with them is falſe, and falſe is true.
In trifles ſolemn, diligent and wiſe,
Important things as trifles they deſpiſe;
Careſſing enemies, their friends they ſhun,
And doat on knaves, by whom they are undone.
Deaf to advice, or taking wrong for right,
They boldly blunder on in reaſon's ſpite;
[75] And under clearer light's obſcure pretence
Are the antipodes of common ſenſe.
Wou'd you perſuade a wretch intent on pelf,
Tho' he ſtarves others, not to ſtarve himſelf;
To ſence, at lead, his ſapleſs trunk from cold,
Nor ſeem as fond of tatters as of gold;
No! he's too cunning for your fly deſign,
You'd have him like yourſelf, be poor and fine;
But he, in ſpite of envy, richer grows,
And ſcorns the luxury of meat and cloaths.
Aſk the ambitious why he waſtes his life
In needleſs ſtruggles and uncertain ſtrife?
Why not in peace enjoy what plenty gives?
So the obſcure, the weak, the lazy lives;
Exalted ſpirits have a nobler aim,
And know no happineſs but toil and fame.
Well muſt it ſuit a ſelfiſh hollow heart,
To act the honeſt patriot's gen'rous part;
No tool of party, nor no ſlave of ſtate,
No mean dependant on the guilty great;
Boldly he pleads for liberty and laws,
Content to periſh in his country's cauſe;
When lo! a ray divine of favour gleams,
Quite diff'rent topicks then become his themes;
[76] Old friends, old notions are at once forgot,
And ſhame and wages are the hireling's lot.
The little mind whoſe joy in miſchief lies,
Hates all mankind, but moſt the good and wiſe;
Proud of his ſhame, he boaſts his ſpitefull ſkill,
And places all his worth in doing ill.
But baſe-born fear oft checks what rage devis'd,
And leaves him diſappointed and deſpis'd.
Endleſs the taſk to point the various ways,
How each wrong head its diff'rent gifts diſplays;
How poverty in boaſts its wants wou'd hide,
And meanneſs ſhews itſelf in awkward pride;
How knaves are cunning at their own expence,
And coxcombs fancy forwardneſs is ſenſe.
Vain is th' attempt to be what heaven denies,
As vain the art that weakneſs to diſguiſe.
Prudence alone can teach the uſeful ſkill,
T'improve the good, and to correct the ill.
True wiſdom lies in practice more than rules,
For what are maxims when apply'd to fools?
Of wit and folly reaſon all you can,
Who acts moſt wiſely is the wiſeſt man.
Each ſtate of life has its peculiar view,
Alike in each, there is a falſe and true:
[77] This point to fix is reaſon's uſe and end,
On this ſucceſs all other muſt depend;
But in this point no error can be ſmall,
To deviate e'er ſo little, ruins all.
The mark once miſs'd, however near you aim,
Miſs'd by an inch or furlong, 'tis the ſame:
Who ſets out wrong is more than half undone,
Error has many ways, and truth but one.
Wrong eſtimates wrong conduct muſt produce,
They loſe the bleſſing that miſtake its uſe:
Who value wealth or pow'r but more or leſs,
As that can riot, or as this oppreſs;
What ſay they elſe, but that they both are given
To execute the wrath of angry heaven.
Fools, ever vain, at ſome diſtinction aim,
And fancy madneſs is the way to fame:
No matter how the deathleſs name's acquir'd,
By countries ravag'd, or a * temple fir'd:
Alike tranſmitted down to latter times,
A Trajan's virtues, and a Nero's crimes.
[78] Means are indiff'rent to the ends obtain'd,
Richard* was guilty, but what then? he reign'd.
Wou'd you be good and great, the hope is vain,
The bus'neſs is not to deſerve, but gain:
Fortune is fickle, and but ſhort her ſtay,
He comes too late that takes the fartheſt way.
Is this, O grandeur! then thy envy'd ſtate,
To raiſe men's wonder and provoke their hate?
By crimes procur'd, and then in fear enjoy'd,
By mobs applauded, and by mobs deſtroy'd.
Say, mighty cunning, which deſerve the prize,
The courtier's promiſes or trader's lies?
Some ſhort-liv'd profit all the pains rewards
Of bankrupt dealers, and of perjur'd lords.
Honeſt alike, you own, but wiſer far,
The knave upon the bench than at the bar.
Where lies the diff'rence? only in degree,
And higher rank is greater infamy.
Poor rogues in chains but dangle to the wind,
Whilſt rich ones live the terror of mankind.
Pomp, pow'r and riches, all mere trifles are,
When purchas'd by the loſs of character:
[79] Chance may the wiſe betray, the brave defeat,
But they correct, or are above their fate.
Credit once loſt can never be retriev'd,
How few will truſt the man who once deceiv'd?
Craft, like the mole, works only underground,
Is loſt in daylight, and deſtroy'd when found.
Notions miſtaken, reas'nings ill apply'd,
And ſophiſms that conclude on either ſide;
Alike th' unwary, and the weak miſlead,
Who judge of men and things, as they ſucceed.
Did * rivals fall by Borgia's vile deceit,
A † Machiavel will call a Borgia great:
The lucky cheat proclaims the villain wiſe,
And fraud and murder are but policies.
The ſame deſpair which made good Cato die,
To Caeſar gave his laſt great ‡ victory.
Had right decided, and not fate, the cauſe,
Rome had preſerv'd her Cato, and her laws.
Fortune ſets off the bad, as tawdry dreſs
Shews but the more the wearer's homelineſs.
[80] So mad Caligula's* vain triumph tells,
That all his conqueſts are but cockle ſhells.
True merit ſhines in native ſplendor bright,
Whilſt falſe but glares awhile, and hurts the ſight:
As midnight vapours caſt a glimm'ring blaze,
And to the darkneſs owe their feeble rays.
The wiſe † Egyptians when their monarch dy'd,
By truth's ſure ſtandard all his actions try'd.
When no falſe luſtre, wealth, or pow'r appears
To biaſs judgment by its hopes or fears;
Then conqu'ring chiefs, profuſe of ſubjects blood,
And lazy dotards, indolently good,
That truſt their people to a fav'rite's care,
Whoſe peaceful rapines coſt them more than war,
By injur'd thouſands wrongs are doom'd to be
Perpetual marks of ſcorn and infamy.
Fortune with fools, and wit with knaves you find;
'Tis ſocial virtue ſhews the noble mind.
Above low wiſdom, cunning's mean pretence,
There is no counterfeiting excellence:
The artful head may act the honeſt part,
But all true honour riſes from the heart.
[81] Faults are in all; but here the diff'rence lies,
Clodius had vices, Tully vanities.
Which ſerv'd his country beſt, let ſtory ſhew,
A guilty Clodius, or good Cicero?
Who loves mankind by ſocial duty taught,
Will never think their good too dearly bought.
What tho' he ſacrifice the vain deſire
Of ſome gay baubles which the world admire?
Deſpiſing riches and abhorring pow'r,
When blaſted with the name of plunderer.
Still he may taſte life's greateſt good, content,
For who ſo happy as the innocent?
Jugurtha* murder'd, brib'd and fought his way
From ſubject ſtation to imperial ſway;
But inſecure 'midſt all his guilty ſtate,
The man was wretched, tho' the monarch great;
Like Cromwell daring in the doubtful fight,
But † pale and trembling in the dead of night.
[82]
Paſſion is lawleſs, headſtrong youth is mad,
But nature varies not in good and bad.
From the ſame cauſes ſame effects muſt flow,
Truth is but what it was an age ago:
Modes may be chang'd, but truths are ſtubborn things,
They court not fav'rites, nor will flatter kings.
Rome had her Caeſar, and our Cromwell we,
Alike in fortune, pow'r and infamy;
And ſhou'd new Caeſars and new Cromwells riſe,
They could but act the ſame dull tragedies:
Foes to mankind, themſelves, and virtue's rules,
Whilſt living heroes, and when dead but fools.
Fools, not to know the glory they purſue,
To honeſt bravery alone is due:
Not he who ſtretches his unjuſt command,
And rudely triumphs o'er his native land;
But he whoſe valour faves a ſinking ſtate,
In future annals ſhall be call'd the Great.
View well this world, and own the dear-bougut truth,
That happineſs is but the dream of youth:
[83] State of perfection, not for man deſign'd,
Howe'er the fond idea fills his mind;
Itſelf an evil, whilſt to good it tends,
But in a round of diſappointments ends.
Man's ſtate in life's uncertain, mixt at beſt,
Conduct ſome little does, but fate the reſt:
Fantaſtic fate! to merit ever blind,
Whilſt laviſh to the worſt of all mankind.
Judge then by outward things, you're ſure to err,
And inward lie remote, few look ſo far.
Appearances ſtill guide, and ſtill deceive,
For giddy crowds muſt wonder and believe.
Who ſees gay Codrus loll in gilt machine,
Grand his attendance, and ſelf-pleas'd his mien:
Can he imagine all theſe trappings hide
A wretch made up of folly, guilt and pride?
Greedy to get, as he's profuſe to ſpend,
Stiff when attended, ſervile to attend;
Good but by accident, by habit bad,
In reas'ning ſpecious, and in acting mad.
Princes we blame for benefits miſplac'd,
Some ill man rais'd, perhaps ſome good diſgrac'd:
Cruel their lot! whom numbers join to blind!
How hard, 'midſt labyrinths, the way to find!
[84] For fortune's ſons we ſee, without ſurprize,
Thrive by miſmanagements, by blunders riſe:
Events, like atoms, jumbling in a dance,
Create theſe wonders, like a world, by chance.
Search time's records, compare the old and new,
Set diſtant ages in one point of view;
Still the ſame proſpects, under diff'rent dates,
All dark decrees of over-ruling fates:
Madneſs ſucceeds, where cautious wiſdom fails,
And ſtory's ſelf more ſtrange than fairy's tales:
Reaſon but ſeeks the hidden clue in vain,
Loſt and bewilder'd in th' entangled ſcene.
Where then the wonder, if ſucceeding times
Still vary only in the kinds of crimes?
Ages of iron, ſilver, gold, or lead,
What are they but the emblems of the dead?
The ſame low ends, by diff'rent means obtain'd,
As fury, avarice, or folly reign'd.
In vain grave moraliſts, with ſpecious ſkill,
Nicely diſtinguiſh actions, good and ill.
The world is led by much more eaſy rules,
Succeſs determines who are wiſe or fools.
Cauſes lie hid, but their effects appear,
Few men can judge, but all can ſee and hear.
[85]
Each age muſt truckle to the reigning modes,
And worſhip devils, when-they've made them gods;
Call rapine induſtry, diſtraction ſenſe,
And ſtupid ſquandering, magnificence:
No folly, crime, or whim too wild to be
Admir'd, when dreſt in faſhion's livery.
See the ſame notions variouſly receiv'd,
Legends, impoſtures, every thing believ'd;
See prieſts and tyrants full obedience find,
And ſacred gibberiſh enſlave mankind.
View next, with wonder, an extreme as odd,
Who knelt to carv'd work, now denies a God.
Wretches from chains and bondage juſt ſet free,
Preſumptuous! know no bounds of liberty.
Wicked or pious, in a frantick way,
Mad, they blaſpheme, or ſuperſtitious, pray.
By chance we live and act, now right, now wrong,
Both in exceſs, and therefore neither long:
Virtues too rigid, ſoften by degrees,
Refine themſelves at firſt to policies:
When once declining, ſwiftly downwards tend,
And then in guilt and proſtitutions end.
Follies, tho' oppoſite, yet ſtill combine,
And jointly carry on heav'n's great deſign.
[86] Changes of manners change of empire cauſe,
States ſink by licence, as they roſe by laws.
Thus human things their ſtated circles run,
Who flouriſh one age, are the next undone.
Virtue alone, unchangeable and wiſe,
Secure, above the reach of fortune lies,
Tho' doom'd to meanneſs, poverty or ſcorn;
Whilſt fools and tyrants are to empire born:
Bleſt in an humble, but a peaceful ſtate,
She feels no envy, and ſhe fears no hate;
With ſtoick calmneſs views life's empty round,
Where good is ſparing ſown, but ills, abound.

To the Prince of ORANGE, 1677.

By EDMUND WALLER, of Beaconsfield.
I.
WELCOME, great Prince, unto this land,
Skill'd in the arts of war and peace;
Your birth does call you to command,
Your nature does incline to peace.
II.
When Holland by her foes oppreſt,
No longer could ſuſtain their weight;
To a native Prince they thought it beſt
To recommend their dying ſtate.
[87]III.
Your very name did France expell;
Thoſe conquer'd towns which lately coſt
So little blood, unto you fell
With the ſame eaſe they once were loſt.
IV.
'Twas not your force did them defeat;
They neither felt your ſword nor fire;
But ſeemed willing to retreat,
And to your greatneſs did conſpire.
V.
Nor have you ſince ingrateful been,
When at Seneff you did expoſe,
And at Mount Caſſal, your own men
Whereby you might ſecure your ſoes.
VI.
Let Maeſtricht ſiege enlarge your name,
And your retreat at Charleroy;
Warriors by flying may gain ſame,
And Parthian-like their foes deſtroy.
VII.
Thus Fabius gain'd repute of old,
When Roman glory gaſping lay;
In council ſlow, in action cold,
His country ſav'd, running away.
[88]VIII.
What better method could you take?
When you by beauty's charms muſt move,
And muſt at once a progreſs make
I'th' ſtratagems of war and love.
IX.
He that a Princeſs' heart would gain,
Muſt learn ſubmiſſively to yield;
The ſtubborn ne'er their ends obtain;
The vanquiſh'd maſters are o'th' field.
X.
Go on, brave Prince, with like ſucceſs.
Still to encreaſe your hop'd renown;
Till to your conduct and addreſs,
Not to your birth, you owe a crown.
XI.
Proud Alva with the power of Spain.
Could not the noble Dutch enſlave;
And wiſer Parma ſtrove in vain,
For to reduce a race ſo brave.
XII.
They now thoſe very armies pay
By which they were forc'd to yield to you;
Their ancient birthright they betray,
By their own votes you them ſubdue.
[89]XIII.
Who can then liberty maintain
When by ſuch arts it is withſtood?
Freedom to Princes is a chain,
To all that ſpring from Royal Blood.

A true and faithful Inventory of the Goods belonging to the Dean of ST. PATRICK'S.

By Dr. SWIFT.
AN oaken broken elbow chair;
A caudle cup without an ear;
A batter'd ſhatter'd aſh bedſtead;
A box of deal, without a lid;
A pair of tongs, but out of joint;
A back-ſword poker, without a point;
A pot that's crack'd acroſs, around;
With an old knotted garter bound;
An iron lock without a key;
A wig with hanging quite grown grey;
A curtain worn to half a ſtripe;
A pair of bellows without a pipe;
A diſh which might good meat afford once;
An Ovid, and an old Concordance;
A bottle bottom, wooden platter,
One is for meal, and one for water:
There likewiſe is a copper ſkillet,
Which runs as faſt as you can fill it;
[90] A candleſtick, ſnuff-diſh, and ſave-all:
And thus his houſhold goods you have all.
Theſe, to your Lordſhip, as a friend,
Till you have built, I recommend;
They'll ſerve your workmen for a ſhift;—
Why not as well as Doctor SWIFT*?

LINES written under the Print of TOM BRITTON the Small-coal-man, painted by Mr. WOOLASTON.

By Mr. PRIOR.
THO' doom'd to ſmall-coal, yet to arts ally'd,
Rich without wealth, and famous without pride;
Muſick's beſt patron, judge of books and men,
Belov'd and honour'd by Apollo's train:
In Greece or Rome ſure never did appear
So bright a genius, in ſo dark a ſphere:
More of the man had artfully been ſav'd,
Had Kneller painted, and had Vertue grav'd.
By the ſame.
I Pray, Lady Harriot, the time to aſſign
When ſhe ſhall receive a turkey and chine,
That a body may come to St. James's to dine.

A LETTER to the Hon. Lady MARGARET CAVENDISH HARLEY, when a Child.

[91]
By Mr. PRIOR.
MY noble, lovely, little Peggy,
Let this my firſt epiſtle beg you,
At dawn of morn, and cloſe of even,
To lift your heart and hands to heaven.
In double beauty ſay your prayer:
Our Father firſt,—then, Notre Pere:
And, deareſt child, along the day,
In every thing you do and ſay,
Obey and pleaſe my Lord and Lady,
So God ſhall love, and angels aid ye.
If to theſe precepts you attend,
No ſecond letter need I ſend,
And ſo I reſt your conſtant friend.

To Lord OXFORD.
Written extempore by Mr. PRIOR In Lady Oxford's Study, 1717.

PEN, ink, and wax, and paper ſend
To the kind wife, the lovely friend:
Smiling, bid her freely write
What her happy thoughts indite;
Of virtue, goodneſs, peace and love,
Thoughts which angels may approve.

VERSES written in Lady HOWE's Ovid's Epiſtles.

[92]
By Mr. PRIOR.
HOWEVER high, however cold, the fair,
However great the dying lover's care,
Ovid, kind author, found him ſome relief,
Rang'd his unruly ſighs, and ſet his grief;
Taught him what accents had the power to move,
And always gain'd him pity—ſometimes love.
But oh, what pangs torment the deſtin'd heart,
That feels the wound, yet dare not ſhew the dart!
What care could Ovid to his ſorrows give,
Who muſt not ſpeak, and therefore cannot live?
By Mr. PRIOR, 1716.
I Pray, good Lord Harley, let Jonathan know,
How long you intend to live incognito.
Your humble Servant, ELKANAH SETTLE.
By the ſame.
TO Richmond and Peterburgh, Matt gave his letters,
And thought they were ſafe in the hands of his betters.
How happen'd it then that the packets were loſt?
Theſe were Knights of the Garter, not Knights of the Poſt.

TRUE's EPITAPH.

[93]
By Mr. PRIOR.
IF wit or honeſly could ſave
Our mould'ring aſhes from the grave,
This ſtone had ſtill remain'd unmark'd,
I ſtill writ proſe, True ſtill have bark'd.
But envious fate has claim'd its due,
Here lies the mortal part of True;
His deathleſs virtues muſt ſurvive,
To better us that are alive.
His prudence and his wit were ſeen
In that, from Mary's grace and mien,
He own'd the power, and lov'd the Queen.
By long obedience he confeſt
That ſerving her was to be bleſt.—
Ye murmurers, let True evince
That men are beaſts, and dogs have ſenſe!
His faith and truth all Whitehall knows,
He ne'er could fawn or flatter thoſe
Whom he believ'd were Mary's foes:
Ne'er ſculk'd from whence his ſovereign led him,
Or ſnarl'd againſt the hand that fed him.—
Read this, ye ſtateſmen now in favour,
And mend your own, by True's behaviour!

MR. POPE's WELCOME FROM GREECE.
A Copy of VERSES* written by Mr. GAY, Upon Mr. POPE's having finiſhed his Tranſlation of HOMER's ILIAD.

[94]
I.
LONG haſt thou, friend! been abſent from thy ſoil,
Like patient Ithacus at ſiege of Troy;
I have been witneſs of thy ſix years toil,
Thy daily labours, and thy night's annoy,
Loſt to thy native land, with great turmoil,
On the wide ſea, oft threat'ning to deſtroy:
Methinks with thee I've trod Sigaean ground,
And heard the ſhores of Helleſpont reſound.
II.
Did I not ſee thee when thou firſt ſett'ſt ſail
To ſeek adventures fair in Homer's land?
Did I not ſee thy ſinking ſpirits ſail,
And wiſh thy bark had never left the ſtrand?
Ev'n in mid ocean often didſt thou quail,
And oft lift up thy holy eye and hand,
[95] Praying the Virgin dear, and ſaintly choir,
Back to the port to bring thy bark entire.
III.
Chear up, my friend, thy dangers now are o'er;
Methinks—nay, ſure the riſing coaſts appear;
Hark how the guns ſalute from either ſhore,
As thy trim veſſel cuts the Thames ſo fair:
Shouts anſw'ring ſhouts; from Kent and Effex roar,
And bells break loud thro' every guſt of air:
Bonfires do blaze, and bones and cleavers ring,
As at the coming of ſome mighty king.
IV.
Now paſs we Graveſend with a friendly wind,
And Tilbury's white fort, and long Blackwall;
Greenwich, where dwells the friend of human kind,
More viſited than or her park or hall,
Withers the good, and (with him ever join'd)
Facetious Diſney, greet thee firſt of all:
I ſee his chimney ſmoke, and hear him ſay,
Duke! that's the room for Pope, and that for Gay.
[96]V.
Come in, my friends, here ſhall ye dine and lie,
And here ſhall breakfaſt, and here dine again;
And ſup, and breakfaſt on, (if ye comply)
For I have ſtill ſome dozens of champaign:
His voice ſtill leſſens as the ſhip ſails by;
He waves his hand to bring us back in vain;
For now I ſee, I ſee proud London's ſpires;
Greenwich is loſt, and Deptford dock retires.
VI.
Oh, what a concourſe ſwarms on yonder key!
The ſky re-echoes with new ſhouts of joy;
By all this ſhow, I ween, 'tis Lord May'rs day;
I hear the voice of trumpet and Hautboy.—
No, now I ſee them near—oh, theſe are they
Who come in crowds to welcome thee from Troy.
Hail to the bard whom long as loſt we mourn'd,
From ſiege, from battle, and from ſtorm return'd!
VII.
Of goodly dames, and courteous knights, I view
The ſilken petticoat, and broider'd veſt;
Yea Peers, and mighty Dukes, with ribbands blue,
(True blue, fair emblem of unſtained breaſt.)
Others I ſee, as noble, and more true,
By no court-badge diſtinguiſh'd from the reſt:
[97] Firſt ſee I Methuen, of ſincereſt mind,
As Arthur* grave, as ſoft as woman-kind.
VIII.
What lady's that, to whom he gently bends?
Who knows not her? ah! thoſe are Wortley's eyes:
How art thou honour'd, number'd with her friends?
For ſhe diſtinguiſhes the good and wiſe.
The ſweet-tongu'd Murray† near her ſide attends.
Now to my heart the glance of Howard flies;
Now Harvey, fair of face, I mark full well,
With thee, youth's youngeſt daughter, ſweet Lepell.
IX.
I ſee two lovely ſiſters, hand in hand,
The fair hair'd Martha, and Tereſa brown;
Madge Bellenden, the talleſt of the land;
And ſmiling Mary, ſoft and fair as down.
Yonder I ſee the chearful Ducheſs ſtand,
For friendſhip, zeal, and blithſome humours known:
Whence that loud ſhout in ſuch a hearty ſtrain?
Why, all the Hamiltons are in her train.
[98]X.
See next the decent Scudamore advance,
With Winchelſea, ſtill meditating ſong:
With her perhaps Miſs Howe came there by chance,
Nor knows with whom, or why ſhe comes along.
Far off from theſe ſee Santlow, fam'd for dance*;
And frolick Bicknell, and her ſiſter young;
With other names, by me not to be nam'd,
Much lov'd in private, not in publick ſam'd!
XI.
But now behold the female band retire,
And the ſhrill muſick of their voice is ſtill'd!
Methinks I ſee fam'd Buckingham admire,
That in Troy's ruin thou hadſt not been kill'd;
Sheffield, who knows to ſtrike the living lyre,
With hand judicious, like thy Homer ſkill'd.
Bathurſt impetuous haſtens to the coaſt,
Whom you and I ſtrive who ſhall love the moſt.
[99]XII.
See generous Burlington, with goodly Bruce,
(But Bruce comes wafted in a ſoft ſedan)
Dan Prior next, belov'd by every muſe,
And friendly Congreve, unreproachful man!
(Oxford by Cunningham hath ſent excuſe)
See hearty Watkins comes with cup and cann;
And Lewis, who has never friend forſaken;
And Laughton whiſp'ring aſks—Is Troy town taken?
XIII.
Earl Warwick comes, of free and honeſt mind;
Bold, gen'rous Craggs, whoſe heart was ne'er diſguis'd:
Ah why, ſweet St. John, cannot I thee find?
St. John for ev'ry ſocial virtue priz'd.—
Alas! to foreign climates he's confin'd,
Or elſe to ſee thee here I well ſurmiz'd:
Thou too, my Swift, doſt breathe Boeotian air;
When wilt thou bring back wit and humour here?
XIV.
Harcourt I ſee for eloquence renown'd,
The mouth of juſtice, oracle of law!
Another Simon is beſide him found,
Another Simon, like as ſtraw to ſtraw.
How Lanſdown ſmiles, with laſting laurel crown'd!
What mitred prelate there commands our awe?
[100] See Rocheſter approving nods his head*,
And ranks one modern with the mighty dead.
XV.
Carlton and Chandois thy arrival grace;
Hanmer, whoſe eloquence th' unbiaſs'd ſways;
Harley, whoſe goodneſs opens in his face,
And ſhews his heart the ſeat where virtue ſtays.
Ned Blount advances next, with buſy pace,
In haſte, but ſauntring, hearty in his ways:
I ſee the friendly Carylls come by dozens,
Their wives, their uncles, daughters, ſons, and couſins.
XVI.
Arbuthnot there I ſee, in phyſick's art,
As Galen learn'd, or famed Hippocrate;
Whoſe company drives ſorrow from, the heart,
As all diſeaſe his medicines diſſipate:
Kneller amid the triumph bears his part†,
Who could (were mankind loſt) anew create:
[101] What can th' extent of his vaſt ſoul confine?
A painter, critick, engineer, divine!
XVII.
Thee Jervas hails, rohuſt and debonair,
Now have [we] conquer'd Homer, friends, he cries:
Dartneuf, grave joker, joyous Ford is there*,
And wond'ring Maine, ſo fat with laughing eyes:
(Gay, Maine, and Cheney, boon companions dear,
Gay fat, Maine fatter, Cheney huge of ſize)
[102] Yea Dennis, Gildon, (hearing thou haſt riches)
And honeſt, hatleſs Cromwell, with red breeches.
XVIII.
O Wanley, whence com'ſt thou with ſhorten'd hair,
And viſage from thy ſhelves with duſt beſprent*?
" Forſooth (quoth he) from placing Homer there,
" For ancients to compyle is myne entente:
" Of ancients only hath Lord Harley care;
" But hither me hath my meeke lady ſent:—
" In manuſcript of Greeke rede we thilke ſame,
" But book yprint beſt pleſyth myn gude dame,"
XIX.
Yonder I ſee, among th' expecting croud,
Evans with laugh jocoſe, and tragick Young;
High-buſkin'd Booth, grave Mawbert, wand'ring Frowd,
And Titcomb's belly waddles ſlow along†.
See Digby faints at Southern talking loud,
Yea Steele and Tickell mingle in the throng;
[103] Tickell whoſe ſkiff (in partnerſhip they ſay)
Set forth for Greece, but founder'd in the way.
XX.
Lo the two Doncaſtles in Berkſhire known!
Lo Bickford, Forteſcue, of Devon land!
Lo Tooker, Eckerſhall, Sykes, Rawlinſon!
See hearty Morley takes thee by the hand!
Ayrs, Graham, Buckridge, joy thy voyage done;
But who can count the leaves, the ſtars, the ſand?
Lo Stonor, Fenton, Caldwell, Ward and Broome!
Lo thouſands more, but I want rhyme and room!
XXI.
How lov'd! how honour'd thou! yet be not vain;
And ſure thou art not, for I hear thee ſay,
All this, my friends, I owe to Homer's ſtrain,
On whoſe ſtrong pinions I exalt my lay.
What from contending cities did he gain;
And what rewards his grateful country pay?
None, none were paid—why then all this for me?
Theſe honours, Homer, had been juſt to thee.

A MOTTO for the Opera of Mutius Scaevola.

[104]
By Mr. GAY.
WHO here blames words, or verſes, ſongs, or ſingers,
Like Mutius Scaevola will burn his fingers*.

To the moſt Honourable the Earl of OXFORD, The Lord High Treaſurer.
The epigrammatical Petition of your Lordſhip's moſt humble Servant, JOHN GAY.

I'M no more to converſe with the ſwains,
But go where fine people reſort;
One can live without money on plains,
But never without it at court.
Yet if when with ſwains I did gambol,
I array'd me in ſilver and blue,
When abroad and in courts I ſhall ramble,
Pray, my Lord, how much money will do?

The Ducheſs of QUEENS BERRY's Reply to King GEORGE II. when ſhe was forbid to appear at Court.

[105]
Thurſday, Feb. 27, 1728 9.

THAT the Ducheſs of Queenſberry is ſurpriz'd and well pleas'd that the King hath given her ſo agree⯑able a command as to ſtay from Court, where ſhe never came for diverſion, but to beſtow a great civility upon the King and Queen. She hopes by ſuch an unpre⯑cedented order as this, that the King will ſee as few as he wiſhes at his court (particularly ſuch as dare think or ſpeak the truth.) I dare not do otherwiſe, and ought not; nor could I have imagined that it would not have been the higheſt compliment that I could poſſibly pay the King, to endeavour to ſupport truth and innocence in his houſe.

C. QUEENSBERRY.

Particularly when the King and Queen had both told me that they had not read Mr. Gay's play. I have certainly done right then to ſtand to my own word, rather than his Grace of Grafton's, who hath neither made uſe of truth, judgment or honour through this whole affair, either for himſelf or his friends.

[106] What follows was written by her Grace at the bottom of the copies of the above anſwer, which ſhe gave to her particular friends:

‘"This is the anſwer I gave in writing to the Vice Chamberlain to read to the King, in anſwer to the meſſage he brought me from the King to refrain coming to court."’

All the ſeven following Copies of VERSES were written on the foregoing Subject.

THY dull requeſt, my friend, give o'er,
Againſt that place I vow,
Whence truth was long diſcharg'd before,
And beauty's baniſh'd now.

On the forbidding Command to the Ducheſs of QUEENSBERRY.

HOW bleſt the court? How loft the fair
Who's baniſh'd thence, where all ſubmit
(Such is our prudent monarch's care!)
To Cibber's* modeſty and wit.
[107]
True wit can never want ſupport
Where learned Grafton's the Mecaenas;
And ladies muſt adore that court
Where Ganymede takes place of Venus.

BOILEAU, Sat. IX.

EN vain contre le Cid un miniſtre ſe ligue,
Tout Paris pour Chimene a les yeux de Rodrigue.

The ſame paraphraſed.

IN vain was miniſterial breath,
In vain monarchic folly:
All eyes ſaw Walpole in Macheath,
And Queenſberry in Polly.

To the Ducheſs of QUEENSBERRY.

[108]
LET the knight* on beauty low'r,
Lovelieſt ornament of pow'r;
Let him at a ſtager's nod,
Painted, proſtitute, and proud,
Hate to real charms diſplay,
Baſely ſworn to ruin Gay.
Happy Gay! ordain'd to know
Such a friend and ſuch a foe!
What though wit, and ſenſe to love,
Courtiers' idle rage may move?
Calmly you unhurt retreat,
Baniſh'd by the vulgar great.
Take your beauties thence away,
Full revenge is to obey.
Let the meaner rank and face
Borrow luſtre from the place.
There where friendſhip falſe beguiles,
Baſely murd'ring while it ſmiles;
There where proud deſpotic will
Boaſts the power of doing ill;
There where paltry gold outvies
All the luſtre of your eyes;
Generous, and juſt, and fair,
Why, ah why ſhould you be there!

To JOHNNY GAY.

[109]
THE great ones juſtly, Johnny Gay,
Have damn'd thy ſecond opera,
And to Macheath refuſe to give
The favour of three days reprieve.
Felons from tranſportation come
Are hang'd forthwith when caught at home;
And Robin ſwears he ought to ſwing
For plund'ring but an Indian king.

A BALLAD.

To the Tune of Lillibullero.
I.
SAYS a friend to a knight, ſhall a friend by whoſe ſkill
All the houſes are taught all their parts ev'ry day,
Let Lincolns-inn-fields houſe do juſt what it will?
There's another Macheath, ſir; prohibit the play.
Cibber's your friend,
A play he hath penn'd*,
In which there is nothing that can be apply'd;
For he does not mention
The word bribe or penſion,
Nor any one vice that can fit you beſide.
[110]II.
So Macheath was forbid by authority good,
To Cibber were ſent many hands to applaud;
But in this houſe it ſeems men judg'd as they wou'd,
Not by promiſes ſway'd nor by promiſes aw'd.
Harſh catcalls ſound,
The hiſs goes round,
The courtiers join hiſſes and give up the wight:
As in this houſe they ſhow it,
They dare damn the poet,
Who knows but in t'other they'll give up the knight?
III.
But Young* at this omen is nothing diſmay'd,
He'd ſhew to the town, as 'twas certainly fit,
If Broome, Floyd and Roome† could come to his aid;
That the friends of the miniſtry might have ſome wit;
And ſo they took
An old play book
Writ in Ben Jonſon's time by his man maſter Broome:
Some ſpeeches they mangled,
Some ſongs intertangled;
Sing the courtiers in praiſe of Broome, Floyd and Roome.
[111]IV.
'Tis ſaid, that this piece in good breeding ſo nice,
Can ne'er any gentleman's pleaſure moleſt;
For they mention no modiſh, no politic vice,
They cenſure no knaves, nor make coxcombs a jeſt.
Thus Young and Broome,
And Floyd and Roome,
Have learnt to be mannerly, cautious, and ſage:
From Gay's Newgate ſatire,
Whoſe vulgar ill-nature
Treated rich rogues and poor rogues alike on the ſtage.
V.
Then ſure we muſt own it was prudent and fit
To ſtop our Macheath in his ſecond attack;
And Cibber to ſet up againſt it for wit,
Whom two pair of bards with a ſequel ſhould back.
'Twas Floyd and Broome
And Young and Roome;
Clap your hands, ye good courtiers, and grin at this play:
In two days dy'd Cibber,
But Young will go glibber,
And all theſe court poets be damn'd the firſt day.

Written in Mr. GAY's WORKS.
Preſented to a Lady in very ſplendid Binding.
To the BOOK.

[112]
SILLIER than Gildon could'ſt thou be,
Nay, did James Baker breathe in thee,
She'll keep 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.

On the Forbiddance of GAY's Second Part of the Beggar's Opera, and the Damnation of CIBBER's Love in a Riddle.

TWO accidents the weekly bills have miſs'd,
One poet muzzled up, the other hiſs'd.
Both from the ſtage and tow'ring hopes caſt down,
One by the court, the other by the town.
The one as much deſpis'd as t'other fear'd;
Philautus damn'd by trial, Gay unheard.
Philautus with Corinthian air had drawn
Corinthian courage in primaeval dawn:
With his Corinthian lords he kept the field;—
It coſt a ſecond day to make him yield.
[113] None but a rude Corinthian bold and rough
Could talk of courtiers' heads being made of ſtuff.
Philautus, thou art ſafe; thy Tinker's ſtroke
May grate the ear, but never can provoke:
But he is juſtly dreaded, who can fit
The Spartan virtue to the Athenian wit.

Upon Lady PEMBROKE's promoting the Catcalling of FAUSTINA, 1727.

OLD poets ſing that beaſts did dance
Whenever Orpheus play'd;
So to Fauſtina's charming voice
Wiſe Pembroke's aſſes bray'd.

The Character of the Lady HENRIETTA CAVENDISH HOLLES.

By Mr. HUGHES. 1712-13.
SUCH early wiſdom, ſuch a lovely face,
Such modeſt greatneſs, ſuch attractive grace;
Wit, beauty, goodneſs, charity, and truth,
The riper ſenſe of age, the bloom of youth!
Whence is it that in one fair piece we find
Theſe various beauties of the female kind?
Sure but in one ſuch different charms agree,
And Henrietta is that phoenix-ſhe.

To Lady HENRIETTA CAVENDISH HOLLES, On her Choice of Truth, Honour, and Honeſty for her Motto.

[114]
By Mr. HUGHES.
IN thee, bright maid, tho' all the virtues ſhine,
With rival beams, and every grace is thine,
Yet three, diſtinguiſh'd by thy early voice,
Excite our praiſe, and well deſerve thy choice.
Immortal Truth in heaven itſelf diſplays
Her charms celeſtial born, and pureſt rays,
Which thence in ſtreams like golden ſunſhine flow,
And ſhed their light on minds like yours below.
Fair Honour, next in beauty and in grace,
Shines in her turn, and claims the ſecond place:
She fills the well-born ſoul with noble fires,
And generous thoughts, and godlike acts inſpires.
Then Honeſty, with native air, ſucceeds,
Plain is her look, unartful are her deeds;
And juſt alike to friends and foes ſhe draws
The bounds of right and wrong, nor errs from equal laws.
[115] From heaven this ſcale of virtues thus deſcends
By juſt degrees, and thy full choice defends.
So when, in viſionary trains, by night
Attending angels bleſs'd good Jacob's ſight,
The myſtic ladder thus appear'd to riſe,
Its foot on earth, its top amidſt the ſkies.

The humble Petition of a beautiful young LADY, To the Rev. Dr. BERKLEY, Dean of Londonderry *, which he quits to go and ſettle a College at Bermudas.

DEAR doctor, here comes a young virgin untainted,
To your ſhrine at Bermudas, to be married and ſainted;
I am young, I am ſoft, I am blooming and tender,
And of all that I have, I make you a ſurrender.
My innocence, led by the voice of your fame,
To your perſon and virtue muſt put in its claim;
And now I behold you, I truly believe,
That you're as like Adam as I am like Eve:
But then (as in you a new race has begun)
Are teaching to fly from the ſhade to the ſun:
Before, the dire ſerpent their virtue betray'd,
And taught them to fly from the ſun to the ſhade,
[116] For you, in great goodneſs, your friends are perſuading
To go, and to live, and be wiſe in your Eden.
Oh let me go with you; oh pity my youth;
Oh take me from hence, let me not loſe my truth.
Sure you, that have virtue ſo much in your mind,
Can't think to leave me, who am virtue, behind.
If you make me your wife, ſir, in time you may fill a
Whole town with your children, and likewiſe your villa:
I famous for breeding, you famous for knowledge,
I'll found a whole nation, you'll found a whole college:
And when many long ages in joys we have ſpent,
Our ſouls we'll reſign with the utmoſt content;
And gently we'll ſink between cypreſs and yew,
You lying by me, and I lying by you.

PROLOGUE* to MUSIC.

By Dr. GARTH.
WHERE muſic, and more pow'rful beauty reign,
Who can reſiſt the pleaſure or the pain?
Here their ſoft magic thoſe two ſyrens try,
And if we liſten, or but look, we die.
[117] Why ſhould we the romantic tales admire
Of Orpheus' numbers, or Amphion's lyre,
Of walls erected by harmonious ſkill,
How mountains mov'd, and rapid ſtreams ſtood ſtill?
See here a ſcene of beauty, and confeſs
The wonder greater, but the fiction leſs.
Like human victims here we ſtand decreed,
To worſhip thoſe bright altars where, we bleed.
Who braves his fate in fields, muſt tremble here,
Triumphant love more vaſſals makes than fear.
No faction homage to the fair denies,
The right divine's apparent in their eyes.
The empire's fix'd that's founded on deſire,
Thoſe flames the veſtals guard, can ne'er expire.

BUTLER's COMPLAINT againſt his pretended MONUMENT in Weſtminſter Abbey.

‘Poeta loquitur.’
AGAIN my garret-poverty is ſhown,
By the mean cov'ring of this Portland ſtone;
I loſe my fame as martyrs loſe their breath,
For like Saint Stephen I am ſton'd to death.

Two LINES written with Charcoal upon BUTLER's MONUMENT.

[118]
THIS monument for Hudibras,
Erected was by John de Braſs.

EPIGRAM On the Miracles wrought by CUZZONI.

BOAST not how Orpheus charm'd the rocks,
And ſet a dancing ſtones and ſtocks,
And tigers' rage appeas'd;
All this Cuzzoni has ſurpaſs'd,
Sir Wilfred ſeems to have a taſte,
And Smith and Gage are pleas'd.

EPIGRAM In Behalf of TOM SOUTHERN, To the Duke of ARGYLE.

ARGYLE, his praiſe when Southern wrote,
Firſt ſtruck out this, and then that thought;
Said this was flatt'ry, that a fault:
How ſhall the bard contrive?
[119] My lord, conſider what you do—
He'll loſe his pains and verſes too;
For if theſe praiſes fit not you,
They'll ſerve no man alive.

A Deſcription of Dr. DELANY's Villa.

By Dr. SHERIDAN.
WOULD you that Delville I deſcribe,
Believe me, ſir, I will not gibe;
For who would be ſatirical
Upon a thing ſo very ſmall?
You ſcarce upon the borders enter,
Before you're at the very centre.
A ſingle crow can make it night,
When o'er your farm ſhe takes her flight.
Yet in this narrow compaſs, we
Obſerve a great variety;
Both walks, walls, meadows, and parterres,
Windows and doors, and rooms and ſtairs;
And hills and dales, and woods and fields,
And hay, and graſs, and corn it yields;
All to your haggard brought ſo cheap in,
Without the mowing or the reaping;
A razor, tho' to ſay't I'm loth,
Would ſhave you and your meadows both.
[120]
Tho' ſmall's the farm, yet here's a houſe,
Full large to entertain a mouſe;
But where a rat is dreaded more
Than ſavage Caledonian boar:
For, if 'tis enter'd by a rat,
There is no room to bring a cat.
A little rivulet ſeems to ſteal
Down thro' a thing you call a vale;
Like tears a-down a wrinkled cheek,
Or rain along a blade of leek;
And this you call your ſweet meander,
Which might be ſuck'd up by a gander,
Could he but force his nether bill
To ſcoop the channel of the rill:
I'm ſure you'd make a mighty clutter,
Were it as big as city gutter.
Next come I to your kitchen garden,
Which one poor ſlug would fare but hard in:
And round his garden is a walk,
No longer than a taylor's chalk:
Thus I compute what ſpace is in it,
A ſnail creeps round it in a minute.
One lettuce makes a ſhift to ſqueeze
Up thro' a tuſt you call your trees;
And once a year a ſingle roſe
Peeps from the bud, but never blows:
[121] In vain you then expect its bloom;
It cannot blow for want of room.
In ſhort, in all your boaſted ſeat,
There's nothing, but yourſelf, that's great.

Written in the Right Honourable the Earl of OXFORD'S Library at Wimpole, 1729.

By SOAME JENYNS.
WHO uninſpir'd can tread this ſacred ground,
With all the ſons of fame encompaſs'd round?
Where crown'd with wreaths of ever verdant bays,
Each ſiſter art her willing charms diſplays.
Mellow'd by time, here beauteous paintings glow,
There marble buſts illuſtrious faces ſhow;
And in old coins are little heroes ſeen,
With venerable ruſt of ages, green.
Around, unwounded by the teeth of age,
By gothic fire, or perſecution's rage,
Perfect and fair, un-number'd volumes ſtand,
By Providence preſerv'd for Oxford's hand.
Whilſt thus within theſe learned walls I ſtray,
At once all climes and ages I ſurvey:
On fancy's wings I fly from ſhore to ſhore,
Recall paſt time, and live whole Aeras o'er;
[122] Converſe with heroes fam'd in ancient ſong,
And bards, by whom thoſe heroes breathe ſo long;
Obſerve each progreſs wit and learning makes;
How haraſs'd nations trembling ſhe forſakes,
And chuſes ſtill to build her downy neſt
In happier climes with peace and plenty bleſt.
See how, in fam'd Auguſtus' golden days
She triumphs, crown'd with univerſal praiſe!
Approaches thrones with a majeſtic air,
The prince's miſtreſs, and the ſtateſman's care;
Mecaenas ſhines in every claſſic page,
Mecaenas, once the Harley of his age
No meaner charms in Albion ſhe diſplays,
Invited thither by Saturnian days,
When Anna's prudent hand the ſcepter ſway'd,
And Oxford lent the drooping muſes aid:
By him inſpir'd, ſee all the tuneful train,
In Britain's glorious ſons revive again!
Prior like Horace ſtrikes the trembling ſtrings,
And in harmonious Pope again great Maro ſings,
Again ſhe waves her pinions to be gone,
And only hopes protection from his ſon.
Chas'd from the ſenate and the court ſhe flies;
Cunning and party-zeal her place ſupplies:
[123] Yet ſtill, ſince fix'd in Wimpole's happy plain,
(Her laſt retreat) ſhe knows not to complain:
There, in great Oxford's converſe, does engage
Th' inſtructed ear, and ſhames a vicious age:
Or in his conſort's accents ſtands confeſt,
And charms with graceful eaſe each liſt'ning gueſt;
Or, with her lov'd companions, gladly ty'd,
Unſtudied charms, and beauty void of pride,
Tranſported dwells in the celeſtial place,
And ever ſmiles in Margaretta's face.

RAGG's* VERSES to J. PHILIPS.

ASPICIS hunc plantis qui fulcitur elephantis;
Quem genuit Bamton, quem moeſta eduxerat Hampton;
Queen Wickham fovit, ſed non Wintonia novit.
Vir vere bellus, cui valde parvus ocellus.
Cui candelarum ritu fluit ordo comarum.
Cui chara eſt mamma, ſed charius eſt epigramma.
Cui non eſt lodix, nec habet femoralia podex.
Prudens legatus, licet haud ad praelia natus.
[124] Surripit hic fartum, ſuadet (que) reſurgere ſmartum.
Mox vocat ad bellum, mox effugit arte duellum.
Qui dum non jurat, ſaltem ſua corpora curat;
Veſcitur et bobus, dum tondet prata Jacobus*.
Quem juvat et paetum facit et cereviſia laetum;
At vinum eſt ſummum, poſſit ſi gignere nummum.
Mane vocat panes, cyathoſ (que) relinquit inanes,
Et toga humum verrit, Albanaq (que) moenia terret†.
Prandere abſque olla gaudens, et ſcalpere colla;
Trahere ſermones, et tollere ſimmerſones‡.
EDMUND SMITH.

The Duke of BUCKINGHAM's EPITAPH, Written by Himſelf, And left in his Will to be fixed on his Monument.

[125]
‘Pro Rege ſaepe, pro Republica ſemper.’
DUBIUS ſed non improbus vixi:
Incertus morior, ſed inturbatus:
Humanum eſt neſcire et errare.
Chriſtum adveneror, Deo confido
Omnipotenti, benevolentiſſimo.
Ens entium miſerere mihi!

Thus tranſlated by GEORGE SEWELL*, M. D. Author of the Tragedy of Sir Walter Raleigh.

OFT for my King I drew my ſword,
Take it on John of Bucks's word;
[126] But always for my country dear
I ſtickled;—inſtance once,—Tangier.
I chang'd my ſide, like weather-cock,
Yet ne'er was rogue nor bully-rock.
I whor'd, and play'd at bowls and dice,
But ne'er was conſtant to one vice.
For Chriſt—I leave that queſtion dark,
'Twixt Bennet, Whiſton, and Sam Clarke:
I worſhip him in all I can,
But neither ſay, as God, or man.
My chiefeſt hopes on God are bent,
Eternal and omnipotent.
Being of Beings, hear my prayer,
And for this creed, my graceſhip ſpare!

On Sir ABRAHAM ELT being knighted, and taking the name of ELTON.

IN days of yore, old Abraham-Elt,
When living, had nor ſword nor belt;
But now his ſon, Sir Abraham Elton,
Being knighted, has both ſword and belt on.

EPITAPH On Mr. CRAGGS.

[127]
M. S. Ja. Craggs, Arm.
Pro meipſo ſemper.
Pro Republica nunquam.
Nil dubius; improbus vixi.
Opio, opibuſ (que) intoxicatus, morior.
Ducem Marlburium creatorem
meum adveneror.
In Mammone ſolo confido,
Deo mihi omnipotenti.
Prolem meam dilectiſſimam
et probam ſequor.
Spe certa*
Pium Sunderlandium ſecuturum expectans.
Dii inferi accipite veſtros!

A WESTMINSTER EXERCISE.

[128]
Uſque adeo nihil eſt quod noſtra infantia coelum
Hauſit Aventini?
INSPIR'D with joy, we ſee the learned throng
Liſten propitious to our humble ſong.
Within theſe walls, the infant muſe delights
To plume her new-fledg'd wings for future flights.
Here trembling voices uncouth ſtrains repeat,
Here bards firſt totter on poetic feet;
Till by degrees grown bold, with active ſkill,
They gain the ſummit of the ſacred hill.
Thus Cowley, Dryden, Buckhurſt, Prior came
Firſt in the liſts of poetry and fame.
Not by our ſteps, nor labours ſuch as theſe,
The brazen-fac'd Corinthian try'd to pleaſe;
But ſpite of Phoebus and the muſe's art,
The actor fondly play'd the poet's part:
While with harſh untaught notes he wakes the plains
The ſweeter cat-call emulates his ſtrains.
Hiſs'd, hooted, damn'd, deſpis'd, the ſcribbling fool
Finds to his coſt, he was not bred at ſchool.
He might have 'ſcap'd a yawning gallery's curſes,
Had our third form firſt known his nonſenſe verſes;
By humble ſteps he might have ris'n to praiſe,
And having felt our Birch, deſerv'd your Bays.

EPITAPH on Mr. THYNNE, Who was ſhot by CONINGSMARK's Direction.

[129]
HERE lies Tom Thynne of Long Leat-hall,
Who never would thus have miſcarry'd,
Had he married the woman he lay withal,
Or lay with the woman he marry'd.

A PARSON's RESOLUTION.

GOD proſper long our noble King,
Our lives and fortunes all;
A woeful preachment once there did
In Mamble church befall.
I preached, all the live-long day,
Repentance to a ſinner;
But I'll preach there no more, I ſwear,
For they gave me no dinner.

To a LADY.

HOW perfect, Chloris, and how free
Would theſe enjoyments prove,
But you with formal jealouſy
Are ſtill tormenting love!
[130]
Let us (ſince wit inſtructs us how)
Raiſe pleaſure to the top:
If rival bottle you'll allow,
I'll ſuffer rival fop.
There's not a briſk inſipid ſpark
That flutters in the town,
But with your wanton eyes you mark
Him out to be your own.
You never think it worth your care,
How empty nor how dull
The heads of your admirers are,
So that their backs be full.
All this you freely may confeſs,
Yet we'll not diſagree;
For did you love your pleaſures leſs,
You were not fit for me.
Whilſt I, my paſſion to purſue,
Am whole nights taking in
The luſty juice of grapes, take you
The juice of luſty men!
Upbraid me not that I deſign
Tricks to delude your charms,
When running after mirth and wine
I leave your longing arms.
[131]
For wine (whoſe power alone can raiſe
Our thoughts ſo far above)
Affords ideas fit to praiſe
What we think fit to love.

An EPITAPH on Dr. JOHN FRIEND, the Phyſician, who died in 1728.

HERE lie the bones of Dr. Friend
Once thought an honeſt man;
But who can tell before the end,
Tho' life is but a ſpan?
To be phyſician to a Queen
Was all his chief ambition,
Which made him quit poor Clementeen
For her who rules in Britain.
Now mark the end of avarice and pride;
His reputation crack'd, and then he died.

EPITAPH Intended by Mr. DRYDEN for his Wife.

HERE lies my wife: here let her lie:
Now ſhe's at reſt, and ſo am I.

EPITAPH on Mr. MOLESWORTH, Who erected a Monument, and placed an Inſcription upon it in Honour of his favourite DOG.

[132]
UNDER this ſtone both dog and maſter lie,
Neither deſerv'd to live, or thought to die.
Do not diſturb the happy ſleeping pair,
Who once in love, now join'd in burial are.
But here's the curſe, which Moleſworth little thought,—
He'll one day riſe again, the other not.

Upon Dr. EVANS, Burſar, cutting down the Trees in ST. JOHN's COLLEGE GROVE.

By Dr. TADLOW.
INDULGENT nature to each kind beſtows
A ſecret inſtinct to diſcern its foes.
The gooſe, a ſilly bird, yet knows the fox;
Hares fly from dogs, and ſailors ſteer from rocks:
This rogue, the gallows for his fate foreſees,
And bears a like antipathy to trees.

Dr. EVANS upon Dr. TADLOW.

TEN thouſand taylors, with their length of line,
Strove, tho' in vain, his compaſs to conſine;
At length, bewailing their exhauſted ſtore,
Their packthread ceas'd, and parchment was no more.

To be publiſhed in the next Edition of DRYDEN's VIRGIL.

[133]
OLD Jacob*, by deep judgment led,
To pleaſe the wiſe beholders,
Has plac'd old Naſſau's† hook-nos'd head
Upon Aeneas' ſhoulders.
To make the parallel compleat,
Methinks, there's little lacking;
One took his father on his back,
And t'other ſent his packing.

To a LADY more cruel than fair.

By Sir JOHN VANBRUGH.
I.
WHY d'ye with ſuch diſdain refuſe
An humble lover's plea?
Since heaven denies you pow'r to chuſe,
You ought to value me.
II.
Ungrateful miſtreſs of a heart
Which I ſo freely gave,
Tho' weak your bow, tho' blunt your dart,
I ſoon reſign'd your ſlave.
[134]III.
Nor was I weary of your reign,
Till you a tyrant grew,
And ſeem'd regardleſs of my pain,
As nature ſeem'd of you.
IV.
When thouſands with unerring eyes
Your beauty would decry,
What graces did my love deviſe
To give their truths the lye?
V.
To every grove I told your charms,
In you my heaven I plac'd,
Propoſing pleaſures in your arms
Which none but I would taſte,
VI.
For me t'admire at ſuch a rate
So damn'd a face, will prove
You have as little cauſe to hate,
As I have had to love.

Upon the ROYSTON BARGAIN, or ALEHOUSE WEDDING; i. e. the Marriage of Mr. CHARLES CAESAR to Miſs LONG, October 1729.

[135]
I.
YE fathers and mothers,
Ye ſiſters and brothers,
That have a rich heireſs in guard,
I'll tell you a tale,
If you mind, it won't fail
To preſerve in all ſafety your ward.
II.
Ne'er keep her at Hammel's,
In traces and trammels,
Nor think an old man and his cat,
Are company fit
For a girl that has wit,
And is eager to know what is what.
III.
She's too frolick and gay,
To be tempted to ſtay
The return of a fiddling ſon;
She won't feed on ſong,
For her name is Miſs Long,
And her buſineſs in ſhort muſt be done.
[136]IV.
While Ralph and his ſpouſe
Were employ'd in the houſe,
With Wiſeman, their chief ſecretary;
Away went the gay thing
In ſearch of a plaything,
And ſo ſhe began the vagary.
V.
Quoth he then to his wife,
I'll venture my life
She's gone to the alehouſe at Munden:
And who can be there,
As I honour ſmall beer,
But Caeſar aut nullus from London!
VI.
I've told you, dear Ralph,
If you'd keep that girl ſafe,
Ne'er truſt her alone with Miſs Cremer;
And as for Miſs Jenning,
Her ways are ſo winning,
She'll make her as gallant a ſchemer.
VII.
Juſt as ſhe had ſaid,
Came in the poor maid,
With meſſage and face moſt importune;
That Caeſar with forces,
And coach and ſix horſes,
Had ſtolen away their great fortune.
[137]VIII.
You ſee, you old fool,
You are made a mere tool,
And dup'd by Caeſar and your ſiſter;
You thought the girl ſafe,
By the care of ſon Ralph,
But the booby crack'd walnuts, and miſt her*.
IX.
Then out went the ſcouts,
To the towns thereabouts,
In hopes to have luckily found them;
But Saygrace, the parſon,
Had carry'd the farce on,
And in cottage had juſt before bound them.
X.
And then from her bed,
Having loſt maidenhead
In the joyous and amorous ſtrife,
She cry'd, hang your maſter,
I've felt no diſaſter
In paſſing from maiden to wife.
[138]XI.
And now turn your face
To Benington Place,
And ſee with what joy this is taken;
Where madam does chatter
To all that come at her,
And cries, we have now ſav'd our bacon,
XII.
Now my foes I deſpiſe,
And my grotto ſhall riſe,
Tho' ſome folks may call it my folly;
And when all is ſold,
The reſt ſhall be told
'Twixt Julius, Betty, and Molly.

To Mrs. B. to invite her from Virginia to Bermudas.

‘Hic canit Heſperidum miratam mala puellam.’
I.
FROM diſtant climes Lucinda came
To conquer and diſdain,
Then leading captive every heart,
In triumph croſs'd the main.
[139]II.
Ye fleets that o'er the Atlantic ſpread
Your ſails, neglect to trade;
Forget the treaſures of Peru
To ſeek the lovely maid:
III.
But if the fair, reſolv'd to ſhine
Upon the weſtern ſhore,
Will never with her preſence bleſs
Benighted Europe more;
IV.
As Cytherea fix'd her throne
In Cyprus, happy iſle,
So let the new world's queen of love
On her Bermuda ſmile.
V.
The orange and the citron groves
That bloſſom all the year,
For her the Heſperides preſerve
Without the dragon's care.
VI.
Swift, ſwift as Atalanta fly,
The golden fruit depends,
And none but golden arrows arm
The boy that there attends.
[140]VII.
The choiceſt ſpirits of the age
All for the weſt prepare:
The muſes all are on the wing,
To meet Lucinda there.

A BERMUDAN ODE.

Down-Hall, Sunday, April 10, 1727.
I.
WHEN in a ſtate devoid of ſenſe
Inanimate I lay,
A particle of ſcatter'd duſt,
Or unregarded clay;
II.
This human elevated form
Thy plaſtic breath beſtow'd,
And in the image of thyſelf
Conſcious exiſtence ſlow'd.
III.
To thee my pray'rs in feeble cries
Upon my birth I paid;
Then innocence was ſacrifice,
A babe the off'ring made.
[141]IV.
An angel that beholds thy face,
The guardian of a ſtate,
Or ruler of ſome happy world
Amidſt the ſeraphs, great,
V.
Held up and led me on in life,
With care and kind regard,
Well pleas'd that office to perform,
And tend an infant ward.
VI.
When in the wilderneſs of youth,
Vice ſtrew'd a ſlow'ry way;
When phantoms fair allur'd to paſs
Where hidden ſerpents lay;
VII.
Thy grace to virtue's rugged paths
Inclin'd my tender feet,
Taught them to climb the ſteep aſcent,
And made the labour ſweet.
VIII.
As reaſon dawn'd, my riſing ſoul
The vaſt expanſe beheld;
The ſuns that ſhine, the worlds that roll
In nature's azure field.
[142]IX.
Wondrous, ſaid I, are all thy works,
Above the thoughts of men,
Above imagination's reach,
Thyſelf how wond'rous then!
X.
Happy the comprehenſive mind
That fir'd with heav'nly flame,
Aſpires in youthful vigour freſh,
To regions whence it came.
XI.
Sublime, ſerene, among the ſtars,
With great ideas crown'd,
Soars o'er creation's fruitful plains,
And views th' amazing round.
XII.
Oh! that my ſoul had held that height,
That glorious height attain'd!
Nor ever ſunk beneath the pitch
Her early pinions gain'd!
XIII.
Not riches, honours, pleaſures, pow'r,
Not all this world can pay,
If made eternal, would be worth
The joys of one ſuch [...]ay.
[143]XIV.
Unworthy of celeſtial ſcenes,
Detruded from the ſpheres,
Prone and precipitate I fell,
Sinking for thrice three years:
XV.
Then toil'd among the grov'ling herd,
In the dull beaten road;
Or ſtray'd in error's devious paths
Dragging th' uneaſy load.
XVI.
Affliction's far-extended tide
Came on, wave after wave;
Whilſt all the comforts of my life
Were laid in Anna's grave.
XVII.
With her, the ſun ſeem'd ever ſet,
All lovelineſs decay'd;
Not the leaſt glimm'ring ray of joy
Pierc'd the Cimmerian ſhade.
XVIII.
Then on the precipice I ſtood,
Where death and ſin laid wait
To caſt me down into the flood
Of that eternal ſtate.
[144]XIX.
On eagles' wings, above their flight,
The ſwift deliv'rer bore
The deſtin'd prey, ſnatch'd from the foe,
Safe to a diſtant ſhore;
XX.
Where parents of the world, that make
The poor their god-like care,
A ſpring, imparadis'd, enjoy
Perpetual through the year.
XXI.
In orange groves and cedar ſchools
The ſavages refine;
Heſperian nations train'd to arts,
In Indian Athens ſhine.
XXII.
The waters wide ſmile many a league,
The winds, the ſurges, ſleep;
Nor was old ocean better pleas'd
When Iſrael paſs'd the deep.
XXIII.
Angels, reclin'd on purple clouds
Border'd with burniſh'd gold,
Applaud the work, the ſpreading faith
With extaſy behold.

Sir CHARLES HANBURY to Sir HANS SLOANE, Who ſaved his Life, and deſired him to ſend over all the Rarities he could find in his Travels.

[145]
SINCE you, dear Doctor, ſav'd my life,
To bleſs by turns and plague my wiſe,
In conſcience I'm oblig'd to do
Whatever is enjoin'd by you.
According then to your command,
That I ſhould ſearch the weſtern land
For curious things of ev'ry kind,
And ſend you all that I ſhould find,
I've ravag'd air, earth, ſeas, and caverns,
Men, women, children, towns, and taverns;
And greater rarities can ſhew
Than Greſham's children ever knew,
Which carrier Dick ſhall bring you down,
Next time his waggon comes to town.
Firſt, I've three drops of that ſame ſhower
Which Jove in Danae's lap did pour;
From Carthage brought, the ſword I'll ſend
Which brought Queen Dido to her end;
The ſtone whereby Goliath dy'd,
Which cures the head-ach well apply'd;
The ſnake-ſkin, which you may believe,
The devil caſt who tempted Eve;
[146] A fig-leaf apron—it's the ſame
That Adam wore to hide his ſhame,
But now wants darning; I've beſide,
The blow by which poor Abel dy'd;
A whetſtone worn exceeding ſmall,
Time us'd to whet his ſcythe withal;
The pigeon ſtuff'd, which Noah ſent
To tell him where the waters went.
A ring I've got of Sampſon's hair,
The ſame which Dalilah did wear;
Saint Dunſtan's tongs, which ſtory ſhews,
Did pinch the devil by the noſe;
The very ſhaft, as all may ſee,
Which Cupid ſhot at Antony;
And, which above the reſt I prize,
A glance of Cleopatra's eyes;
Some ſtrains of eloquence which hung
In Roman times on Tully's tongue,
Which long conceal'd and loſt had lain,
Till [...] found them out again.
Then I've, moſt curious to be ſeen,
A ſcorpion's bite to cure the ſpleen:
A goad that, rightly us'd, will prove
A certain remedy to love:
As Moore cures worms in ſtomach bred,
I've pills cure maggots in the head;
[147] With the receipts too how to take 'em
—
I've got a ray of Phoebus' ſhine,
Found in the bottom of a mine;
A lawyer's conſcience, large and fair,
Fit for a judge himſelf to wear.
I've a choice noſtrum fit to make
At oath a catholick will take.
In a thumb vial you ſhall ſee,
Cloſe cork'd, ſome drops of honeſty,
Which after ſearching kingdoms round,
At laſt, were in a cottage found.
An antidote, if ſuch there be,
Againſt the charms of flattery.
I ha'nt collected any care,
Of that there's plenty ev'ry where;
But after wond'rous labours ſpent,
I've got one grain of rich content.
This my wiſh—it is my glory—
To furniſh your nicknackatory;
I only beg that when you ſhew 'em,
You'll tell your friends to whom you owe 'em;
Which may your other patients teach
To know, as has done yours, C. H.

To Sir HENRY ASHURST, at Bath; From Mr. HANBURY.

[148]
TO you addreſſing, gentle Knight,
I chuſe in humble verſe to write;
For you delight in dance and ſong,
For ever gay, for ever young:
But let not Biller's learned eye
O'erlook my feeble poetry;
For London's fogs the muſes choke,
With ſeas of dirt and clouds of ſmoke.
Not ſo at Bath, where morning air
Breathes on the early-riſing fair;
Where love once dipt his fiery darts,
And, with the waters, warms our hearts;
Where battledores beat tuneful time,
And teach young poets how to rhime;
Where ſnowy arms at once inſpire
The flying cock, and ſoft deſire.
Where happy walks and groves are free
From politicks and calumny;
Nor ſword, nor hoop, dares gives offence;
Such was the ſtate of innocence.
Theſe various pleaſures that poſſeſs
Where health and joy and beauty pleaſe,
[149] Unwearied at the longeſt ball,
'Tis you alone enjoy 'em all:
Whilſt I, oppreſt with grief of mind,
Lament the joys I left behind,
With aking heart I bid adieu,
For ever yours, E. U.
Pray give my ſervices and kiſſes
Amongſt the widows and the miſſes.
January 28 is the date, you find
One thouſand 7 hundred 28 and nine.
And now, deareſt Knight, we're all
Arriv'd in ſafety at Whitehall.

Lord HARVEY on the Dutcheſs of RICHMOND.

WHAT do ſcholars and bards and aſtrologers wiſe
Mean by ſtuffing one's head with ſuch nonſenſe and ly [...]?
By telling one Venus muſt always appear
In a car, or a ſhell, or a twinkling ſtar,
Drawn by ſparrows, or ſwans, or by dolphins or doves,
And attended in form by the Graces and Loves;
That ambroſia and nectar is all ſhe will taſte,
And her paſsport to hearts is a belt round her waiſt?
[150] Without all this buſtle I ſaw the bright dame,
For to ſupper laſt night to Poultney's ſhe came,
In a good warm ſedan, no fine open car,
Two chairmen for doves, and a flambeau her ſtar:
No nectar ſhe drank, no ambroſia ſhe eat,
Her cup was plain claret, a chicken her meat;
Nor wanted the ceſtus her boſom to grace,
For Richmond for that night had lent her her face.

On a COLLAR Preſented for HAPPY GILL.

By Mr. HUGHES.
THOU little favourite of the fair!
When thou theſe golden bands ſhalt wear,
The hand that binds them ſoftly kiſs,
With conſcious joy, and own thy bliſs.
Proud of his chain, who would not be
A ſlave, to gain her ſmiles, like thee?

Lord MIDDLESEX to Mr. POPE, On reading Mr. ADDISON's Account of the Engliſh Poets.

[151]
IF all who e'er invok'd the tuneful nine
In Addiſon's majeſtic numbers ſhine,
Why then ſhould Pope, ye bards, ye criticks tell,
Remain unſung, who ſings himſelf ſo well?
Hear then, great bard, who can alike inſpire
With Waller's ſoftneſs, or with Milton's fire;
Whilſt I, the meaneſt of the muſes' throng,
To thy juſt praiſes tune th' advent'rous ſong.
How am I fill'd with rapture and delight
When gods and mortals mix'd, ſuſtain the fight!
Like Milton then, tho' in more poliſh'd ſtrains,
Thy chariots rattle o'er the ſmoking plains,
What tho' archangel 'gainſt archangel arms,
And higheſt Heaven reſounds with dire alarms!
Doth not the reader with like dread ſurvey
The wounded gods repuls'd with foul diſmay?
But when ſome fair one guides your ſofter verſe,
Her charms, her godlike features to rehearſe;
See how her eyes with quicker lightnings arm,
And Waller's thoughts in ſmoother numbers charm.
[152]
When fools provoke, and dunces urge thy rage,
Flecknoe improv'd bites keener in each page.
Give o'er, great bard, your fruitleſs toil give o'er,
For ſtill king Tibbald ſcribbles as before;
Poor Shakeſpeare ſuffers by his pen each day,
While Grubſtreet alleys own his lawful ſway.
Now turn, my muſe, thy quick, poetic eyes,
And view gay ſcenes and op'ning proſpects riſe.
Hark! how his ruſtic numbers charm around,
While groves to groves, and hills to hills reſound.
The liſt'ning beaſts ſtand fearleſs as he ſings,
And birds attentive cloſe their uſeleſs wings.
The ſwains and ſatyrs trip it o'er the plain,
And think old Spenſer is reviv'd again.
But when once more the godlike man begun
In words ſmooth flowing from his tuneful tongue,
Raviſh'd they gaze, and ſtruck with wonder ſay,
Sure Spenſer's ſelf ne'er ſung ſo ſweet a lay:
Sure once again Eliza glads the iſle,
That the kind muſes thus propitious ſmile.—
Why gaze ye thus? Why all this wonder, ſwains?—
'Tis Pope that ſings, and Carolina reigns.
But hold, my muſe! whoſe aukward verſe betrays
Thy want of ſkill, nor ſhews the poet's praiſe;
Ceaſe then, and leave ſome fitter bard to tell
How Pope in ev'ry ſtrain can write, in ev'ry ſtrain excell.

The Twenty-Firſt ODE of the Third Book of HORACE, tranſlated.

[153]
By Lord MIDDLESEX.
‘O nate mecum, &c. ’
O HAPPY caſk, coaeval with thy Lord,
One year to both did equal life afford;
What tho' your hidden pow'r alike can move
To quarrel furious, or more furious love;
Can call briſk puns, bid quaint conundrums riſe,
Or caſt a heavy ſlumber o'er the eyes?
O now deſcend, Corvinus bids, deſcend,
For him your beſt, your choiceſt liquor lend.
Let him with rules of Socrates be wiſe;
Fear not, he'll ne'er your gen'rous juice deſpiſe;
For well he knows, that Cato's ſelf with wine
Oft made his rigid virtues brighter ſhine.
You, with ſoft violence or mirth, can wreſt
The deepeſt ſecrets from the cloſeſt breaſt:
By you inſpir'd, the anxious mind's reliev'd,
Thinks but of mirth, and wonders why it griev'd.
By thee, the poor, in all their rags grown bold,
Unaw'd the pomp of majeſty behold;
Hear unconcern'd ſhrill trumpets from afar,
Nor dread the thunder of approaching war.
[154] Bacchus (to whom bright liquor owes its birth)
If Venus ſmiles propitious on our mirth,
For you, Corvinus, will prolong our joy:
(For how can Bacchus join'd with Venus cloy?)
Till yon bright tapers caſt a fainter light,
Till Phoebus riſing o'er the mountains bright,
Chaſes the friendly darkneſs of the night.

Upon a GOOSE.

By Lord MIDDLESEX.
NOW the full barns with yellow ſheaves are ſtor'd,
That yield a double product to their Lord;
To glean the fields, the Geeſe direct their way,
And far from hence through unknown ſtubbles ſtray.
The jolly farmer views with joyful eyes
The ſacred light of Michael's dawn ariſe,
While new-ſhorn vales a pleaſant proſpect yield,
And Geeſe unnumber'd whiten all the field.
Obedient to his voice and well-known call,
A grateful victim to their ſaint they fall.
Before his hoſpitable gate he ſtands,
And welcomes in his gueſt with greeting hands.
And now the neat though homely cloth diſplay'd,
And earthern plates in ſhining order laid
[155] Provoke each hungry gueſt. The Gooſe appears,
The reeking load a bending ſervant bears;
With ſage well ſtuff'd to add a ſav'ry taſte,
And ſugar'd apples crown the rich repaſt.
Brimful with ale the nut-brown bowls go round,
While every voice of Geeſe the praiſes ſound:
The gods themſelves might envy ſuch a feaſt,
And thund'ring Jove might wiſh to prove a gueſt.
And thus, O ſacred bird, each coming year
You keep the ſtricteſt bands of friends ſincere.
Oh could I ſing your far-reſounding praiſe
In Prior's ſmooth, or Pope's ſublimer lays!
Then ſhould the Mantuan Swan exult no more,
Nor higher than the Britiſh Gooſe ſhould ſoar:
Thy glory ſhould the plains and vallies fill,
While muſes could inſpire, or Geeſe afford a quill.

On Lady A.

YOUNG, thoughtleſs, gay, unfortunately fair,
Her pride to pleaſe, and pleaſureall her care;
With too much kindneſs, and too little art,
Prone to indulge the dictates of the heart;
Flatter'd by all, ſolicited, admir'd;
By women envied, and by men deſir'd;
[156] At once from full proſperity ſhe's torn,
By friends deſerted, of defence forlorn,
Expos'd to talkers, inſults, want, and ſcorn;
By ev'ry idle tongue her ſtory told,
The novel of the young, the lecture of the old.
But let the ſcoffer, or the prude, relate
With rigour's utmoſt force, her hapleſs fate,
Good-nature ſtill to ſoft compaſſion wrought
Shall weep her ruin while it owns her fault:
For if her conduct, in ſome ſteps betray'd,
To virtue's rule too little rev'rence paid,
Yet dying, ſtill ſhe ſhew'd ſo dear her fame,
She could ſurvive her guilt, but not her ſhame;
Her honour, dearer than her life ſhe prov'd,
And dearer far than both, the man ſhe lov'd.

Dr. WINTER's QUESTIONS to Dr. CHENEY.

TELL me from what fat-headed Scot
Thou didſt thy ſyſtem learn:
From Hippocrate thou hadſt it not,
From Celſus nor Pitcairn.
Suppoſe we own that milk is good,
And ſay the ſame of graſs;
The one for babes is proper food,
The other for an aſs.
[157]
Doctor, this new preſcription try;
A friend's advice forgive:
Eat graſs, reduce thy head, or die,
Thy patients then may live.

Dr. CHENEY's ANSWER.

MY ſyſtem, Doctor, 's all my own,
No tutor I pretend;
My blunders hurt myſelf alone,
But yours your deareſt friend.
Were you to milk and ſtraw confin'd,
Thrice happy might you be;
Perhaps you might regain your mind,
And from that wit get free.
I can't your kind preſcription try,
But heartily forgive;
'Tis natural that you bid me die,
That you yourſelf may live.

VERSES on The ART of POLITICKS*.

[158]
SUCH artleſs art did ever mortal ſee,
Or politicks ſo void of policy?
To wit and humour there is fair pretence,
But none to juſt deſign or ſolid ſenſe.
Let ſourer criticks point each faulty place,
I'll e'en let Tickell and Avignon paſs.
Let boys their loyalty huzzaing ſhow,
And kind Louiſa teach our girls to go.
But on immortal Joſeph let us fix,
That pattern rare of whiggiſh politicks;
Slave to vain glory, out of danger ſtout,
Who prints on Brunſwick—after Preſton's rout;
Coward to blame, and envious to commend,
A ſneaking patriot, and a half-fac'd friend.
Sell not French claret at the Ormond's head,
But hang up Horace Walpole in his ſtead;
Nor at the Devil tavern make your ſport:—
The Devil always has a friend at court.
What bard but this could Pelham's train compare
To Roman Scipio's thunder-bolts of war?
[159] Did e'er their wars enrich their native iſle,
With foreign treaſures and with Spaniſh ſpoil?
But hark! and ſtare with all your ears and eyes!
Walpole is friend to Univerſities!
Who croſt the clauſe (ſo generous has he been)
Which Sandys with his advice had uſher'd in.
Tho' whigs of forty-one may raiſe a cry,
New livings he permits them ſtill to buy.
His part of odium let Sir Robert bear,
Or Sandys his moiety of glory ſhare,
For'twould have puzzled Knighthood's craft, no doubt,
Had it been ne'er brought in, to throw it out.
Hail politician bard! we aſk not whether
A whig or tory; thou art both and neither.
Poultney and Walpole each adorn thy lays,
Which one for love, and one for money praiſe.
Alike are mention'd, equally are ſung
Will. Shippen ſtaunch, and ſlight Sir Wm. Young.
Bromley and Wyndham ſhare the motley ſtrain,
With Cart'ret, Maidſtone, and the Pelhams twain.
Not Jove and Dragon could worſe match'd appear;
Nor fins of cod with front of Heydegger.

A BALLAD Found in a Cottage in Lancaſhire, and ſent up to Lord OXFORD.

[160]
I.
HARD by the hall, our maſter's houſe,
Where Merſey flows to meet the main,
Where woods, and winds, and waves diſpoſe
A lover to complain.
II.
With arms acroſs, along the ſtrand,
A ſhepherd walk'd, and hung his head;
Viewing the footſteps on the ſand,
Which a bright nymph had made.
III.
The tide, ſays he, will ſoon eraſe
The marks ſo lightly here impreſt;
But time, or tide, will ne'er deface
Her image in my breaſt.
IV.
Am I ſome ſavage beaſt of prey?
Am I ſome monſter grown,
That thus ſhe flies ſo ſwift away,
Or meets me with a frown?
[161]V.
That boſom ſoft, that lily ſkin,
(Truſt not to outward ſhow!)
Contains a marble heart within,
A rock hid under ſnow.
VI.
Ah me! the flints and pebbles wound
Her tender feet, from whence there fell
Theſe crimſon drops that ſtain the ground,
And beautify each ſhell.
VII.
O fair one, moderate thy flight,
I will no more purſue,
But take my leave for a long night:—
Adieu! lov'd maid, adieu!
VIII.
This ſaid, he took a running leap,
A lover's leap, indeed!
And plung'd into the ſounding deep,
Where hungry fiſhes feed.
[162]IX.
The melancholy hern ſtalks by*;
Around the ſquawling ſea-gulls yell;
Aloft the croaking ravens fly,
And toll his paſſing bell.
X.
Thus dy'd a ſhepherd in his prime,
The whirlpool ſuck'd him down;
Not unregarded by the Nine,
Belov'd by all but one.
XI.
The waters roll above his head,
The billows toſs it o'er and o'er;
His ivory bones lie ſcattered,
And whiten all the ſhore.

TRAPP, YOUNG, BUBB, STUBB, COBB, CRAB, CARY, TICKEL, EVANS.

[163]
‘Alma novem genuit claros Rhedycina poetas.’
FAMOUS for rhimes
In theſe our times,
Oxford has three times three;
Trapp, Young, and Bubb,
Cobb, Crab, and Stubb,
Tickèl, Evàns, Carỳ.

KNIGHT verſus PARSON; Or a Dialogue between Sir HENRY PEACHY of Suſſex, and Mr. BRAMSTON, a Clergyman of the ſame County.

By the ſame Mr. BRAMSTON.
AN upſtart knight of late tormented me
With his defence of odious S [...]y*;
Then ſmartly, in his own opinion, ſlic't
The Duke of Somerſet and Jeſus Chriſt.
I beg, Sir knight, you this diſcourſe will end,
Chriſt is my ſaviour, Somerſet my friend.
[164] Come, end this talk, and drink our new king's health:—
G [...]d damn you, prieſt; I'm for a commonwealth;
But rot you, parſon, prove it if you can,
That Chriſt of Nazareth is God, or man:
But you're a hired prieſt; and by that rule
You are a lyar, blockhead, coxcomb, fool:
And as for ſcripture, prieſt, G [...]dz [...]s, G [...]d's blood,
The devil take me if I believe a word.
Muſt this, thought I, for reaſon then go down?
Is this the mighty knowledge of the town?
To be o'the Quorum, and to ſerve the crown?
Repent, vain knight, repent it if you may,
Know that my God's all ſpirit, knight of clay!
But wer't thou Julian, earth's apoſtate head,
I'd worſhip Jeſus, though I loſt my head;
My God can make me moſt alive when dead.
Heathen confeſt, a ſpirit thou to be ſent
A member to a Chriſtian parliament!
Repent, and be inſtructed to do well,
Or thou'lt a fitting member be in hell;
From whence there is no way to Weſtminſter;
The devil's no Returning Officer.

An EPISTLE to Lord COBHAM,
Being one of the laſt Copies of Verſes he wrote before his Death.

[165]
By Mr. CONGREVE,
‘Albi noſtrorum ſermonum candide judex.’
SINCEREST critick of my proſe or rhime,
Tell, how thy pleaſing Stowe employs thy time.
Say, Cobham, what amuſes thy retreat,
Or ſchemes of war, or ſtratagems of ſtate?
Doſt thou recall to mind with joy or grief,
Great Marlbrough's actions? that immortal chief,
Whoſe ſlighteſt trophies rais'd in each campaign
More than ſuffic'd to ſignalize a reign.
Does thy remembrance riſing warm thy heart
With glory paſt, where thou thyſelf hadſt part?
Or doſt thou grieve indignant now, to ſee,
The fruitleſs end of all that victory?
To ſee the audacious foe ſo late ſubdu'd,
Diſpute the terms for which ſo long they ſu'd,
As if Britannia now were ſunk ſo low
To beg that peace ſhe wonted to beſtow?
Far be that guilt! Be never known that ſhame;
That England ſhould retract her rightful claim;
Or ceaſing to be dreaded and ador'd,
Stain with the pen the luſtre of her ſword,
[166] Or doſt thou give the winds afar to blow
Each vexing thought and heart-devouring woe?
And fix thy mind alone on rural ſcenes,
To turn the levell'd lawns to liquid plains;
To raiſe the creeping rills from humble beds,
And force the latent ſprings to lift their heads?
On watry columns capitals to rear,
That lift their flowing curls with upper air?
Or doſt thou, weary grown, theſe works neglect,
No temples, ſtatues, obeliſks erect?
But ſeek the morning breeze from fragrant meads,
Or ſhun the noon-tide ray in wholeſome ſhades?
Or ſlowly walk alone the mazy wood,
To meditate on all that's wiſe and good?
For nature bountiful in thee has join'd
A perſon pleaſing, with a worthy mind;
Not given thee form alone, but means and art,
To draw the eye, and to allure the heart.
Poor were the praiſe in fortune to excell,
Yet want the way to uſe that fortune well.
While thus adorn'd, while thus with virtue crown'd,
At home in peace, abroad in arms renown'd;
Graceful in form, and winning in addreſs,
While well you think what aptly you expreſs;
With health, with honour, with a fair eſtate,
A table free, and elegantly neat,
[167] What can be added more to mortal bliſs?
What can he want, who ſtands poſſeſs'd of this?
What can the fondeſt wiſhing mother more
Of heaven, attentive for her ſon, implore?
And yet a happineſs remains unknown,
Or to philoſophy reveal'd alone;
A precept which, unpractis'd, renders vain
Thy flowing hopes, and pleaſures turns to pain.
Should hope, or fear, thy heart alternate tear,
Or love, or hate, or rage, or anxious care,
Whatever paſſions may thy mind infeſt,
(Where is that mind which paſſions ne'er moleſt?)
Amidſt the pangs of ſuch inteſtine ſtrife,
Still think the preſent day thy laſt of life.
Defer not till to-morrow to be wiſe,
To-morrow's ſun to thee may never riſe.
Or ſhould to-morrow chance to chear thy ſight
With her enlivening and unlook'd for light,
How grateful will appear her dawning rays?
As favours unexpected doubly pleaſe.
Who thus can think, and who ſuch thoughts purſues,
Content may keep his life, or calmly loſe.
All proof of this thou may'ſt thyſelf receive,
When leiſure from affairs will give thee leave.
Come ſee thy friend retir'd without regret,
Forgetting care, or trying to forget.
[168] In eaſy contemplation ſoothing time,
With morals much, and now and then, with rhime.
Not ſo robuſt in body as in mind,
And always undejected, tho' declin'd.
Not wond'ring at the world's new wicked ways,
Compar'd with thoſe of our forefathers' days:
For virtue now is neither more nor leſs,
And vice is only varied in her dreſs.
Believe it, men have ever been the ſame,
And Ovid's Golden Age is but a dream.

To Lady IRWIN*.

By Lady MARY WORTLEY MONTAGUE,
WHY will Delia thus retire,
And languiſh life away?
While the ſighing crowds admire,
'Tis too ſoon for hartſhorn tea.
[169] All theſe diſmal looks and fretting,
Cannot Damon's life reſtore;
Long ago the worms have eat him,
You can never ſee him more.
Once again conſult your toilet,
In the glaſs your face review;
So much reading ſoon will ſpoil it,
And no ſpring your charms renew.
I like you was born a woman,
Well I know what vapours mean;
The diſeaſe, alas! is common,
Single, we have all the ſpleen.
All the morals that they tell us,
Never cur'd the ſorrow yet;
Chooſe among the pretty fellows
One of humour, youth, and wit.
Prithee hear him every morning,
For at leaſt an hour or two;
Once again at night returning,
I believe the doſe will do.

The ANSWER.

[170]
By Lady IRWIN.
THO' Delia oft retires,
'Tis not from ſpleen or hate;
No lovers ſhe deſires,
Nor envies others' fate.
Tho' her Damon's dead, 'tis true,
Yet he lives in Delia's heart;
None a conſtancy can ſhew,
Where a virtue has no part.
Should ſhe conſult her toilet,
Alas! ſhe'll quickly find
Her face, there's nought can ſpoil it,
So ſhe'll improve her mind.
If the morals that they tell us,
Cannot cure us of deſpair;
I believe the pretty fellows
Will bring us only double care.
'Tis our intereſt then to ſhun 'em,
Since their practice it is ſuch;
They who venture boldly on 'em,
Often find one doſe too much.

An ELEGY on Mrs. BOWES*.

[171]
By Lady M. W. MONTAGUE.
HAIL happy bride! for thou art truly bleſt,
Three months of pleaſure crown'd with endleſs reſt!
Merit like yours was heaven's peculiar care;
You lov'd—yet taſted happineſs ſincere:
The ſweets of love to you were only ſhewn,
The ſure, ſucceeding, bitter dregs unknown.
You had not yet the fatal change deplor'd,
The tender lover for th' imperious lord;
Nor felt the pangs that jealous fondneſs brings,
Nor wept the coldneſs from poſſeſſion ſprings.
Above your ſex diſtinguiſh'd in your fate,
You truſted, yet experienc'd no deceit,
Swift were your hours, and wing'd with pleaſure flew;
No vain repentance gave a ſigh to you;
And, if ſuperior bliſs heav'n can beſtow,
With fellow angels you enjoy it now.

On Lady MARY WORTLEY MONTAGUE's VERSES on the Death of Mrs. BOWES.

[172]
CLOE her thoughts has ſo expreſt,
Each choſen word ſo juſtly put,
And yet how neat ſoe'er they're dreſt,
We through the lawn may ſee the ſmut.
Such lechery, dreſt up ſo clean,
And with ſo chaſte a look,
Is hardly to be felt or ſeen
But under Cloe's ſ [...]ck.

The ANSWER to Lady MARY's VERSES on Mrs. BOWES.

THO' every one knows
The fate of poor Bowes,
Yet doctors about it do vary;
Some make a ſad face,
And pity her caſe:
'Tis the envy of good Lady Mary.
She ſays, ſhe don't know
How heaven can beſtow
Any joy like the death of that bride;
Whence ſome people ſay,
Could ſhe chooſe her own way,
Before now ſhe had certainly dy'd.
[173] But here lies the miſtake,
If her ſenſe ſhe would ſpeak;
Her meaning appears but too plain;
She would always be trying,
But to Bowes leaves the dying,
Her choice is to live in the pain.

On a LADY miſtaking a DYING TRADER for a DYING LOVER.
on Mrs. LOWTHER, Lord LONSDALE's Siſter.

By Lady MARY WORTLEY MONTAGUE,
AS Chloris on her downy pillow lay,
'Twixt ſleep and wake the morning ſlid away.
Soft at her chamber door a tap was heard,
She liſten'd, and again no one appear'd.
Who's there, the ſprightly nymph with courage cries?
Madam, 'tis one who for your la'ſhip dyes.
Sure! 'tis deluſion! what! a dying Lover!
Yet ſpeak once more: what is't you ſay, diſcover.
A ſecond time theſe accents pierc'd the air:
Sweet was the ſound, tranſported was the fair.
At length, mankind are juſt, her la'ſhip ſaid;
Threw on her gown, and ſtepping out of bed
[174] Look'd in her glaſs; confeſs'd him to be right;—
Who thinks me not a beauty, 'tis meer ſpite.
Aſſemble ye coquets! with envy frown
To ſee the wonders that my eyes have done.
In vain your pert and forward airs you try,
Mankind, the more you court, the farther fly,
And 'tis for me, and only me, they die.
But how ſhall I receive him? cry'd the dame;
Prudence allows not pity:—I muſt blame.
Perhaps, poor ſoul! he has ſigh'd in ſecret long,
Ere the preſumptuous thought eſcap'd his tongue.
I am the cauſe, yet innocent, by Heaven:—
Why were theſe eyes for ſuch deſtruction given?
'Tis not my fault; I did not make one feature:—
Then turn'd her look to view the dying creature.
Butah! who ſhould the enamour'd ſwain now prove?—
A wretch who dyes by Trade and not by Love.
No mortal pen can figure her ſurprize,
Willing to truſt her ears but not her eyes:
Th' approaching ſtorm her ſwelling boſom ſhow'd,
Awhile now pale, then red with anger glow'd.
She wept, ſhe rav'd, invok'd the pow'rs above,
Who give no ear when old maids talk of love.
Fruitleſs her pray'rs, and impotent her rage,
Yet ſierce as when two female ſcolds engage.
[175] At length the fire was ſpent, all was ſerene;
A calm ſucceeded this tempeſtuous ſcene.
And thus ſhe ſpoke:
Ye blooming maids! let my example prove
How oft your ſex miſtaken are in love!
When young, we're cruel, and with beauty play,
Which while we vainly parley, fades away.
When old, to encreaſe the rigour of our fate,
We wiſh and talk of lovers when too late.
As idle travellers who've loſt the day,
And hope in night through ſhades to find the way;
Forlorn they tread the thorny paths in vain,
Not of themſelves, but their hard fate complain.
So peeviſh maids when paſt their youthful bloom,
On ſad remains, and fancy'd charms preſume;
Lonely they wander, no companion find,
Then rail, and quarrel with all human kind.
But let us to ourſelves for once be juſt,
And ſee our own decays and wrinkles firſt.
Whene'er to melting ſighs we lend an ear,
Think, youth and beauty make the men ſincere.
No other powers their ſtubborn hearts can move:—
Did ever virtue light the torch of love?
From ſad experience I this truth declare;
I am now abandon'd, though I once was fair.

VIRTUE IN DANGER. A lamentable STORY how a virtuous LADY had like to have been raviſhed by her Siſter's Footman.

[176]
To the Tune of the Children in the Wood.
By Lady M. W. MONTAGUE.
I.
NOW ponder well, ye ladies fair,
Theſe words that I ſhall write;
I'll tell a tale ſhall make you ſtare,
Of a poor lady's fright.
II.
She lay'd her down all in her bed
And ſoon began to ſnore;
It never came into her head
To lock her chamber door.
III.
A *Footman of her ſiſter dear,
A ſturdy Scot was he;
Without a ſenſe of godly fear,
Bethought him wickedly.
[177]IV.
Thought he, this lady lies alone,
I like her comely face:
It would moſt gallantly be done,
Her body to embrace.
V.
In order to this bold attempt,
He ran up ſtairs apace;
While this poor lady nothing dreamt,
Or dreamt it was his Grace.
VI.
The candle flaring in her eyes
Made her full ſoon awake;
He ſcorn'd to do it by ſurprize,
Or her a ſleeping take.
VII.
A ſword he had, and it hard by
A thing appear'd withal,
Which we, for very modeſty,
A piſtol chuſe to call.
[178]VIII.
This piſtol in one hand he took,
And thus began to woo her;—
Lord, how this tender creature ſhook
When he preſented to her!
IX.
Lady, quoth he, I muſt obtain—
For I have lov'd you long;
Would you know how my heart you gain'd,
You had it for a ſong.
X.
Reſolve to quench my preſent flame,
Or you muſt murder'd be:
It was thoſe pretty eyes, fair dame,
That firſt have murder'd me.
XI.
The lady look'd with fear around,
As in her bed ſhe lay;
And tho' half-dying in a ſwound,
Thus to herſelf did ſay,
[179]XII.
Who raſhly judge (it is a rule)
Do often judge amiſs;
I thought this fellow was a fool,
But there's ſome ſenſe in this.
XIII.
She then recover'd heart of grace,
And did to him reply;
Sure, Arthur, you've forgot your place,
Or know not that 'tis I.
XIV.
Do you conſider who it is
That you thus rudely treat?
'Tis not for ſcoundrel ſcrubs to wiſh
To taſte their maſter's meat.
XV.
Tut, tut, quoth he, I do not care;
And ſo pull'd down the clothes:
Uncover'd lay the lady fair,
From boſom down to toes.
[180]XVI.
Oh Arthur, cover me, ſhe ſaid,
Or ſure I ſhall get cold;
Which preſently the rogue obey'd;
He could not hear her ſcold.
XVII.
He lay'd his ſword cloſe by her ſide,
Her heart went pit-a-pat:
You've but one weapon left ſhe cry'd,
Sure I can deal with that.
XVIII.
She ſaw the looby frighted ſtand,
Out of the bed jumpt ſhe;
Catch'd hold of his ſo furious hand;
A fight it was to ſee!
XIX.
His piſtol hand ſhe held faſt clos'd,
As ſhe remembers well;
But how the other was diſpos'd,
There's none alive can tell.
[181]XX.
The ſword full to his heart ſhe laid,
But yet him did not ſlay,
For when he ſaw the ſhining blade,
God wot, he run away.
XXI.
When ſhe was ſure the knave was gone
Out of her father's hall,
This vertuous lady ſtrait begun
Moſt grievouſly to bawl.
XXII.
In came papa and mamma dear,
Who wonder'd to behold:
Out Griſle! what a noiſe is here!
Why ſtand you in the cold?
XXIII.
Mamma, ſhe ſaid (and then ſhe wept)
I have a battle won;
But if that I had ſoundly ſlept,
My honour had been gone.
[182]XXIV.
A footman of my ſiſter, he—
A footman! cry'd mamma;
Dear daughter, this muſt never be,
Z [...]ds we muſt go to law.
XXV.
This lady's fame ſhall ever laſt,
And live in Britiſh ſong;
For ſhe was like Lucretia chaſte,
And eke was much more ſtrong.

Epiſtle from ARTHUR GREY, the Footman, after his Condemnation for attempting a RAPE*.

By the RIGHT HONOURABLE LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGUE.
READ lovely nymph, and tremble not to read;
I have no more to wiſh, nor you to dread;
I aſk not life, for life to me were vain,
And death a refuge from ſeverer pain.
[183] My only hope in theſe laſt lines I try;
I would be pity'd, and I then would die.
Long had I liv'd as ſordid as my fate,
Nor curs'd the deſtiny that made me wait,
A ſordid ſlave: content with homely food,
The groſs inſtinct of appetite purſu'd,
Youth gave me ſleep at night, and warmth of blood.
Ambition yet had never touch'd my breaſt;
My lordly maſter knew no ſounder reſt;
With labour healthy, in obedience bleſt.
But when I ſaw—Oh had I never ſeen—
That wounding ſoftneſs, that engaging mien,
The miſt or wretched education flies;
Shame, fear, deſire, deſpair and love ariſe,
The new creation of thoſe beauteous eyes.
But yet that love purſu'd no guilty aim,
Deep in my heart I hid the ſecret flame:
I never hop'd my fond deſire to tell,
And all my wiſhes were—to ſerve you well.
Heav'ns! how I flew, when wing'd by your command,
And kiſs'd the letters giv'n me by your hand!
How pleas'd, how proud, how fond was I to wait,
Preſent the ſparkling glaſs, or change the plate!
[184] How, when you ſung, my ſoul devour'd the ſound,
And every ſenſe was in the rapture drown'd!
Tho' bid to go, I quite forgot to move—
You knew not that
ſtupidity was love.
But oh! the torment not to be expreſs'd,
The grief, the rage, the hell, that fir'd this breaſt,
When my great rivals, in embroidry gay,
Sat by your ſide, or led you from the play!
I ſtill
contriv'd near as I could to ſtand,
(The flambeau trembling in my careleſs hand)
I ſaw, or thought I ſaw, thoſe fingers preſs'd;
For thus their paſſion by my own I gueſs'd,
And jealous fury all my ſoul poſſeſs'd:
Like torrents, love and indignation meet,
And madneſs would have thrown me at your feet.
Turn, lovely nymph, (for ſo I would have ſaid)
Turn from thoſe triflers who make love a trade;
This is true paſſion in my eyes you ſee;
They cannot, no—they cannot love like me.
Frequent debauch has pall'd their ſickly taſte,
Faint their deſire, and in a moment paſt:
They ſigh not from the heart, but from the brain;
Vapours of vanity and more champagne.
[185] Too dull to feel what forms, like yours, inſpire,
After long talking of their painted fire,
To ſome lewd brothel they at night retire;
There pleas'd with fancy'd quality and charms,
Enjoy your beauties in a ſtrumpet's arms.
Such are the joys thoſe toaſters have in view,
And ſuch the wit and pleaſure they purſue:—
And is this love that ought to merit you?
Each Opera night, a new addreſs begun,
They ſwear to thouſands what they ſwear to one.
Not thus I ſigh—but all my ſighs are vain—
Die, wretched Arthur, and conceal thy pain;
'Tis impudence to wiſh, and madneſs to complain.
Fix'd on this view, my only hope of eaſe,
I waited not the aid of ſlow diſeaſe;
The keeneſt inſtruments of death I ſought,
And death alone employ'd my lab'ring thought.
Thus all the night—when I remember well
The charming tinkle of your morning bell,
Fir'd by the ſound, I haſten'd with your tea,
With one laſt look to ſmooth the darkſome way—
[186] But oh, how dear that fatal look coſt!
In that fond moment my reſolves were loſt.
Hence all my guilt, and all my ſorrows riſe—
I ſaw the languid ſoftneſs of your eyes;
I ſaw the dear diſorder of your bed;
Your cheeks all glowing with a tempting red;
Your night-clothes tumbled with reſiſtleſs grace;
Your flowing hair play'd careleſs round your face;
Your night-gown faſten'd with a ſingle pin—
Fancy improv'd the wondrous charms within!
I fix'd my eyes upon that heaving breaſt,
And hardly, hardly, I forebore the reſt;
Eager to gaze, unſatisfy'd with ſight,
My head grew giddy with the near delight:—
Too well you know the fatal, following night!
Th' extremeſt proof of my deſire, I give,
And ſince you will not love, I will not live.
Condemn'd by you, I wait the righteous doom,
Careleſs and fearleſs of the woes to come.
But when you ſee me waver in the wind,
My guilty flame extinct, my ſoul reſign'd,
[187] Sure you may pity what you can't approve,
The cruel conſequence of furious love.
Think, the bold wretch who could ſo greatly dare,
Was tender, faithful, ardent, and ſincere:
Think when I held the piſtol to your breaſt,
Had I been of the world's large rule poſſeſs'd,
That would have then been yours, and I been bleſt!
Think that my life was quite below my care,
Nor fear'd I any hell beyond deſpair.—
If theſe reflections, tho' they ſeize you late,
Give ſome compaſſion for your Arthur's fate,
Enough you give, nor ought I to complain;
You pay my pangs, nor have I dy'd in vain.

Mr. JOHN PHILIPS's deſigned Dedication to his Poem called THE SPLENDID SHILLING.
To W. BROME, Eſq. of Ewithington, in the County of Hereford.

[188]
SIR,

IT would be too tedious an under⯑taking at this time to examine the riſe and progreſs of Dedications. The uſe of them is certainly an⯑cient, as appears both from Greek and Latin authors; and we have reaſon to believe that it was continued without any interruption till the beginning of this century, at which time, mottos, anagrams, and frontiſpieces being introduced, Dedications were mightily diſcouraged, and at laſt abdicated. But to diſcover preciſely when they were reſtored, and by whom they were firſt uſher'd in, is a work that far tranſcends my knowledge; a work that can juſtly be expected from no other pen but that of your operoſe Doctor Bentley. Let us therefore at preſent acquieſce in the dubiouſneſs of their antiquity, and think the authority of the paſt and preſent times a [189] ſufficient plea for your patronizing, and my dedi⯑cating this poem. Eſpecially ſince in this age Dedi⯑cations are not only faſhionable, but almoſt neceſſary; and indeed they are now ſo much in vogue, that a book without one, is as ſeldom ſeen as a bawdy-houſe without a Practice of Piety, or a poet with money. Upon this account, Sir, thoſe who have no friends, dedicate to all good chriſtians; ſome to their book⯑ſellers; ſome for want of a ſublunary patron to the manes of a departed one. There are, that have de⯑dicated to their whores: God help thoſe hen-peck'd writers that have been forced to dedicate to their own wives! but while I talk ſo much of other mens patrons, I have forgot my own; and ſeem rather to make an eſſay on Dedications, than to write one. However, Sir, I preſume you will pardon me for that fault; and perhaps like me the better for ſaying nothing to the purpoſe. You, Sir, are a perſon more tender of other mens reputation than your own; and would hear every body commended but yourſelf. Should I but mention your ſkill in turning, and the compaſſion you ſhew'd to my fingers ends when you [190] gave me a tobacco ſtopper, you would bluſh and be confounded with your juſt praiſes. How much more would you, ſhould I tell you what a progreſs you have made in that abſtruſe and uſeful language, the Saxon? Since, therefore, the recital of your excel⯑lencies would prove ſo troubleſome, I ſhall offend your modeſty no longer. Give me leave to ſpeak a word or two concerning the poem, and I have done. This poem, Sir, if we conſider the moral, the new⯑neſs of the ſubject, the variety of images, and the exactneſs of the ſimilitudes that compoſe it, muſt be allowed a piece that was never equalled by the moderns or ancients. The ſubject of the poem is myſelf, a ſubject never yet handled by any poets. How it to be handled by all, we may learn by thoſe few divine commendatory verſes written by the ad⯑mirable Monſieur le Bog. Yet ſince I am the ſub⯑ject, and the poet too, I ſhall ſay no more of it, leſt I ſhould ſeem vain-glorious. As for the moral, I have took particular care that it ſhould lie in⯑cognito, not like the ancients who let you know at firſt ſight they deſign ſomething by their verſes. But [191] here you may look a good while, and perhaps, after all, find that the poet has no aim or deſign, which muſt needs be a diverting ſurprize to the reader. What ſhall I ſay of the ſimiles that are ſo full of geography, that you muſt get a Welſhman to un⯑derſtand them? that ſo raiſe our ideas of the things they are apply'd to? that are ſo extraordinarily quaint and well choſen that there's nothing like them? So that I think I may, without vanity, ſay Avia Pieri⯑dum peragro loca, &c. Yet however excellent this poem is, in the reading of it you will find a vaſt dif⯑ference between ſome parts and others; which pro⯑ceeds not from your humble ſervant's negligence, but diet. This poem was begun when he had little victuals, and no moneys, and was finiſhed when he had the misfortune at a virtuous lady's houſe to meet with both. But I hope, in time, Sir, when hunger and poverty ſhall once more be my companions, to make amends for the defaults of this poem, by an eſſay on Minced Pies, which ſhall be devoted to you with all ſubmiſſion, by,

SIR,
Your moſt obliged, And humble ſervant, J. PHILIPS.

Copy of a Letter from Mr. PITT, the Tranſlator of VIRGIL,
To Mr. SPENCE.

[192]
July 18, Blanford, 1726.
DEAR Jo,

I Am entering into propoſals with a bookſeller for printing a little miſcellany of my own performances, conſiſting of ſome originals and ſelect Tranſlations. I beg you to be altogether ſilent in the matter. Mr. Pope has uſed ſo little of the 23d Odyſſey that I gave Dr. Younge, that if I put it in among the reſt I ſhall hardly incur any danger of the penalty concerning the patent. However, I will not preſume to publiſh a ſingle line of it after Mr. Pope's Tranſlation, if you adviſe me (as I deſire you to do ſincerely) to the contrary. I ſhall ſend you a ſmall ſpecimen of my Tranſlation, which if you approve of, I can aſſure you the remainder of the book is not inferior to it.

THE nurſe all wild with tranſport ſeem'd to ſwim,
Joy wing'd her feet and lighten'd ev'ry limb;
Then to the room with ſpeed impatient born
Flew with the tidings of her lord's return.
[193] There bending o'er the ſleeping Queen, ſhe cries,
Riſe, my Penelope, my daughter, riſe
To ſee Ulyſſes thy long abſent ſpouſe,
Thy ſoul's deſire and lord of all thy vows:
Tho' late, he comes, and in his rage has ſlain,
For all their wrongs, the haughty ſuitor train.
Ah Euryelea, ſhe replies, you rave;
The gods reſume that reaſon which they gave;
For Heav'n deep wiſdom to the fool ſupplies,
But oft infatuates and confounds the wiſe.
And wiſdom once was thine! but now I find
The gods have ruin'd thy diſtemper'd mind.
How could you hope your fiction to impoſe?
Was it to flatter or deride my woes?
How could you break a ſleep with talk ſo vain
That held my ſorrows in ſo ſoft a chain?
A ſleep ſo ſweet I never could enjoy
Since my dear lord left Ithaca for Troy:
Curſt Troy—oh! why did I thy name diſcloſe?
Thy fatal name awakens all my woes:
But fly—ſome other had provok'd my rage,
And you but owe your pardon to your age.
[194]
No artful tales, no ſtudied lies, I frame,
Ulyſſes lives (rejoins the rev'rend dame)
In that diſhonour'd ſtranger's cloſe diſguiſe,
Long has he paſt all unſuſpecting eyes,
All but thy ſon's—and long has he ſuppreſt
The well-concerted ſecret in his breaſt;
Till his brave father ſhould his foes defeat,
And the cloſe ſcheme of his revenge compleat.
Swift as the word the Queen tranſported ſprung,
And round the dame in ſtrict embraces hung;
Then as the big round tears began to roll,
Spoke the quick doubts and hurry of her ſoul.
If my victorious hero ſafe arrives,
If my dear lord, Ulyſſes, ſtill ſurvives,
Tell me, oh tell me, how he fought alone?
How were ſuch multitudes deſtroy'd by one?
Nought I beheld, but heard their cries, ſhe ſaid,
When death flew raging, and the ſuitors bled:
Immur'd we liſten'd, as we fat around,
To each deep groan and agonizing ſound.
[195] Call'd by thy ſon to view the ſcene I fled,
And ſaw Ulyſſes ſtriding o'er the dead!
Amidſt the riſing heaps the hero ſtood
All grim, and terribly adorn'd with blood.

This is enough in conſcience for this time; beſides I am deſired by Mr. Pope or Mr. Lintot, I don't know which, to write to Mr. Pope on a certain, affair.

Original Letter from Mr. GEORGE VERTUE*,
To Mr. CHARLES CHRISTIAN.

MR. CHRISTIAN,

PRAY inform my Lord Harley that I have on Thurſday laſt ſeen the daughter of Milton the poet. I carry'd with me two or three different [196] prints of Milton's picture, which ſhe immediately knew to be like her father; and told me her mother-in-law (if living in Cheſhire) had two pictures of him, one when he was a ſchool boy, and the other when he was about twenty. She knows of no other picture of him, becauſe ſhe was ſeveral years in Ireland, both before and after his death. She was the youngeſt of Milton's daughters by his firſt wife, and was taught to read to her father ſeveral languages.

Mr. Addiſon was deſirous to ſee her once, and deſired ſhe would bring with her teſtimonials of be⯑ing Milton's daughter, but as ſoon as ſhe came into the room he told her ſhe needed none, her face having much of the likeneſs of the pictures he had ſeen of him.

For my part, I find the features of her face very much like the prints. I ſhowed her the painting I have to engrave, which ſhe believes not to be her father's picture, it being of a brown complexion, and black hair, and curled locks. On the contrary, he was of a fair complexion, a little red in his cheeks, and light brown lank hair.

[197] I deſire you would acquaint Mr. Prior I was ſo unfortunate to wait on him on Thurſday morning laſt, juſt after he was gone out of town. It was with the intent to enquire of him if he remembers a picture of Milton in the late Lord Dorſet's col⯑lection, as I am told this was; or if he can inform me how I ſhall enquire or know the truth of this affair, I ſhould be much obliged to him, being very willing to have all the certainty on that account before I begin to engrave the plate, that it may be the more ſatisfactory to the publick, as well as to myſelf.

The ſooner you communicate this the better, be⯑cauſe I want to reſolve, which I can't do till I have an anſwer, which will much oblige

Your friend to command, GEO. VERTUE.
Saturday, Aug. 12, 1721.

Mr. PRIOR to Mr. WANLEY.

[198]
MY GOOD AND KIND WANLEY,

I Send you theſe ſheets as look'd over firſt by Mr. Bedford, and then by myſelf. I have made great letters at ye, me, and emphatical words, that this may anſwer to the tenor of the other poems; but if in the old it be otherwiſe printed, or you pleaſe to alter any thing, you know and may uſe your dictatorial power. In a book called the Cuſtomes of London, a folio, printed, I think, in Harry the Eight's time, which I gave our well⯑beloved Lord Harley, you will find this poem*. I hope I am to ſee you at dinner at Mr. Black's, and am always,

Your obliged and Faithful ſervant, M. PRIOR.
Thurſday noon, 11th April, 1718.

Mr. PRIOR to Mr. WANLEY.

[199]
DEAR WANLEY,

I Muſt beg the continuance of your care in the names of the ſubſcribers, as you have given it to me in the printing of the books. I ſend you my phiz. Pray give my ſervice to Mrs. Wanley, deſiring her to accept it, and aſſuring her that no man loves or eſteems her huſband and my friend more, than

Your's, M. PRIOR.
January 8.

Mr. E. SETTLE to Lord OXFORD.

[200]
MY LORD,

HAVING laid at your Lordſhip's feet a divine poem on the Holy Euchariſt, I humbly pay my duty to your Lordſhip to know how you are pleaſed to accept of it, being,

My Lord,
Your Lordſhip's moſt dutiful ſervant, E. SETTLE.

LETTERS by Mr. POPE.

[201]

To a LADY.

Twitenham, October 18.
MADAM,

WE are indebted to Heaven for all things, and above all for our ſenſe and genius (in whatever degree we have it); but to fancy yourſelf indebted to any thing elſe, moves my anger at your modeſty. The regard I muſt bear you, ſeriouſly proceeds from myſelf alone; and I will not ſuffer even one I like ſo much as Mrs. H. to have a ſhare in cauſing it. I challenge a kind of relation to you on the ſoul's ſide, which I take to be better than either on a father's or mother's; and if you can overlook an ugly body (that ſtands much in the way of any friendſhip, when it is between different ſexes) I ſhall hope to find you a true and conſtant kinſwo⯑man in Apollo. Not that I would place all my pretenſions upon that poetical foot, much leſs con⯑fine them to it; I am far more deſirous to be ad⯑mitted [202] as yours, on the more meritorious title of friendſhip. I have ever believed this as a ſacred maxim, that the moſt ingenious natures were the moſt ſincere; and the moſt knowing and ſenſible minds made the beſt friends. Of all thoſe that I have thought it the felicity of my life to know, I have ever found the moſt diſtinguiſhed in capacity, the moſt diſtinguiſhed in morality: and thoſe the moſt to be depended on, whom one eſteemed ſo much as to deſire they ſhould be ſo. I beg you to make me no more compliments. I could make you a great many, but I know you neither need them, nor can like them: be ſo good as to think I do not. In one word, your writings are very good, and very entertaining; but not ſo good, nor ſo entertaining, as your life and converſation. One is but the effect and emanation of the other. It will always be a greater pleaſure to me, to know you are well, than that you write well, though every time you tell me the one, I muſt know the other. I am willing to ſpare your modeſty; and therefore, as to your wri⯑ting, may perhaps never ſay more (directly to your⯑ſelf) than the few verſes I ſend here; which (as a [203] proof of my own modeſty too) I made ſo long ago as the day you ſate for your picture, and yet never till now durſt confeſs to you.

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-obſerv'd, the glaring ſun declines.

The brighteſt wit in the world, without the better qualities of the heart, muſt meet with this fate; and tends only to endear ſuch a character as I take yours to be. In the better diſcovery, and fuller conviction of which, I have a ſtrong opinion, I ſhall grow more and more happy, the longer I live your acquaintance, and (if you will indulge me in ſo much pleaſure)

Your faithful friend, And moſt obliged ſervant, A. POPE.

To the ſame.

[204]
Twitenham, Nov. 5.
MADAM,

THOUGH I am extremely obliged by your agreeable letter, I will avoid all mention of the pleaſure you give me, that we may have no more words about compliments; which I have often ob⯑ſerved people talk themſelves into, while they en⯑deavour to talk themſelves out of. It is not more the diet of friendſhip and eſteem, than a few thin wafers and marmalade were of ſo hearty a ſtomach as Sancho's. In a word, I am very proud of my new relation, and like Parnaſſus much the better, ſince I found I had ſo good a neighbour there. Mrs. H [...], who lives at court, ſhall teach two country-folks ſincerity; and when I am ſo happy as to meet you, ſhe ſhall ſettle the proportions of that regard, or good-nature, which ſhe can allow you to ſpare me, from a heart, which is ſo much her own as yours is.

That lady is the moſt truſty of friends, if the imitation of Shakeſpear be yours; for ſhe made me [205] give my opinion of it with aſſurance it was none of Mrs. [...]. I honeſtly liked and praiſed it, whoſe⯑ſoever it was; there is in it a ſenſible melancholy, and too true a picture of human life; ſo true an one, that I can ſcarce wiſh the verſes yours at the expence of your thinking that way, ſo early. I rather wiſh you may love the town (which the author of thoſe lines cannot immoderately do) theſe many years. It is time enough to like, or affect to like, the country, when one is out of love with all but one's-ſelf, and therefore ſtudies to become agree⯑able or eaſy to one's-ſelf. Retiring into one's-ſelf is generally the pis-aller of mankind. Would you have me deſcribe my ſolitude and grotto to you? What if, after a long and painted deſcription of them in verſe (which the writer I have juſt been ſpeaking of could better make, if I can gueſs by that line,

No noiſe but water, ever friend to thought)

what if it ended thus?

What are the falling rills, the pendant ſhades,
The morning bow'rs, the evening colonnades:
[206] But ſoft receſſes for th' uneaſy mind,
To ſigh un-heard in, to the paſſing wind!
So! the ſtruck deer, in ſome ſequeſter'd part,
Lies down to die (the arrow in his heart);
There hid in ſhades, and waſting day by day,
Inly he bleeds, and pants his ſoul away.

If theſe lines want poetry, they do not want ſenſe. God Almighty long preſerve you from a feeling of them! The book you mention, Bruyere's Characters, will make any one know the world; and I believe at the ſame time deſpiſe it (which is a ſign it will make one know it thoroughly). It is certainly the proof of a maſter-hand, that can give ſuch ſtriking likeneſſes, in ſuch ſlight ſketches, and in ſo ſew ſtrokes on each ſubject. In anſwer to your queſtion about Shakeſpear, the book is about a quarter printed, and the number of emendations very great. I have never indulged my own conjectures, but kept meerly to ſuch amendments as are authorized by old editions, in the author's life-time: but I think it will be a year at leaſt before the whole work can be finiſhed. In reply to your very handſome (I wiſh it were a very [207] true) compliment upon this head, I only deſire you to obſerve, by what natural, gentle degrees I have ſunk to the humble thing I now am: firſt from a pre⯑tending poet to a critick, then to a low tranſlator, laſtly to a meer publiſher. I am apprehenſive I ſhall be nothing that's of any value long, except,

MADAM,
Your moſt obliged, and Moſt faithful humble ſervant, A. POPE.

I long for your return to town, a place I am unfit for, but ſhall not be long out of, as ſoon as I know I may be per⯑mitted to wait on you there.

To the ſame.

[208]
Thurſday night.
MADAM,

IT was an agreeable ſurprize to me, to hear of your ſettlement in town. I lie at my Lord Peterborow's in Bolton-ſtreet, where any com⯑mands of yours will reach me to-morrow, only on Saturday evening I am pre-engaged. If Mrs. H [...] be to be engaged (and if ſhe is by any creature, it is by you) I hope ſhe will join us. I am, with great truth,

MADAM,
Your moſt faithful friend, And obliged ſervant, A. POPE.

To the ſame.

[209]
MADAM,

I Could not play the impertinent ſo far as to write to you, till I was encouraged to it by a piece of news Mrs. H [...] tells me, which ought to be the moſt agreeable in the world to any author, That you are determined to write no more—It is now the time then, not for me only, but for every body, to write without fear, or wit: and I ſhall give you the firſt example here. But for this aſſu⯑rance, it would be every way too dangerous to cor⯑reſpond with a lady, whoſe very firſt ſight and very firſt writings had ſuch an effect, upon a man uſed to what they call fine ſights, and what they call fine writings. Yet he has been dull enough to ſleep quietly, after all he has ſeen, and all he has read; till yours broke in upon his ſtupidity and indolence, and totally deſtroyed it. But, God be thanked, you will write no more; ſo I am in no danger of in⯑creaſing my admiration of you one way; and as to the other, you will never (I have too much reaſon to fear) open theſe eyes again with one glimpſe of you.

[210] I am told, you named lately in a letter a place called Twitenham, with particular diſtinction. That you may not be miſ-conſtrued and have your mean⯑ing miſtaken for the future, I muſt acquaint you, Madam, that the name of the place where Mrs. H [...] is, is not Twitenham, but Richmond; which your ignorance in the geography of theſe parts has made you confound together. You will unthink⯑ingly do honour to a paltry hermitage (while you ſpeak of Twitenham) where lives a creature altoge⯑ther unworthy your memory or notice, becauſe he really wiſhes he had never beheld you, nor yours. You have ſpoiled him for a ſolitaire, and a book, all the days of his life; and put him into ſuch a condition, that he thinks of nothing, and enquires of nothing but after a perſon who has nothing to ſay to him, and has left him for ever without hope of ever again regarding, or pleaſing, or entertaining him, much leſs of ſeeing him. He has been ſo mad with the idea of her, as to ſteal her picture, and paſſes whole days in ſitting before it, talking to him⯑ſelf, and (as ſome people imagine) making verſes; [211] but it is no ſuch matter, for as long as he can get any of hers, he can never turn his head to his own, it is ſo much better entertained.

To the ſame.

MADAM,

I Am touched with ſhame when I look on the date of your letter. I have anſwered it a hundred times in my own mind, which I aſſure you has few thoughts, either ſo frequent or ſo lively, as thoſe relating to you. I am ſenſibly obliged by you, in the comfort you endeavour to give me upon the loſs of a friend. It is like the ſhower we have had this morning, that juſt makes the drooping trees hold up their heads, but they remain checked and withered at the root: the benediction is but a ſhort relief, though it comes from Heaven itſelf. The loſs of a friend is the loſs of life; after that is gone from us, it is all but a gentler decay, and waſting and lingering a little longer. I was the other day [212] forming a wiſh for a lady's happineſs, upon her birth-day: and thinking of the greateſt climax of felicity I could raiſe, ſtep by ſtep, to end in this—a Friend. I fancy I have ſucceeded in the gradation, and ſend you the whole copy to aſk your opinion, or (which is much the better reaſon) to deſire you to alter it to your own wiſh: for I believe you are a woman that can wiſh for yourſelf more reaſonably, than I can for you. Mrs. H [...] made me promiſe her a copy; and to the end ſhe may value it, I beg it may be tranſcribed, and ſent her by you.

To a LADY, on her BIRTH-DAY, 1723.
Oh! be thou bleſt with all that Heaven can ſend:
Long life, long youth, long pleaſure—and a friend!
Not with thoſe toys the woman-world admire,
Riches that vex, and vanities that tire:
Let joy, or eaſe; let affluence, or content;
And the gay conſcience of a life well-ſpent,
Calm every thought; inſpirit every grace;
Glow in thy heart; and ſmile upon thy face!
[213] Let day improve on day, and year on year;
Without a pain, a trouble, or a fear!
And ah! (ſince death muſt that dear frame deſtroy),
Die by ſome ſudden extaſy of joy:
In ſome ſoft dream may thy mild ſoul remove,
And be thy lateſt gaſp, a ſigh of love!

Pray, Madam, let me ſee this mended in your copy to Mrs. H [...];and let it be an exact ſcheme of happineſs drawn, and I hope enjoyed, by your⯑ſelf. To whom I aſſure you I wiſh it all, as much as you wiſh it her. I am always, with true reſpect,

MADAM,
Your moſt faithful friend, And moſt humble ſervant, A. POPE.

To the ſame.

[214]
Twitenham, Auguſt 29.
MADAM,

YOUR laſt letter tells me, that if I do not write in leſs than a month, you will fancy the length of yours frighted me. A conſciouſneſs that I had upon me of omitting too long to anſwer it, made me look (not without ſome fear and trem⯑bling) for the date of it: but there happened to be none; and I hope, either that you have forgot how long it is, or at leaſt that you cannot think it ſo long as I do, ſince I writ to you. Indeed a multi⯑tude of things (which ſingly ſeem trifles, and yet all together make a vaſt deal of buſineſs, and wholly take up that time which we ought to value above all ſuch things) have from day to day made me wanting, as well to my own greateſt pleaſure in this, as to my own greateſt concerns in other points. If I ſeem to neglect any friend I have, I do more than ſeem to neglect myſelf, as I find daily by the increaſing ill conſtitution of my body and mind. I ſtill reſolve this courſe ſhall not, nay I ſee it cannot, be long; [215] and I determine to retreat within myſelf to the only buſineſs I was born for, and which I am only good for (if I am entitled to uſe that phraſe for any thing). It is great folly to ſacrifice one's ſelf, one's time, one's quiet (the very life of life itſelf), to forms, complaiſances, and amuſements, which do not in⯑wardly pleaſe me, and only pleaſe a ſort of people who regard me no farther than a meer inſtrument of their preſent idleneſs, or vanity. To ſay truth, the lives of thoſe we call great and happy are divided between thoſe two ſtates; and in each of them, we poetical fiddlers make but part of their pleaſure, or of their equipage. And the miſery is, we, in our turns, are ſo vain (at leaſt I have been ſo) as to chuſe to pipe without being paid, and ſo ſilly to be pleaſed with piping to thoſe who underſtand muſick leſs than ourſelves. They have put me of late upon a taſk before I was aware, which I am ſick and ſore of: and yet engaged in honour to ſome perſons whom I muſt neither diſobey nor diſappoint (I mean two or three in the world only) to go on with it. They make me do as mean a thing as the greateſt [216] man of them could do; ſeem to depend, and to ſolicit, when I do not want; and make a kind of court to thoſe above my rank, juſt as they do to thoſe above theirs, when we might much more wiſe⯑ly and agreeably live of ourſelves, and to ourſelves. You will eaſily find I am talking of my tranſlating the Odyſſey by ſubſcription: which looks, it muſt needs look, to all the world as a deſign of mine both upon fame and money, when in truth I believe I ſhall get neither; for one I go about without any ſtomach, and the other I ſhall not go about at all.

This freedom of opening my mind upon my own ſituation, will be a proof of truſt, and of an opi⯑nion your goodneſs of nature has made me entertain, that you never profeſs any degree of good-will with⯑out being pretty warm in it. So I tell you my griev⯑ances; I hope in God you have none, wherewith to make me any return of this kind. I hope that was the only one which you communicated in your laſt, about Mrs. H [...] ſilence; for which ſhe wanted not reproaches from me; and has ſince, ſhe ſays, amply atoned for. I ſaw a few lines of yours to her, [217] which are more obliging to me than I could have imagined: if you put my welfare into the ſmall num⯑ber of things which you heartily wiſh (for a ſenſible perſon, of either ſex, will never wiſh for many), I ought to be a happier man than I ever yet deſerved to be.

Upon a review of your papers, I have repented of ſome of the trivial alterations I had thought of, which were very few. I would rather keep them till I have the ſatisfaction to meet you in the winter, which I muſt beg earneſtly to do; for hitherto me⯑thinks you are to me like a ſpirit of another world, a being I admire, but have no commerce with: I cannot tell but I am writing to a Fairy, who has left me ſome favours, which I ſecretly enjoy, and ſhall think it unlucky, if not fatal, to part with. So pray do not expect your verſes till farther ac⯑quaintance.

To the ſame.

[218]
Twitenham, Sept. 30, 1722.
MADAM,

NO confidence is ſo great, as that one receives from perſons one knows may be believed, and in things one is willing to believe. I have (at laſt) acquired this; by Mrs. H [...] repeated aſſurances of a thing I am unfeignedly ſo deſirous of, as your allowing me to correſpond with you. In good earneſt, there is ſometimes in men as well as in women, a great deal of unaffected modeſty: and I was ſincere all along, when I told her perſonally, and told you by my ſilence, that I feared only to ſeem imperti⯑nent, while perhaps I ſeemed negligent, to you. To tell Mrs. [...] any thing like what I really thought of her, would have looked ſo like the common traffick of compliment, that pays only to receive; and to have told it her in diſtant or baſhful terms, would have appeared ſo like coldneſs in my ſenſe of good qualities (which I cannot find out in any one, without feeling, from my nature, at the ſame time a great warmth for them) that I was quite at a loſs [219] what to write, or in what ſtile, to you. But I am reſolved, plainly to get over all objections, and faith⯑fully to aſſure you, if you will help a baſhful man to be paſt all preliminaries, and forms, I am ready to treat with you for your friendſhip. I know (without more ado) you have a valuable ſoul; and wit, ſenſe, and worth enough, to make me reckon it (provided you will permit it) one of the happi⯑neſſes of my life to have been made acquainted with you.

I do not know, on the other hand, what you can think of me; but this, for a beginning, I will ven⯑ture to engage, that whoever takes me for a poet, or a wit (as they call it), takes me for a creature of leſs value than I am: and that where-ever I profeſs it, you ſhall find me a much better man, that is, a much better friend, or at leaſt a much leſs faulty one, than I am a poet. That whatever zeal I may have, or whatever regard I may ſhew, for things I truly am ſo pleaſed with as your entertaining wri⯑tings; yet I ſhall ſtill have more for your perſon, and for your health, and for your happineſs. I [220] would, with as much readineſs, play the apothecary or the nurſe, to mend your head-akes, as I would play the critick to improve your verſes. I have ſeriouſly looked over and over thoſe you intruſted me with; and aſſure you, Madam, I would as ſoon cheat in any other truſt, as in this. I ſincerely tell you, I can mend them very little, and only in trifles, not worth writing about; but will tell you every tittle when I have the happineſs to ſee you.

I am more concerned than you can reaſonably believe, for the ill ſtate of health you are at preſent under: but I will appeal to time, to ſhew you how ſincerely I am (if I live long enough to prove my⯑ſelf what I truly am)

MADAM,
Your moſt faithful ſervant, A. POPE.

I am very ſick all the while I write this letter, which I hope will be an excuſe for its being ſo ſcrib⯑bled.

To the ſame.

[221]
Twitenham, Nov. 9.
MADAM,

IT happened that when I determined to anſwer yours, by the poſt that followed my re⯑ceipt of it, I was prevented from the firſt proof I have had the happineſs to give you of my warmth and readineſs, in returning the epitaph, with my ſincere condolements with you on that melancholy ſubject. But nevertheleſs I reſolved to ſend you the one, though unattended by the other: I begged Mrs. H [...] to incloſe it, that you might at leaſt ſee I had not the power to delay a moment the doing what you bid me; eſpecially when the occaſion of obeying your commands was ſuch, as muſt affect every ad⯑mirer and well-wiſher of honour and virtue in the nation.

You had it in the very blots, the better to com⯑pare the places; and I can only ſay it was done to the beſt of my judgement, and to the extent of my ſincerity.

[222] I do not wonder that you decline the poetical amuſement I propoſed to you, at this time. I know (from what little I know of your heart) enough at leaſt to convince me, it muſt be too deeply concerned at the loſs, not only of ſo great, and ſo near a rela⯑tion; but of a good man (a loſs this age can hardly ever afford to bear, and not often can ſuſtain). Yet perhaps it is one of the beſt things that can be ſaid of poetry, that it helps us to paſs over the toils and troubles of this tireſome journey, our life; as horſes are encouraged and ſpirited up, the better to bear their labour, by the jingling of bells about their heads. Indeed, as to myſelf, I have been uſed to this odd cordial, ſo long, that it has no effect upon me: but you, Madam, are in your honey⯑moon of poetry; you have ſeen only the ſmiles, and enjoyed the careſſes, of Apollo. Nothing is ſo pleaſant to a Muſe as the firſt children of the Ima⯑gination; but when once ſhe comes to find it meer conjugal duty, and the care of her numerous progeny daily grows upon her, it is all a ſour tax for paſt pleaſure. As the Pſalmiſt ſays on another occaſion, the age of a Muſe is ſcarce above five and twenty: [223] all the reſt is labour and ſorrow. I find by experi⯑ence that his own fiddle is no great pleaſure to a com⯑mon fiddler, after once the firſt good conceit of himſelf is loſt.

I long at laſt to be acquainted with you; and Mrs. H [...] tells me you ſhall ſoon be in town, and I bleſt with the viſion I have ſo long deſired. Pray believe I worſhip you as much, and ſend my addreſſes to you as often, as to any female Saint in Heaven: it is certain I ſee you as little, unleſs it be in my ſleep; and that way too, holy hermits are viſited by the Saints themſelves.

I am, without figures and metaphors, yours: and hope you will think, I have ſpent all my fiction in my poetry; ſo that I have nothing but plain truth left for my proſe; with which I am ever,

MADAM,
Your faithful humble ſervant.

To the ſame.

[224]
Five o'clock.
MADAM,

I Think it a full proof of that unlucky ſtar, which upon too many occaſions I have ex⯑perienced, that this firſt, this only day that I ſhould have owned happy beyond expectation (for I did not till yeſterday hope to have ſeen you ſo ſoon) I muſt be forced not to do it. I am too ſick (indeed very ill) to go out ſo far, and lie on a bed at my doctor's houſe, as a kind of force upon him to get me better with all haſte.

I am ſcarce able to ſee theſe few lines I write; to wiſh you health and pleaſure enough not to miſs me to-day, and myſelf patience to bear being abſent from you as well as I can being ill.

I am truly, Your faithful ſervant, A. POPE.

To the ſame.

[225]
Jan. 17, 1722-23.
MADAM,

AFTER a very long expectation and daily hopes of the ſatisfaction of ſeeing and converſing with you, I am ſtill deprived of it in a manner that is the moſt afflicting, becauſe it is oc⯑caſioned by your illneſs and your misfortune. I can bear my own, I aſſure you, much better: and thus to find you loſt to me, at the time that I hoped to have regained you, doubles the concern I ſhould naturally feel in being deprived of any pleaſure whatever.

Mrs. H [...] can beſt expreſs to you the concern of a friend, who eſteems and pities: for ſhe has the liberty to expreſs it in her actions, and the ſatisfac⯑tion of attending on you in your indiſpoſition.

I wiſh ſincerely your condition were not ſuch as to debar me from telling you in perſon how truly I am yours. I wiſh I could do you any little offices of friendſhip, or give you any amuſements, or help you to what people in your preſent ſtate moſt want, better ſpirits. If reading to you, or writing to you, [226] could contribute to entertain your hours, or to raiſe you to a livelier reliſh of life, how well ſhould I think my time employed! indeed I ſhould, and think it a much better end of my poor ſtudies, than all the vanities of fame, or views of a character that way, which engage moſt men of my fraternity.

If you thoroughly knew the zeal with which I am your ſervant, you would take ſome notice of the advice I would give you, and ſuffer it to have a weight with you proportionable to the ſincerity with which it is given.

I beg you to do your utmoſt to call to you all the ſuc⯑cours, which your own good ſenſe and natural reflexion can ſuggeſt, to avoid a melancholy way of thinking, and to throw up your ſpirits by intervals of moderate company; not to let your diſtemper fix itſelf upon your mind at leaſt, though it will not entirely quit your body. Do not indulge too much ſolitarineſs. Though moſt company be not proper or ſupportable during your illneſs, force yourſelf to enter into ſuch as is good and reaſonable, where you may have your liberty, and be under no reſtraint.

[227] Why will you not come to your friend Mrs. H [...], ſince you are able to go out, and ſince motion is certainly good for your health? Why will you not make any little ſets of ſuch as you are eaſieſt with, to ſit with you ſometimes?

Do not think I have any intereſted aim in this advice: though I long to ſee you, and to try to amuſe you, I would not for the world be conſidered as one that would ever require for my own gratification, any thing that might be improper or hurtful to you.

Pray let me know, by our friend Mrs. H [...], if there can be anything in my power to ſerve, or to amuſe you. But uſe me ſo kindly, as not to think ever of writing to me till you are ſo well as that I may ſee you, and then it will be needleſs. Do not even read this, if it be the leaſt trouble to your eyes or head.

Believe me, with great reſpect, and the warmeſt good wiſhes for your ſpeedy recovery,

MADAM,
Your moſt faithful, And moſt humble ſervant, A. POPE.

To the ſame.

[228]
Twitenham, June 2, 1723.
MADAM,

IT was an inexpreſſible pleaſure to me to ſee your letter, as I aſſure you it had long been a great trouble, to reflect on the melancholy reaſon of your ſilence and abſence. It was that only which hindered my writing, not only again, but often, to you; for fear your good-nature ſhould have been prompted to oblige me too much at your own ex⯑pence, by anſwering. Indeed I never expreſſed (and never ſhall be able to expreſs) more concern and good wiſhes for you, than I ſhall ever feel for one of your merit.

I am ſorry, the moment you grow better, to have you ſnatcht from thoſe, who I may ſay deſerve the pleaſure of ſeeing you in health, for having ſo long lamented and felt your illneſs.

Mrs. H [...], I hope, will find it not impoſſible to draw you to Richmond: and if not, I dare ſay will not be long out of Hertfordſhire. I want [229] nothing but the ſame happy pretence ſhe has, of a title through your friendſhip, and the privilege of her ſex, to be there immediately. I cannot but wonder you have not heard from her, though I ſhould wonder if any body elſe had; for I am told by her family ſhe has had much of the head-ake at Bath, beſides the excuſe of a great giddineſs occa⯑ſioned naturally by the waters. I writ to her at the firſt going, and have not had a word from her; and now you tell me the ſame thing, I conclude ſhe has been worſe than I imagine. I hear ſhe returns on Wedneſday, when I ſhall have the ſatisfaction (I doubt not) to talk and hear a great deal of Mrs. [...].

I wiſh I could ſay any thing, either to comfort you when ill, or entertain you when well. Though nothing could, in the proper proportion of friend⯑ſhip, more affect me than your condition; I have not wanted other occaſions of great melancholy, of which the leaſt is the loſs of part of my fortune by a late Act of Parliament.

[230] I am at preſent in the afflicting circumſtance of taking my laſt leave of one of the * trueſt friends I ever had, and one of the greateſt men in all polite learning, as well as the moſt agreeable companion, this nation ever had.

I really do not love life ſo dearly, or ſo weakly, as to value it on any other ſcore, than for that portion of happineſs which a friend only can beſtow upon it: or, if I muſt want that myſelf, for the pleaſure which is next it, of ſeeing deſerving and virtuous people happy. So that indeed I want comfort; and the greateſt I can receive from you (at leaſt unleſs I were ſo happy as to deſerve what I never can) will be to hear you grow better till you grow perfectly well, perfectly eaſy, and perfectly happy, which no one more ſincerely wiſhes than,

MADAM,
Your faithful and obliged Friend and ſervant, A. POPE.

To the ſame.

[231]
Twitenham, Sept. 26, 1723.
MADAM,

IT would be a vanity in me to tell you why I trouble you ſo ſoon again: I cannot imagine myſelf of the number of thoſe correſpondents whom you call favourite ones; yet I know it is thought, that induſtry may make a man what merit cannot: and if an old maxim of my Lord Oxford's be true, That in England if a man reſolve to be any thing, and conſtantly ſtick to it, he may (even a Lord Treaſurer): if ſo, I ſay, it ſhall not be want of re⯑ſolution that ſhall hinder me from being a favourite. In good earneſt, I am more ambitious of being ſo to you, Madam, than I ever was, or ever ſhall be, of being one to any Prince, or (which is more) any Prince's miniſter, in Chriſtendom.

I wiſh I could tell you any agreeable news of what your heart is concerned in; but I have a ſort of quarrel to Mrs. H [...] for not loving herſelf ſo well as ſhe does her friends: for thoſe ſhe makes happy, but not herſelf.

[232] There is an air of ſadneſs about her which grieves me, and which, I have learnt by experience, will increaſe upon an indolent (I will not ſay an affected) reſignation to it. It will do ſo in men, and much more in women, who have a natural ſoftneſs that ſinks them even when reaſon does not. This I tell you in confidence; and pray give our friend ſuch hints as may put her out of humour with melan⯑choly: your cenſure, or even your raillery, may have more weight with her than mine: a man can⯑not either ſo decently, or ſo delicately, take upon him to be a phyſician in theſe concealed diſtempers.

You ſee, Madam, I proceed in truſting you with things that nearly concern me. In my laſt letter I ſpoke but of a trifle, myſelf: in this I advance farther, and ſpeak of what touches me more, a friend.

This beautiful ſeaſon will raiſe up ſo many rural images and deſcriptions in a poetical mind, that I expect, you, and all ſuch as you (if there be any ſuch), at leaſt all who are not downright dull tranſ⯑lators, [233] like your ſervant, muſt neceſſarily be pro⯑ductive of verſes.

I lately ſaw a ſketch this way on the bower of * BEDINGTON: I could wiſh you tried ſomething in the deſcriptive way on any ſubject you pleaſe, mixed with viſion and moral; like pieces of the old provençal poets, which abound with fancy, and are the moſt amuſing ſcenes in nature. There are three or four of this kind in Chaucer admirable: "The Flower and the Leaf" every body has been de⯑lighted with.

I have long had an inclination to tell a Fairy tale, the more wild and exotic the better; therefore a [234] viſion, which is confined to no rules of probability, will take in all the variety and luxuriancy of de⯑ſcription you will; provided there be an apparent moral to it. I think, one or two of the Perſian Tales would give one hints for ſuch an invention: and perhaps if the ſcenes were taken from real places that are known, in order to compliment particular gardens and buildings of a fine taſte (as I believe ſeveral of Chaucer's deſcriptions do, though it is what nobody has obſerved), it would add great beauty to the whole.

I wiſh you found ſuch an amuſement pleaſing to you: if you did but, at leiſure, form deſcriptions from objects in nature itſelf, which ſtruck you moſt livelily, I would undertake to find a tale that ſhould bring them all together: which you will think an odd undertaking, but in a piece of this fanciful and imaginary nature I am ſure is practicable. Excuſe this long letter; and think no man is more

Your faithful And obliged ſervant, A. POPE.
[235]

☞ IN the Preface to an edition of Monſieur POUILLY DE CHAMPEAUX's Works very lately publiſhed, is the Extract of a Letter from Lord BOLINGBROKE to that Gentleman. The original and tranſlation are inſerted here. The comment is left to the reader.

It may be neceſſary to add, That Monſieur POUILLY DE CHAMPEAUX is a writer much eſteemed on account of the elegance and ſpirit of humanity that breathe throughout his literary productions. The chief of theſe is his Theory of Agreeable Senſations. As to his political powers, they have never yet been celebrated by his country⯑men in ſuch a ſtrain as to authorize the following compli⯑ment to him on the part of Lord BOLINGBROKE.

EXTRACT.

‘"ENFIN, mon cher Pouilly, dans cette foule d'hommes que j'ai pu connoitre, et dont j'ai cherché à étudier l'eſprit et le charactère, je n'en ai vu que TROIS qui m'aient paru dignes qu'on leur confiât le ſoin de gouverner des nations. Nôtre amitié eſt trop etroite, elle eſt, ainſi que le diroit Montaigne, trop libre et trop franche dans ſes allures, pour que je m'enveloppe avec vous [236] de cette fauſſe modeſtie, dont il faut quelquefois ſe faire un bouclier contre l'envie. Je vous dirai donc hardiment que ces trois hommes ſont vous, MOI, et POPE."’

TRANSLATION.

‘"MY dear friend, among the croud of men whom it may have fallen in my way to know, and whoſe underſtandings and characters I have endeavoured to ſtudy, I have not yet marked out above THREE that appeared to me worthy of being truſted with the care of govern⯑ing nations. Our friendſhip is too intimate, and, as Montaigne would perhaps chooſe to expreſs himſelf, too frank and free in its paces for me to need, with you, the wrapping myſelf up in that falſe modeſty, of which there is ſometimes a ne⯑ceſſity for making a ſhield againſt envy. I ſhall then tell you boldly that theſe three men are YOU, MYSELF, and POPE."’

END OF VOL. I.
Notes
*
Barry on the Arts.
*
Perhaps Bethel.
His equal mind I copy what I can.
SAT. 2.
†
Secretary Craggs, famous for the roughneſs of his manners.
*
Dr. Wellwood obſerves, that Mr. Rowe was ini⯑mitable in his manner of enlivening company.
†
Philip Frowde, author of the Tragedies of the Fall of Saguntum, and Philotas. He is ſpoken of by his biographers as a man of a moſt amiable character. It is difficult to ſay why Mr. Pope has dropped this ſtroke of ſatire upon him. Perhaps his offence was his too great intimacy with Addiſon.
‡

Thus at the concluſion of a letter from Mr. Pope to a perſon unknown, ‘"If ever there was good chriſtian without knowing himſelf to be ſo, it was Dr. Garth."’

§
—thy loſs of Rowe. i. e. when King George I. made him one of the land-ſurveyors of the port of London.
‖

Ambroſe Philips and Charles Johnſon, the latter of whom ‘"had probably thriven better in his vocation, had he been a ſmall matter leaner. He may be juſtly called a martyr to obeſity, and be ſaid to have fallen a victim to the rotundity of his parts."’—See the Companion to the Playhouſe, &c.

*
How does this agree with the character which he has afterwards given of Bufo in the epiſtle to Dr. Arbuthnot?
†
Euſtace Budgell, of whom he ſpeaks in his epiſtle to Dr. Arbuthnot.
" Let Budgell charge low Grub-ſtreet on his quill,
" And write whate'er he pleas'd, except his will."
*

Needham, the Mrs. Cole of her age, for her conſtant prayer was that ſhe might ‘"get enough by her profeſſion to leave it off in time, and make her peace with God."’ She was, however, ſo ill uſed by the populace when ſhe made her laſt appearance in the pillory, that ſhe did not ſurvive it. We may ſuppoſe Brooks and Briton to have been of the ſame trade.—See notes on the Dunciad.

Neither this fragment, nor the foregoing verſes, very ſtrongly controvert the aſſertion of Colley Cibber con⯑cerning the time when a nobleman ‘"propos'd to ſlip his little Homer, as he called him, at a girl of the game."’ See Cibber's Letter to Pope, p. 47.

*
Signora Duraſtanti came over with Seneſino, to aſſiſt Handel by ſinging in the Opera, about the year 1721.
*
Berenſtadt, a caſtrato, was likewiſe engaged by Handel in the Operas. Boſchi was a baſs ſinger in the ſame en⯑tertainments.
†

Heidegger was the celebrated arbiter elegantiarum in the time of Mr. Pope, who forgetting the defects of his own perſon has ridiculed thoſe of Heidegger in the Dunciad.

"Something betwixt a Heidegger and owl."

Fauſtus is Mr. Rich's Pantomime of that name.

*
This Epitaph, originally written on Picus Mirandula, is apply'd to F. Chartres, and printed among the works of Swift. See Hawkeſworth's Edition, Vol. VI.
*
'Tis Pope muſt be aſham'd of Craggs.] So in the Epiſtle to James Craggs, Eſq.
" Be not (exalted to whate'er degree)
" Aſham'd of any friend, not even of me:
" The patriot's plain, but untrod path purſue;
" If not, 'tis I muſt be aſham'd of you."
*
Colonel Mordaunt, who deſtroy'd himſelf. The laſt four lines are omitted in the modern editions, but the poem is otherwiſe much enlarged.
*
Mr. Pope, in one of the prints from Scheemaker's monument of Shakeſpeare in Weſtminſter-Abbey, has ſufficiently ſhewn his contempt of Alderman Barber, by the following couplet, which is ſubſtituted in the place of ‘"The cloud-capt towers, &c."’
" Thus Britain lov'd me; and preſerv'd my ſame,
" Clear from a Barber's or a Benſon's name."
A. POPE.
Pope might probably have ſuppreſſed his ſatire on the Alderman, becauſe he was one of Swift's acquaintances and correſpondents; though in the 4th Book of the Dunciad he has an anonymous ſtroke at him.
" So by each bard an Alderman ſhall ſit,
" A heavy Lord ſhall hang at every wit."
*
Thomas Rawlinſon, Eſq.
*
This panegyric on Lady Mary Wortley Montague might have been ſuppreſs'd by Mr. Pope, on account of her having ſatirized him in her verſes to the imitator of Horace; which abuſe he returned in the firſt Sat. of the ſecond book of Horace.
" From furious Sappho, ſcarce a milder fate,
" P [...]'d by her love, or libell'd by her hate."
*
Mr. Pope took this hint from Homer:
" O ſon of Tydeus ceaſe! be wiſe and ſee
" How vaſt the diff'rence of the gods and thee;
" Diſtance immenſe! between the pow'rs that ſhine
" Above, eternal, deathleſs, and divine,
" And mortal man! a wretch of humble birth,
" A ſhort-liv'd reptile in the duſt of earth.
See Apollo's ſpeech to Diomede, book XV.
*
This ſatire on Lord Bolingbroke, and the praiſe beſtow'd on him in a letter to Mr. Richardſon, where Mr. Pope ſays
" The ſons ſhall bluſh their fathers were his foes;"
being ſo contradictory, probably occaſioned the former to be ſuppreſſed.
†
Ad ALBIUM TIBULLUM.
Albi, noſtrorum ſermonum candide judex,
Quid nunc te dicam facere in regions Pedana?
Scribere, quod Caſſi Parmenſis opuſcula vincat?
*
An tacitam ſilvas inter reptare ſalubres?
†
— Di tibi formam,
Di tibi divitias dederant, artemque fruendi.
‡
Quid voveat dulci nutricula majus alumno,
Quam ſapere, & fari poſſet quae ſentiat, & cui
Gratia, fama, valetudo contingat abunde,
— non deficiente cruména?
*
Inter ſpem, curamque, timores inter & iras.
†
Omnem crede diem tibi diluxiſſe ſupremum.
Me pinguem, & nitidum bene curata cute viſes,
Cum ridere voles Epicuri de grege porcum.
*
The Editor is at a loſs to aſſign a reaſon why the Sober Advice from Horace; the verſion of the firſt Pſalm (which was printed from the original MS. under Mr. Pope's own hand), the fourth ſtanza in the Worms; the rapturous lines in the letter to Mr. Cromwell, Jan. 22, 1708-9; the letter to a lady in the name of her brother; (all which ſeem of a piece with the lines in the letter to the above gentleman, April 25, 1708, which is permit⯑ted to remain) are excluded from the works of Mr. Pope.
†
[NOTAE BENTLEIANAE] Imitated. Why imita⯑ted? Why not tranſlated? Odi imitatores! A metaphraſt had not turned Tigellius, and Fuſidius, Malchinus, and Gar⯑gonius (for I ſay Malchinus, not Malthinus, and Gargonius not Gorgonius) into ſo many ladies. Benignus, hic, hunc, &c. all of the maſculine gender: every ſchool-boy knows more than our Imitator.
*
i. e. Alexander Pope, Eſq to himſelf.
†
This aſſertion proves moſt true.
*

CUNNI CUPENNIUS ALBI, Hoary Shrine. ‘"Here the imitator grievouſly errs. Cunnus albus by no means ſignifying a white or grey garment; which thing may be either black, brown, or party-colour'd." BENT.’

†

TESTIS CAUDAMQUE SALACEM Demeterent ferro ‘"(for ſo I ſay, and not demeteret ferrum) bleeds in perſon. Silly! was he let blood by a ſurgeon? How ſhort is this of the amputation of the teſtes and cauda ſalax? What ignorance alſo of ancient learning appears in his ſhallow tranſlation of perminxcrunt, totally miſſing the mark, and not entering into the deep meaning of the author."’

*
Magno prognatum depoſco conſule Cunnum.
" A thing deſcended from the conqueror."
A thing deſcended — why thing? the poet has it Cunnum; which, therefore, boldly place here. BENT.
*

PAVONEM, Pea-chicks.] ‘"Not ill render'd, meaning a young or ſoft piece, Anglice a tid-bit: ſuch as that delicate youth Cerinthus, whoſe fleſh, our Horace expreſly ſays, was as tender as a lady's, and our Imi⯑tator turn'd Such nicety, as Lady or Lord F [...] not amiſs truly; it agrees with my own reading of tuo femore, inſtead of tuum femur, and favours of the true taſte of antiquity." BENT.’

*
This is a piece of travelling ſcandal, related of the late Ducheſs of C [...]d, and the late Duke of M [...]h. E. C.
*
See my Terence, Heautontimorumenos: there is nothing in Dr. Hare's. BENT.
†
A verſe taken from Mr. Pope; of which; Mr. Pope is ſo fond, that he has made uſe of it no leſs than three times. E. C.
*
Others read Lord Mayor‖.
‖
Cork would have ſtopt this hole. E. C.
†
A gentleman as celebrated for his gallantries as his politicks; an entertaining hiſtory of which may be pub⯑liſhed, without the leaſt ſcandal on the ladies. E. CURL‡.
‡
This opinion I agree to as true, but that this note was mine, is falſe. E. C.
*
A famous rope-dancer.
*
Spoken not of one particular dutcheſs, but of divers dutcheſſes.
†
The original manuſcript has it,
—" Spread a feaſt
" Of — enough for man, enough for beaſt:"
but we prefer the preſent, as the purer diction.
*
There is a famous ſtay-maker of this name, which ſtiffens the double entendre here meant. E. C.
*
A quondam bawd of high renown,
" In whoſe apartments P [...] has oft been ſeen,
" Patting fore-buttocks, to divert the ſpleen."
†
A noted tavern for eating, drinking, and gaming, in Southampton-ſtreet, Covent-garden. E. C.
*
Here the Imitator errs. The Latin has it dum futuo, a moſt neceſſary circumſtance! which ought to be reſtored; and may, by the change of a ſingle word, be the ſame with that of the author, and one which wou'd marvellouſly agree with the ladies in the ſecond line. BENT.
*
The author's age 19.
†
Commonly call'd Beau Brocas.
*
Mr. Dryden married Lady Elizabeth Howard.
*
1707.
*
Egbert Sanger ſerved his apprenticeſhip with Jacob Tonſon, and ſucceeded Bernard Lintot in his ſhop at the Middle Temple gate, Fleet-ſtreet; Lintot printed Ozell's tranſlation of Perault's Characters, and Sanger his tranſla⯑tion of Boileau's Lutrin, recommended by Mr. Rowe, anno 1709.
†
The Biter, an unſucceſsful comedy by Mr. Rowe.
*
Theſe verſes were poſſibly ſecreted, from the author's becoming ſoon after acquainted with the lady and her huſband on whom they were written, as appears by a let⯑ter to Mr. Gay, Nov. 8, 1718.
*
Ulrick, the little Turk.
†
The Author.
‡
Ireland.
*
This Ballad was written anno 1717.
*
The Three Gentle Shepherds being left out by Mr. Pope, ſeems ſufficiently explain'd in the letter to an ho⯑nourable perſon, June 8th, 1714, and the Dunciad.
*
Ageſilaus, Oppian's father, was a man of great learning and merit as well as wealth and power, in the city of Anazarbus in Cilicia, where he liv'd: Severus making a progreſs, came to that town, and Ageſilaus being not at the proceſſion to meet the Emperor at his entrance, probably on account of his age and infirmities, that prince, to puniſh him for ſo heinous a crime, baniſh'd the poor old man to Malta. Oppian, to amuſe his father under his misfortune, took to writing of poetry, and after⯑wards dedicated his Halieutics to the Emperor's ſon. The Emperor was ſo pleas'd with the poem, that he or⯑der'd him a piece of gold for each line, and offer'd him any other favour he would aſk. The firſt part of the ſtory is not at all wonderful, but I muſt confeſs the laſt part is a little ſurprizing.
†
Kennet's lives of the Greek poets.
*
The beginning of the fourth book.
*
Univerſal Paſſion, Sat. II.
*
—Nec in turbam nec turbae carmina condam.
MANIL. L. II.
*
The Eſſay on Human Life was printed ſoon after the Eſſay on Man was uſhered into the world by the ſame publiſher, and aſſerted in the title to be written by the ſame author. This circumſtance was never contradicted by Mr. Pope. The hint for the performance was pro⯑bably taken from Dr. Swift's letter, July 23, 1737, where he obſerves—From theſe volumes of letters might be collected the beſt ſyſtem that ever was wrote for the conduct of Human Life.
As to the other poems, they ſpeak for themſelves; and as they were univerſally acknowledged to be Mr. Pope's at their firſt appearance, they will not, we preſume, be diſputed now.
*
Eroſtratus, a very obſcure man, ſet fire to the temple of Diana at Epheſus, in order to immortalize his name, and has ſucceeded in it, in ſpite of all endeavours to the contrary.
*
Richard the uſurper.
*
The Vitelli and Orſini bafely betray'd and murder'd by order of the duke of Valentinois.
†
II Princip. cap. vii.
‡
The battle of Munda againſt Pompey's ſon.
*
Caligula drew up his army in battle array on the coaſt, and then order'd them to gather ſhells, for which great exploit he return'd to Rome in triumph. See Suetonius.
†
See Diodorus Siculus in the firſt book.
*
King of Numidia, famous for his wars with the Romans; remarkable for his bravery and his crimes.
†

‘Sall. Bell. Jugur. Neque poſt id locorum Jugurthae dies aut nox ulla quieta fuit: Neque loco, neque mortali cuipiam aut tempori ſatis credere:—Alio atque alio loco ſaepè contra decus regium noctu requieſcere—’

Clarendon hiſt. rebell. of Cromwell he ſays, He was not eaſy of acceſs, nor ſo much as ſeen abroad, and ſeem'd to be in ſome diſorder when his eyes found any ſtranger in the room, &c. rarely lodg'd two nights in one chamber, &c.

*
This little poem is omitted in Dr. Hawkeſworth's edition of Swift's works, and is therefore printed here.
*
This Copy of Verſes is a cloſe imitation of the beginning of the 46th Canto of the Orlando Furioſo. Mr. Gay has even adopted the meaſure of his original, and has comprized his deſign in almoſt the ſame number of lines, viz. in twenty one octave ſtanza's inſtead of nineteen.
*
As Arthur grave, &c.] This perſon is mention'd in the Epiſtle to Arbuthnot. v. 23.
" Arthur, whoſe giddy ſon neglects the laws,
" Imputes to me, and my damn'd works, the cauſe."
†
The preſent Lord Mansfield.
*
She afterwards married Booth the player. Mrs. Bicknell, the actreſs, is mentioned either in the Spectator or Tatler, with applauſe.
*
See Rocheſter approving nods bit bead.] So in the Epiſtle to Dr. Arbuthnot:
" Ev'n mitred Rocheſter would nod the head."
†

This is no more than a compliment to the vanity of Sir Godfrey, which Pope and other wits were always put⯑ting to the ſtrongeſt trials. ‘"Sir Godfrey (ſays Pope) I believe if God Almighty had had your aſſiſtance, the world would have been formed more perfect"’ ‘"Fore God (ſays Kneller) I believe ſo."’ He was likewiſe (as Mr Walpole obſerves) very free and ſingular in his converſation on religion. This adulation of Pope, Ad⯑diſon, Prior, &c. appears to have heighten'd his natural abſurdities, as he had not diſcernment enough to diſcover that they were only foothing him to paint for them gratis, or diverting themſelves at the expence of his credulity. Sir Godfrey had drawn for Pope the ſtatues of Apollo, Venus, and Hercules. Pope paid for them with the follow⯑ing ſtanza:

" What god, what genius did the pencil move,
" When Kneller painted theſe!
" 'Twas friendſhip warm as Phoebus, kind as love,
" And ſtrong as Hercules."

On theſe lines (which their author wiſely ſuppreſs'd) Mr. Walpole has offer'd a very juſt criticiſm. See his Anecdotes, &c. Vol. III. p. 112.

*
Charles Ford, Eſq. was by Swift's intereſt appointed Gazetteer. See the Dean's Letter to Mrs. Dingley, dated July 1, 1712.
*
—With duſt beſprent?] So in the Dunciad. B. iii. v. 185.
" But who is he in cloſet cloſe ypent
" Of ſober face, with learned duſt beſprent?"
Humphrey Wanley was librarian to Lord Oxford.
†

The names of the majority of perſons here enu⯑merated, are in want of no illuſtration; and concerning a few of them, it would be difficult to ſupply any. Tit⯑comb, however, is mentioned in a Letter from Pope to Congreve. ‘"There is a grand revolution at Will's, Morrice has quitted for a coffee-houſe in the city, and Titcomb is reſtored to the great joy of Cromwell, who was at a loſs for a perſon to converſe with on the fathers, and church hiſtory."’ It appears that he was a catholick from the following paſſage in the Poetical Epiſtle to Mr. Cromwell:

" Sooner ſhall Rowe lampoon the union,
" Titcomb take oaths on the communion."
*
Mutius Scaevola, an opera by Mr. Rolli, perform'd in 1721.
*

The mention of Cibber's modeſty, is ſufficiently au⯑thorized by the following particulars in the 7th chapter of his Apology, &c. ‘"After the vaſt ſucceſs of that new ſpecies of poetry, the Beggar's Opera; the year follow⯑ing, I was ſo ſtupid as to attempt ſomething of the ſame kind, upon quite a different foundation, that of recommending virtue and innocence, &c."’ This paſ⯑ſage, which is too long to be quoted here, will ſhew at once the cauſe of his enmity to Gay, and afford a ſpe⯑cimen of his very ſingular modeſty. It will likewiſe illuſtrate the other pieces of poetry written on the ſame occaſion.—It may be obſerved, that the Middleſex juſtices have done Mr. Cibber the honour to adopt his ſentiments concerning the immorality of the Beggar's Opera. Happy Cibber!

*
Sir Robert Walpole.
*
This play was Love in a Riddle. See Cibber's Apo⯑logy for his Life, &c.
*
Sir William Young, who had likewiſe a hand in ſome operatical performances.
†
Broome had been a menial ſervant to Ben Jonſon He was the original author of the Jovial Crew, which was afterwards altered by Mr. Roome, (the ſon of our firſt undertaker) and ſince by another hand. Concerning Floyd even the Dunciad is ſilent.
*
He was afterwards biſhop of Cloyne.
*
Prologues and epilogues to concerts, were anciently very common. Of theſe many were ſpoken by Mr. Wilkes the celebrated comedian.
*
Capt. Ragg was a nick-name beſtowed on Mr. Smith on account of his uncommon ſlovenlineſs.
*
James II. after his abdication.
†
The Albana moenia are the walls of Alban-hall, Oxford; the moſt inſignificant of all poſſible Colleges, and as little known to fame, as its late maſter Dr. Laban to the literary world, or to his pariſhioners at Stepney.
‡
A Simmerſon (as we are informed by an Antiquarian whoſe knowledge ſtops ſhort of its etymology) was the cant term for a beer meaſure, perhaps, ſtill in vogue at ſome of the colleges in the univerſity of Oxford. We ſhould be loth to deliver too haſty an opinion, or we might obſerve, that it probably contained the ſame quantity of malt liquor as a Tantum non at Cambridge, (that is, ſome⯑thing leſs than a pint) a potation in uſe only among the Fellows of King's College.
*
Dr. George Sewell (whoſe name is joined with that of Mr. Pope in a duodecimo edition of Shakeſpeare) fol⯑lowed his profeſſion with ſome degree of ſucceſs, after he had retired to Hampſtead; but three other phyſicians be⯑ing ſoon ſettled in the place, his profits at laſt became very inconſiderable. He kept no houſe, but was a boarder. He was much eſteemed, and ſo frequently invited to the tables of gentlemen in the neighbourhood, that he had ſeldom occaſion to dine at home. An ancient inhabitant of Hampſtead, now living, was preſent at his funeral. He was ſuppoſed to be very indigent at the time of his death, as he was interred on the 12th of February 1726 in the meaneſt manner, his coffin being little better than thoſe allotted by the pariſh to their poor who are buried from the workhouſe; neither did a ſingle friend, or relation, attend him to the grave. No memorial was placed over his remains; but they lie juſt under a holly tree which formed a part of a hedgerow that was once the boundary of the church-yard.
*
Edmund Smith (the author of Phaedra and Hippolitus) had been pitched on as a proper perſon to write the hiſtory of the Revolution. In conſequence of this ap⯑pointment, he waited on Mr. Addiſon, who encouraged him to undertake it. To this he agreed; but aſking what was to be done with the character of Lord Sunder⯑land, Mr. Addiſon ſeemed confuſed, and replied that he was not prepared to anſwer ſuch a queſtion. From that inſtant, Mr. Smith heard no more of the deſign.
*
Jacob Tonſon.
†
King William.
*
This is a piece of true hiſtory juſt come from Hamels. As the girls went into the garden, the old lady would have had her ſon follow them, but he anſwered, he would crack a walnut or two more firſt.
*
By the Rev. Mr. Bramſton.
*
" On dreary Arvon's ſhore they lie,
" Smear'd with gore, and ghaſtly pale:
" Far, far aloof th' affrighted ravens ſail,
" The famiſh'd eagle ſcreams and paſſes by."
GRAY'S Ode.
*
A lane that paſſes by New Grove, the ſeat of the family, is ſtill called S [...]m Corner.
*
This poem has been already printed in Dodſley's Collection, and is here reprinted for the ſake of the anſwer, which never appeared before. In the original copy of the former, the fourth ſtanza is wanting, which we may ſuppoſe to have been afterwards added by the authoreſs, as in Lady Irwin's reply there is none that cor⯑reſponds with it.
*
Mrs. Bowes was the firſt wife of Mr. Bowes, father to the preſent Lady Strathmore.
*
Arthur Grey.
*
This animated poem is omitted in the latter editions of Mr. Dodſley's collection, and is therefore reprinted here.
*
This letter from Mr. George Vertue, and the other from Prior and Elkanah Settle, have no immediate rela⯑tion to Mr. Pope's correſpondence, but were found in the ſame Repoſitory.
*
The Not-Browne Maid.
*
Biſhop Atterbury.
*
The lines here alluded to are as follows:
In Tempe's ſhades the living lyre was ſtrung,
And the firſt Pope (immortal Phoebus) ſung,
Theſe happy ſhades, where equal beauty reigns,
Bold riſing hills, ſlant vales, and far-ſtretch'd plains,
The grateful verdure of the waving woods,
The ſoothing murmur of the falling floods,
A nobler boaſt, a higher glory yield,
Than that which Phoebus ſtampt on Tempe's field:
All that can charm the eye, or pleaſe the ear,
Says, Harmony itſelf inhabits here.
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TextGrid Repository (2020). TEI. 3652 Additions to the works of Alexander Pope Esq Together with many original poems and letters of cotemporary sic writers never before published In two volumes pt 1. University of Oxford Text Archive. . https://hdl.handle.net/21.T11991/0000-001A-5877-C