« السابقةمتابعة »
But if the first Eve
Hard doom did receive,
What a punishment new
Shall be found out for you,
ON THE PICTURE OF LADY MARY W. MONTAGU,
* HE playful smiles around the dimpled
That happy air of majesty and truth; W
So would I draw (but oh ! 'tis vain
to try, My narrow genius does the power deny :) The equal lustre of the heavenly mind, Where every grace with every virtue's joined ; Learning not vain, and wisdom not severe, With greatness easy, and with wit sincere; With just description show the work divine, And the whole princess in my work should shine.
TO MR. GAY,
WHO HAD CONGRATULATED MR. POPE ON FINISHING
HIS HOUSE AND GARDENS,
H , friend ! 'tis true—this truth you CA
lovers knowIn vain my structures rise, my
gardens grow; In vain fair Thames reflects the double scenes
Of hanging mountains, and of sloping greens : :
TO MRS. M. B. ON HER BIRTHDAY.
I be thou blest with all that Heaven
sure, and a friend :
1 This poem, first published in 1726, was also altered to form an epitaph on Henry Mordaunt, nephew of the Earl of Peterborough, who committed suicide in 1724. The first four lines ran as above, and the remainder of the epitaph was as follows: 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 birthday? ah, 'tis sadly clear, 'Tis but the funeral of the former year. If there's no hope with kind, though 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 didst well.
But, like a sieve, let every blessing through, Some joy still lost, as each vain year runs
Let joy or ease, let affluence or content,
TO MR. THOMAS SOUTHERN,
ON HIS BIRTHDAY, 1742.
R9ESIGNED to live, prepared to die, SD With not one sin but poetry,
This day Tom's fair account has run
(Without a blot) to eighty-one.
1 Thomas Southern, the dramatist, born 1660, died 1746.
? He was invited to dine on his birthday with this nobleman, Lord Orrery, who had prepared for him the entertainment of which the bill of fare is here set down.- Warburton.
3 The harp is generally wove on the Irish linen, such as table-cloths, &c.— Warburton.
The feast, his towering genius marks In yonder wild goose and the larks ! The mushrooms show his wit was sudden ! And for his judgment, lo a pudden ! Roast beef, though old, proclaims him stout, And grace, although a bard, devout. May Tom, whom Heaven sent down to raise The price of prologues and of plays, Be every birthday more a winner, Digest his thirty-thousandth dinner; Walk to his grave without reproach, And scorn a rascal and a coach.
TO MR. JOHN MOORE,2 AUTHOR OF THE CELEBRATED WORM-POWDER.
OW much, egregious Moore, are we
Deceived by shows and forms !
Vile reptile, weak and vain :
Then shrinks to earth again.
1 This alludes to a story Mr. Southern told of Dry. den, about the same time, to Mr. P. and Mr. W. When Southern first wrote for the stage, Dryden was so famous for his prologues, that the players would act nothing without that decoration. His usual price till then had been four guineas; but when Southern came to him for the prologue he had bespoke, Dryden told him he must have six guineas for it; “which,” said he, “ young man, is out of no disrespect to you ; but the players have had my goods too cheap.”--War. burton.
2 First published, anonymously, in 1716.
That woman is a worm-we find
E’er since our grandam's evil;
That ancient worm, the Devil.
The blockhead is a slow-worm;
Is aptly termed a glow-worm.
That flutter for a day;
And in a worm decay.
The flatterer an ear-wig grows;
Thus worms suit all conditions ;
And death-watches physicians.
By all their winding play;
That gnaws them night and day.
And greater gain would rise,
The worm that never dies !
Who sett’st our entrails free;
Since worms shall eat ev'n thee.
Some few short years, no more !
Who maggots were before.