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Their several graces in my Sharpen meet ; Alas! far lesser losses than I bear,

Strong as the tootıran, as the master sweet. Have made a soldier sigh, a lover swear. And oh! what makes the disappointment hard, Cease your contention, which has been too long ; 'Twas my own lord that drew the fatal card.

I grow iinpatient, and the tea's too strong. In complaisance I took the qne en he gave; Attend, and yield to what I now decide; Though my own secret wish was for the knave.

The equipage shall grace Smihinda's side:
The knave won sonica, which I had chose;. The snuff-box to Carlelia I decree;
and the next pull, mv septleva I lose.

Now leave complaining, and begin your tea.
But ah! wlrat aggrains ihe killing smart,
The cruel thought, that stabs me to the heart ;
This curs'd (mbrilia, this lindoing fair,

By whose vile arts this heavy griet I bear;
Sbe, at whose name I shed these spiteful tears,

She ou cos to me the very charms she wcars. Oxce (says an author, where I need not say)
An ankward thing when first she came to town; Two travellers found an oyster in their way ,
Her shape unfashion'd, and her face unknown: Both fierce, both hungry; the dispute grew strong,
She was my friend; I taught her first to spread While scale in hand daine Justice pass'd along.
l'pon her sallow cheeks enlivening red :

Before her each with clamour pleads the laws, I introduc'd her to the park and plays ;

Explain’d the matter, and would win the cause. And by my interest, Crozens maile her stays. Dame Justice weighing long the doubtful right, I'ngrateful writch, with mimie airs grown pert, Takes, opens, swallows it, before their sight. She dares to steal my favourite lover's heart ! The cause of strife remov'd so rarely well,

There take, (says Justice) take you each a shell. Wretrh that I was! how often have I swore,

We thrive at Westminster on fools like you :
When Winnall tally'd, I would print no more! 'T'was a fat oyster--Live in peace- Adicu."
I know the bite, vet to my ruin rin;
And see the folly, which I cannot shun.

How niany maiils have Sharper's vow's deceir'd!
How many curs'd the moment they believ'd !
Yet his known falsehoods could no warning prove: What is Prudery?
Ab! what is warui g to a mil in love?

'Tis a beldam,

Seen with wit and beauty seldom.
Put of what marble must that breast be formid, 'Tis a fear that starts at shadows.
To gaze on Basset, and remain in warm’d?

"Tis (n10, 'tis n't) like miss Meadows.
When kings, querns, knaves, are set in decent rank; 'Tis à virgin hard of feature,
Expos'd in glorious heaps the tempting bank, Old, and void of all good-nature;
Guineas, half-guineas, all the shining train; Lean and fretful; would seem wise ;
The winner's pleasure, and the loser's pain : Yet plays the fool before she dies.
In bright confusion open rouleaus lie,

'Tis an ugly, envious shrew,
They strike the soul and glitter in the eye. That rails at dear Lepell and you.
Fir'd by the sight, all reason I disclain;
My passions rise, and will not bear the rein.
I ook ipon Basset, you who reason boast;
And see if reason must not there be lost.


HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM. What more than marble must that heart compose, Muse, 'tis enough: at length thy labour ends; Can hearken coldly to my Sharper's vows? Then, when he trembles ! when his blushes rise ! And thou shalt live, for Buckingham commends, Wben awful love seems melting in his eyes ! Tet crowds of critics now my verse assail, With eager beats bis Mechlin cravat moves : Let Dennis write, and nameless numbers rail : He loves,-whisper tu myself, he loves!

Uhis more than pays whole years of thankless pain, Such unfeign'd passiu in his looks appears, Tiine, health, and fortune, are not lost in vain. I lose my inemory of my former fears;

Sheffield approves, consenting Phæbus bends, My panting heart confesses all his charins,

And I and Malice from this hour are friends. I yield at once, and sink into his arms. Think of that moment; you who prudence boast, For such a moment, prudence well were lost.

At the Groom-porter's, hatter'd bullies play,

Some dukes at Marybose bowl time away.
But who the bowl, or rattliig dice compares

TO A PLAY POR MR. DENNIS'S BENEFIT, IN 1733, To Basset's heavenly joys, and pleasing cares?

WHEN UE WAS OLD, BLIND, AND IN GREAT DISTRESS, SMILINDA. Soft Simplicetta doats upon a bean ;

when that hern, who in each campaign Prudina likes a man, and laughs at show,

Had brav'd the Goth, and many a Vandal slain,








lay fortune-struck, a spectacle of woe !
Wept by each friend, forgiv'n by every foe :

Was there a generous, a reflecting mind,
But pitied Belisarius old and blind ?
Was there a chief but melted at the sight? When simple Macer, now of high renown,
A common soldier, but who clubb'd his inite?

First sought a poet's fortune in the town,
Such, such emotions should in Britons rise, 'Twas all th' ambition his high soul could feel,
When press'd by want and weakness Dennis lies;

To wear red stockings, and to dine with Steel. Dennis, who long had warr'd with modern Huns, "Some ends of verse his betters might afford ; Their quibbles routed, and defy'd their puns ; And gave the harmless fellow a good word. A desperate bulwark, sturdy, firm, and fierce, Set up with these, he ventur'd on the town, Against the Gothic sons of trozen verse :

And with a borrow'd play out did poor Crown. How chang'd from him who made the boxes There he stopp'd short, nor since has writ a tittle, groan,

But has the wit to make the most of little: And shook the stage with thunder all his own! Like stunted hide-bound trees, that just have got Stood up to dash each vain pretender's hope, Sufficient sap at once to bear and rot. Maul the French tyrant, or pull down the pope ! Now he begs verse, and what he gets commends, If there's a Briton then, true bred and born, Not of the wits his foes, but fools bis friends. Who holds dragoons and wooden shoes in scorn ; So some coarse country wench, almost decay'd, If there's a critic of distinguish'd rage;

Trudges to town, and first turns chambermaid; If there's a senior, who contemns this age ; Awkward and supple, each devoir to pay, Let him to-night his just assistance lend,

She flatters her good lady twice a-day ;
And be the critic's, Briton's, old man's friend. Thought wonderous honest, though of mean degree,

And strangely lik'd for her simplicity :
In a translated suit, then tries the town,
With borrow'd pins, and patches not her own :

But just endur'd the winter she began,

And in four months a batter'd harridan.

Now nothing left, but wither’d, pale and shrunk,

To bawd for others, and go shares with punk.
When learning, after the long Gothic night,
Fair, o'er the western world, renew'd its light,
With arts arising, Sophonisba rose :
The tragic Muse, returning, wept her woes.

With her th' Italian scene first learn’d to glow;
And the first tears for her were taught to flow.
Her charms the Gallic Muses next inspir'd:

How much, egregious Moore, are we
Corneille himself saw, wonder'd, and was fir'd. Deceiv'd by shows and forms !
What foreign theatres with pride have shown,

Whate'er we think, whate'er we see,
Britain, by juster title, makes her own.

All human kind are worms. When freedom is the cause, 'tis hers to fight; Man is a very worm by birth, And hers, when freedom is the theme, to write. Vile, reptile, weak, and vain ? For this a British author bids again

A while he crawls upon the earth, The heroine rise, to grace the British scene.

Then shrinks to earth again. Here, as in life, she breathes her genuine flame:

That woman is a worm, we find She asks, what bosom has not felt the same?

E’er since our grandame's evil ; Asks of the British youth-Is silence there?

She first convers'd with her own kind,
She dares to ask it of the British fair.

That ancient worm, the Devil.
To-night our home-spun author would be true,
At once, to nature, history, and you.

The learn'd themselves we book-worms name, Well-pleas'd to give our neighbours due ap

The blockhead is a slow-worm; plause,

The nymph whose tail is all on flame, He owns their learning, but disdains their laws.

Is aptly term'd a glow-worm : Not to his patient touch, or happy fame,

The fops are painted butterflies, 'Tis to his British heart be trusts for fame.

That flutter for a day ; i France excel him in one free-born thought,

First from a worm they take their rise, The man, as well as poet, is in fault.

And in a worm decay.
Nature! informer of the poet's art,

The flatterer an earwig grows ;
Whose force alone can raise or melt the heart, Thus worms suit all conditions ;
Thou art his guide; each passion, every line, Misers are muck-worms, silk-worms beaus,
Whate'er he draws to please, must all be thine. And death-watches physicians.
Be thou his julge: in every candid breast,

That statesmen have the worm, is seen
Thy silent whisper is the sacred test.

By all their winding play ;

Their conscience is a worm within, "I have been told by Savage, that of the Pro

That gnaws thein night and day. logue to Sophonisha, the first part was written by Ah Moore! thy skill were well employ'd, Pope, who could not be persuaded to finish it; and that the concluding lines were written by i thou could'st make the courtier void

And greater gain would rise, Mallet.

Dr. Johnson.

The worin that never dies!


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O learned friend of Abchurch-lane,
Who sett'st our entrails free;

ON HIS GROTTO AT TWICKENHAM. Vain is thy art, thy powder vain,

COMPOSED OF MARBLE, SPARS, GEMS, ORES, AND Since worms shall eat ev'n thee.

Our fate thou only canst adjourn
Some few short years, no more!

Thou who shalt stop, where Thames' translucent
Ev'n Button's wits to worms shall turn,
Who maggots were before.

Shines a broad mirrour through the shadowy cave ;
Where lingering drops from mineral roofs distil,
And pointed crystals break the sparkling rill,
Unpolish'd gems no ray on pride bestow,

And latent metals innocently glow ;

Approach. Great Nature studiously behold!

And eye the mine without a wish for gold.

Approach : but awful! Lo! the Ægerian grot,

Where, nobly pensive, St. John sat and thought; WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1733,

Where Bșitish sighs from dying Windham stole,

And the bright flame was shot through Marchmont's FLUTTering spread thy purple pinions,

Let such, such only, tread this sacred floor, (soul, Gentle Cupid, o'er my heart ;

Who dare to love their couutry, and be poor. I a slave in thy dominions ;

Nature must give way to art, Mild Arcadians, ever blooming, Nightly nodding o'er your flocks,

TO MRS, M. B, ON HER BIRTH-DAY. See my weary days consuming, All beneath yon fluwery rocks.

Oh, be thou blest with all that Heaven can send,

Long health, long youth, long pleasure, and a friend ! Thus the Cyprian goddess weeping,

Not with those toys the female world admire, Mourn'd Adonis, darling youth;

Riches that vex, and vanities that tire. Him the boar, in silence creeping,

With added years, if life bring nothing new, Gor'd with unrelenting tooth.

But like a sieve let every blessing through, Cynthia, tune harmonious numbers,

Some joy still lost, as each vain year runs o'er, Fair Discretion, string the lyre;

And all we gain, somne sąd reflection more; Sooth my ever-waking slumbers :

Is that a birth day; 'tis alas ! too clear, Bright Apollo, lend thy choir,

"Tis but the funeral of the former year. Gloomy Pluto, king of terrours,

Let joy or ease, let altluence or content, Arm'd in adamantine chains,

And the gay conscience of a life well spent, Lead me to the crystal mirrours,

Calin every thought, inspirit every grace, Watering soft Elysian plains,

Glow in thy heart, and smile upon thy face.


Let day improve on day, and year on year, Mournful cypress, verdant willow,

Without a pain, a trouble, or a fear; Gilding my Aurelia's brows,

Till Death unfelt that tender frame destroy, Morpheus hovering o'er my pillow,

In some soft dream, or ecstasy of joy, Hear me pay my dying vows

Peaceful sleep out the sabbath of the tomb,
Melancholy smooth Meander,

And wake to raptures in a life to come.
Swiftly purling in a round,
On thy margin lovers wander,

With thy flowery chaplets crown'chi
Thus when Philomela drooping,

Softly seeks her silent mate,
See the bird of Juno stooping;

Melody resigns to Fate.

Resigx'd to live, prepar'd to die,
With not one sin, but poetry,
This day Tom's fair account has run
(Without a blot) to eighty-one.

Kind Boyle, before his poet, lays

A table, with a cloth of bays;
I know the thing that's most nncommon;

And Ireland, mother of sweet singers,

Presents her harp still to his fingers. (Envy, be silent and attend !)

The feast, his towering genius marks I know a reasonable woman,

In yonder wild-goose and the larks ! Handsome and witty, yet a friend.

The mushrooms show his wit was sudden!
Not warp'd by passion, aw'd by rumour :

And for his judgment, lo a pudden !
Not grave through pride, nor gay through folly;
An equal mixture of good-humour,

And sensible soft melancholy.

Ver. 15. Originally thus in the MS. “ Has she no faults then, (Envy says) sir ?»

And oh, since Death must that fair frame destroy, Yes, she has one, I must aver:

Die, by some sudden ecstasy of joy ; When all the world conspires to praise her,

In some soft dream may thy mild soul repore, The woman's deaf, and does not bear,

And be thy latest gasp a sigh of love,


Roast beef, though old, proclaims him stout, What schemes of politics, or laws,
And grace, although a bard, devout.

In Gallic lands the patriot draws !
May Tom, whom Heaven sent down to raise Is then a greater work in hand,
The price of prologues and of plays,

Than all the tomes of Haines's band ? Be every birth-day more a winner,

“ Or shoots he folly as it flies ? Digest his thirty-thousandth dinner ;

“ Or catches manners as they rise ?” Walk to his grave without reproach,

Or, urg'd by unquench'd native heat,

Does St. John Greenwich sports repeat ? And scorn a rascal and a coach.

Where (emulous of Chartres' fame)

Et'n Chartres' self is scarce a name.
TO LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGUE'. Th’ indulgent gods, unaskid, have given

• To you (th' all-envy'd gift of Heaven)
In beauty or wit,

A form complete in every part,
No mortal as yet

And, to enjoy that gift, the art.
To question your empire has dar'd;

? What could a tender mother's care
But men of discerning

Wish better to her favourite heir,
Have thought that in learning,

Than wit, and fame, and lucky hours,
To yield to a lady was hard.

A stock of health, and golden showers,

And graceful fluency of speech,
Impertinent schools,
With musty dull rules,

Precepts before unknown to teach?

Amidst thy various ebbs of fear,
Have reading to females deny'd :
So papists refuse

And gleaming hope, and black despair ;

Yet let thy friend this truth impart;
The Bible to use,

A truth I tell with bleeding heart,
Lest flocks should be wise as their guide,

(In justice for your labours past) 'Twas a woman at first,

9 That cvery day shall be your last; (Indeed she was curst)

That every hour you life renew
In knowledge that tasted delight,

Is to your injur'd country due.
And sages agree

In spite of fears, of mercy spite,
The laws should decree

My genius still must rail, and write.
To the first of possessors the right,

Haste to thy Twickenham's safe retreat,
Then bravely, fair dame,

And mingle with the grumbling great:
Resume the old claim,

There, half devour'd by spleen, you'll find
Which to your whole sex does belong ;

The rhyming bubbler of mankind;
And let men receive,

There (objects of our mutual hate)
From a second bright Eve,

We'll ridicule both church and state,
The knowledge of right, and of wrong:

But if the first Eve
Hard doom did receive,

When only one apple had she,
What a punishment new

Shall he found out for you,
Who tasting, have robb’d the whole tree?

So bright is thy beauty, so charming thy song,
As had drawn both the beasts and their Orpheus

along; THE FOURTH EPISTLE OF THE FIRST But such is thy avarice, and such is thy pride, BOOK OF HORACE'S EPISTLES?. That the beasts must have starv'd, and the poet

have died. A MODERN IMITATION, SAY 5, St. John, who alone peruse

4 The lines here quoted occur in the Essay on With candid eye, the inimic Muse,

Man. This panegyric on lady Mary Wortley Monta- * An tacitam silvas inter reptare salubres ? gue might have been suppressed by Mr. Pope, on

– Di tibi formam account of her having satirized him in her verses to Di tibi divitias dederant, artemque fruendi. the Imitator of Hosace; which abuse he returned

? Quid voveat dulci nutricula majus alumno, in the first Satire of the second book of Horace.

Quam sapere, et fari posset quæ sentiat, et cui From furious Sappho, scarce a milder fate,

Gratia, fama, valetudo contingat abunde, Ped by her love, or libeld by her hate. S.

non deficiente crumena? 2 This satire on Lord Bolingbroke, and the praise Inter spem, curamque, timores inter et iras, bestowed on him in a letter to Mr. Richardson, Omnem crede diem tibi diluxisse supremum. where Mr. Pope says,

Me pinguem, et nitidum bene curata cute vises, The sons shall blush their fathers were his foes; Cum ridere voles Epicuri de grege porcum. being so contradictory, probably occasioned the 10 This epigram, first printed anonymously in former to be suppressed. S.

Steele's Collection, and copied in the Miscellanies Ad ALBIUM TIBULLUM.

of Swift and Pope, is ascribed to Pope by sir John 3 Albi, nostrorum sermonum candide judex, Hawkins, in his History of Music. --Mrs. Tofts, Quid nunc te dicam facere in regione Pedana? who was the daughter of a person in the family of Scribere, quod Cassi Parmensis opuscula vincat? bishop Byrnet, is celebrated as a singer little in




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.
FREIND, for your Fpitaphs I'm griev'd,

Still idle, with a busy air, Where still so much is said;

Deep whimsies to contrive; One half will never be believ'd,

The gayest valetudinaire,
The other never read.

Most thinking rake alive.
Solicitous for others ends,

Though fond of dear repose ;

Careless or drowsy with my friends,

And frolic with my foes.
ON HIS PAINTING FOR ME THE STATUES OF APOLLO, Luxurious lobster-nights, farewell,

For sober, studjous days!
har god, what genius did the pencil move

And Burlington's delicious meal, When Kneller painted these ?

For sallads, tarts, and pease!
'Twas Friendship-warm as Phæbus, kind as Love, Adieu to all but Gay alone,
And strong as Hercules.

Whose soul sincere and free,
Loves all mankind, but flatters none,

And so may starve with me.

Dear, damn’d, distracting town, farewell !

Thy fools no more I'll teaze :

Pope. Since my old friend is grown so great, This year in peace, ye critics, dwell,

As to be ininister of state, Ye harlois, sleep at ease !

I'm told (but 'tis not true I hope) Soft B and rough C-, adieu !

That Craggs will be asham'd of Pope. Earl Warwick make your moan,

CRAGGS. Alas! if I am such a creature, The lively Hk and you

To grow the worse for growing greater ; May knock up whores alone.

Why faith, in spite of all my brags, To drink and droll be Rowe allow'd

'Tis Pope must be asham'd of Craggs. Till the third watchman toll; Let Jervis 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,


TO HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS. Lintot, farewell! thy bard must go;


Am his Highness' dog at Kew; Parewell, unhappy Tonson !

Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?
Heaven gives thee, for thy loss of Rowe,

Lean Philips, and fat Johnson.
Why should I stay? Both parties rage ;
My vixen mistress squalls;

The wits in envious feuds engage ;

OCCASIONED BY AN INVITATION TO COURT. And Homer (damn him !) calls. The love of arts lies cold and dead

In the lines that you sent are the Muses and In Halifax's urn;

Graces ; And not one Muse of all he fed,

You 've the Nine in your wit, and the Three in Has yet the grace to mourn. My friends, by turns, my friends confound,

Betray, and are betray'd : Poor Y-r's sold for fifty pound, And B- -11 is a jade.


your faces.


ferior, either for her voice or manner, to the best
Italian women. She lived at the introduction of
the opera into this kingdom, and sung in O GATE, how cam’st thou here?
company with Nicolini; but, being ignorant of

GATE, I was brought from Chelsea last year, Italian, chanted her recitative in English, in an

Batter'd wit: wind and weather. swer to his Italian; yet the charms of their voices Inigo Jones put me together. overcame the absurdity.

Sir Hans Sloane

Let me alone : ' It is not generally known that the person here

Burlington brought me hither. meant was Dr. Robert Freind, head master of

1742. Westninster-school.

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