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The World. As Sherlock at Temple was taking a boat, | The world's a book, writ by th' eternal art The waterman ask'd him which way he would Of the great Author ; printed in man's heart; float.
'Tis falsely printed, though divinely peon'd; Which way? says the Doctor: why, fool, with And all th’ errata will appear at th' end.
the stream. To Paul's or to Lambeth, 'twas all one to him.
• On the Battle of the Books. On a Prelate's going out of Church in Time of Swift for the ancients has argud so well,
Divine Service, to wait on the Lord Lieute- | 'Tis apparent from thence that the moderns nant of Ireland.
excel. Lord Pam in the Church (could you think
it?) kneel'd down: When, told that the duke was just come to
A Welshman and an Englishman disputed,
Which of their lands maintain'd the greatest town,
state; His station despising, unaw'd by the place,
The Englishman the Welshman quite conHe flies from his God to attend on his Grace. | To the court it was fitter to pay his devotion, 1
The Welshman yet would not his vaunts Since God had no share in his lordship's pro
| Ten cooks, quoth he, in Wales, one wedding motion.
Ah, quoth the other, each man toasts his cheese. A HUM'rous fellow in a tavern late, Being drunk and valiant, gets a broken pate:
From the Latin. The surgeon, with his instruments and skill,
UNHAPPY, Dido, was thy fate, Searches his skull deeper and deeper still,
In first and second wedded state! To feel his brains, and try if they were sound; | One husband caus'd thy Aight by dying, And, as he keeps ado about the wound, | Thy death the other caus'd by flying. The fellow cries-Good surgeon, spare your
pains: When I began this brawl I had no brains. On the Funeral of Vulture Hopkins.
What num'rous lights this wretch's corpse
attend, By fav'ring wit Mæcenas purchas'd fame,
Who, in his life-time, sav'd a candle's end! Virgil's own works immortaliz'd his name: A double share of fame is Dorset's due, At once the patron and the poet too.
The Humourist. Imitated from Martial.
In all thy humors, whether grave or mellow,
Thou'rt such a touchy, testy, pleasant fellow, Pollio must needs to penitence excite;
Hast so much wit, and mirth, and spleen, about For see, his scarves are rich, and gloves are thee,
There is no living with thee, nor without thee. Behold his notes display'd, his body rais'd : With what a zeal he labours to be prais'd ! No stubborn sinner able to withstand The force and reasoning of his wig and band :
A HAUGHTY courtier meeting in the streets
A scholar, him thus insolently greets:
Base men to take the wall I ne'er permit. On moral duties when his tongue refines,
The scholar said, I do; and gave him it. Tully and Plato are his best divines : What Matthew says, or Mark, the proof but small;
Thus with kind words Sir Edward cheer'd What Locke or Clarke asserts, good scripture |_ his friend :
Dear Dick! thou on my friendship mayst de Touch'd with each weakness which he does pend : arraign,
I know thy fortune is but very scant; With vanity he talks against the vain;
But be assur'd, I'll ne'er see Dick in want. With ostentation does to meekness guide,
Dick's soon confin'd-his friend, no doubt, Proud of his periods levell'd against pride ;
would free him: Ambitiously the love of glory slights,
His word he kept-in want he ne'er would And damns the love of fame for which he
see him. writes.
When men of infamy to grandeur soar, The Latin word for cold, one ask'd his friend; They light a torch to show their shame the It is, said he'tis at my finger's end.
On the Offering made by King James I. at al To the Author of an Epitaph on Dr. Mead, grave Comedy, called the Marriage of Arts.
HACKETT. At Christ-Church Marriage, play'd before Mead's not dead then, you say, only sleeping the king,
a little ? Lest these learn'd mates should want an offer- Why, egad! Sir, you've hit it off there to a ing,
tittle: The king himself did offer--what, I pray? Yet, friend, his awaking I very much doubt He offer'd, twice or thrice, to go away.
Pluto knows whom he's got, and will ne'er let
him out. A Country Parson's Answer to a young Lady who sent her Compliments on the Ten of
To Mr. Pope. Hearts.
While malice, Pope, denies thy page
Its own celestial fire ; Your compliments, dear lady, pray forbear;
at; | While critics and wbilé bards in rage, Old English services are more sincere :
Admiring, won't admire :
And envious tongues decry;
These times though many a friend bewail, By Dr. Donne.
These times bewail noi I. I am unable, yonder beggar cries,
But when the world's loud praise is thine, To stand or go. If he says true, he lies. And spleen no more shall blame;
When with ihy Homer thou shalt shine Moore always smiles whenever he recites;
. In one establish'd fame :
Devote a wreath to thee :
Shall I lament to see.
In merry Old England it once was a rule,
The king had his poet, and also his fool: One half will never be believ'd,
But now we're so frugal, I'd have you to The other never read.
Poor Cibber must serve both for fool and for To Mr. Thomson, who had procured the Author
a Benefit Night. Dennis. Found stuck on the Statue of the Moor which REFLECTING on thy worth, methinks I find supports the Sun-Dial in Clement's-Inn. Thy rarious Seasons in their Author's mind. In vain, poor sable son of woe, Spring opes her blossoms various as thy muse And, like thy soft compassion, sheds her dews. From thee in vain with pangs they flow, Summer's hot drought in thy expression glows, For mercy dwells not here And o'er each page a tawny ripeness throws.
From cannibals thou fedd'st in vain, Autum:'s rich fruits th' instructed reader gains,
Lawyers less quarter give; Who tastes the meaning purpose of thy strains.
The first won't eat you till you're slain, Winter-but that no semblance takes from
The last will do't alive.. thee : That hoary season yields a type of me. Shatter'd by Time's weak storms I with’ring lay, When Jack was poor, the lad was frank and Leafless, and whitening in a cold decay ! Yet shall my propless ivy, pale and bent,
Of late he's grown brimful of pride and pelf. Bless the short sunshine which thy pity lent. You wonder that he don't remeinber me:
Why so? You see he has forgot himself. The Fan. ATTERBURY.
By Prior. Flavia the least and slightest toy
To John I owed great obligation ;
But John unhappily thought fit
Sure John and I are more than quit.
On the Bursar of St. John's College in Oxford That it wounds more than Cupid's bow ;
cutting down a fine Roro of Trees. Gives coolness to the matchless dame, | INDULGENT nature to each kind bestows To ev'ry other breast a flame.
TA secret instinct to discern its soes :
The goose, a silly bird, avoids the fox : I heard thy anxious coachman say,
A Cure for Poetry. And bears the like antipathy to trees.
Seven wealthy towns contend for Homer
dead, Good Music and bad Dancers. Through which the living Homer begg'd his
bread! How ill the motion with the music suits !! So Orpheus play'd, and like them danc'd the
On some Snow which melted on a Lady's Breast. brutes.
The envious snow comes down in haste
To prove thy breast less fair, Ye little wits, that gleam'd a while,
But grieves to see itself surpast,
And melts into a tear.
The French Poet.
When old Elijah, as the Scriptures say, Each lends his cloud to put him out,
Triumphant mounted to the realms of day, That rear'd him to the skies.
His spirit doubled, and his cloak beside, Alas! these skies are not your sphere;
He gave Elisha, by long service tried.
Tristan from hence would fain example take, There he shall ever burn:
For honest Quinault his disciple's sake; Weep, weep, and fall; for earth ye were,
But this, alas ! injurious fate denied, And must to earth return.
For Tristan poorer than a prophet died.
To Quinault thus the bard, expiring, spoke: So much, my Pope, thy English Iliad charms. / “ My wit I leave thee-but I have no cloak." As pity inelts us, or as passion warms; That after-ages shall with wonder seek
Pox on't, quoth Time to Thomas Hearne, Who 'twas translated Homer into Greek.
Whatever I forget you learn.
Answered by Mr. West. The golden hair that Galla wears,
D-n it, quoth Hearne, in furious fret, Is hers: who would have thought it? Whate'er I learn you soon forget. She swears 'tis hers; and true she swears, For I know where she bought it.
Dr. ALDRICH's Five Reasons for Drinking.
Good wine; a friend; or being dry;
WALLER. Or any other reason why.
THYRSIS, a youth of the inspir'd train, Like tracks of leverets in morning snow:
Fair Saccharissa lov'd, but lov'd in vain; Love's image thus in purest minds is wrought, Like Phoebus sung the no less am'rous boy; Without a spot or blemish to the thought. Like Daphne she, as lovely and as coy. Strange, that your fingers should the pencil foil,
With numbers he the flying nymph pursues, Without the help of colors or of oil !
With numbers such as Phæbus' self might use; For though a painter boughs and leaves can all, but the nyinph who should redress his make,
wrong, 'Tis yours alone to make them bend and shake, | Attend his passion, and approve his song: Whose breath salutes your new-created grore Like Phæbus thus acquiring unsought praise. Like southern winds, and makes it gently move. He catch'd at love, and fill'd his arms with bays. Orpheus could make the forest dance, but you Can make the motion and the forest too. A poet, when he would describe his mind,
are read wherever there are men: 1 His spouse is in despair: So far the scissors go beyond the pen.
With frequent sobs and mutual cries,
They both express their care.
A diff'rent cause, says Parson Sly,
The same effect may give;
Poor Simon fears that he shall die,
His wife--that he may live.
Written on the Bed-chamber Door of Charles II.
By Pope. Rochester. l Muse, 'tis enough ; at length thy labor ends, Here lies our sovereign lord the King,
And thou shalt live-for Buckingham com. Whose word no man relies on;
mends. He never says a foolish thing,
Let crowds of critics now my verse assail, Nor ever does a wise one.
Let Dennis write, and nameless numbers rail ;
Time, pain, and fortune, are not lost in vain ; That little patch upon your face
Sheffield approves, consenting Phæbus bends, Would seem a foil on one less fair;
And I and Malice from this hour are friends. On you it hides a killing grace, And you in pity plac'd it there.
On a certain Beauty.
MISTAKEN nature here has join'd
A beauteous face and ugly mind;'
lo vain the faultless features strike, As after noon, one summer's day,
When soul and body are unlike: Venus stood bathing in a river; .
Pity that snowy breast should hide Cupid a-shooting went that way,
Deceit, and avarice, and pride. New-strung his bow, new-filld his quiver.
So in rich jars, from China brought, With skill he chose his sharpest dart; With glowing colors gaily wrought,
With all his might his bow he drew: Ofttimes the subtle spider dwells, Swift to his beauteous parent's heart
With secret venom bloated swells; The too well guided arrow few.
Weaves all his fatal nets within,
As unsuspected as unseen.
WERE men go dull they could not see Poor Cupid, sobbing, scarce could speak; That Lyce painted ; should they fee,
Indeed, Mamma, I did not know ye: Like simple birds, into a net
So grossly woven and ill-set;
"And let all go that she had got.
These teeth my Lyce must not show,
If she would bite : her lovers, though
Like birds they stoop at seeming grapes, Since I am not what I was ;
Are disabus'd when first she gapes : What from this day I shall be,
The rotten bones discover'd there, Venus, let me never see !
Show 'tis a painted sepulchre.
Written on a Glass, by a Gentleman who bor
To Mr. Pope. Towed the Earl of Chesterfields Diamond | DEPEND not upon verse for fame, Pencil.
Though none can equal thine: Accept a miracle, instead of wit :
Our language never rests the same; See two dull lines by Stanhope's pencil writ!
'Twill rise, or 'twill decline.
Thy wreaths, in course of Aleeting hours,
Too soon will be decay'd;
But story lasts, though modern flow'rs
Of poetry must fade.
A surer way then wouldst thou find
Thy glory to prolong, Confusion in their looks they show'd,
Whilst there remains amongst mankind
The sense of right and wrong;
Let future times but know
That Atterbury was thy friend,
By Lord Hervey. Young Courtly takes me for a dunce; Possess'of one great hall for state, For all night long I spoke not once.
| Without one room to sleep or eat; On better grounds I think him such :
How well you build, let flattery tell, He spoke but once, yet once too much. | And all mankind how ill you dwell.
Written in a Window of the Tower, over the
Name of R. Walpole, confined in the same | FRIEND Isaac, 'tis strange, you, that lived so Room, Ann. Dom. 1712. LANSDOWNE.
Should not set up the sign of the Vicar; Good unexpected, evil unforeseen,
Though it may be an odd one, you cannot but say Appear by turns, as fortune shifts the scene; } It must needs be a sign of good liquor. Some rais'd aloft corne tumbling down again, And fall so hard, they bound and rise again.
Answer. The Manchester Millers named Bone and Skin.
| Indeed, Master Poct, your reason's but poor;
For the Vicar would think it a sin | To stay, like a booby, and lounge at the door;
"Twere a sign 'twas bad liquor within. Bone and Skin, two millers thin,
Would starve us all, or near it: But be it known to Skin and Bone,
By a Porter, on the Gin Act. To a Great Man. That Alesh and blood can't bear it.
Why will you make us coolly think?
1 If you would govern, we must drink. By Sir G. Lyttelton.
Giles Jolt. None without hopee'er lov'd the brightest fair,
Giles Jolt as sleeping in his cart he lay, But love can hope where reason would despair.
Some waggish pilf'rers stole his team away.
Giles wakes, and cries, “ What's here? Odse True wit is like the brilliant stone
dicken! what? Dug from the Indian mine;
Why how now? am I Giles, or am I not? Which boasts two diff'rent pow'rs in one, If he, I've lost six geldings, to my smart : To cut as well as shine.
If not, odsbuddikins! I've found a eart.
With industry I spread your praise,
But, faith! 'tis all'in vain we do,
Three poets in three distant ages born, A third affirms, that they are much the same, Greece, Italy, and England did adorn: And differ only as to time and name :
The first in loftiness of thought surpass'd, Yet sure one more distinction may be told; | The next in majesty, in both the last. Those once were new, but these will ne'er be old. The force of Nature could no farther go :
To make a third, she join'd the other iwo. To Mr. Pope, on his Epitaph on Mr. Gay.
LORD ORRERY. On the Duchess of Marlborough's Offer of 500l.
for the best Poem on the Duke's Actions. EntomB'd with kings though Gay's cold Five hundred pounds! too small a boon ashes lie,
To put the poet's muse in tune,
That nothing might escape her:
It scarce would buy the paper.
Had Cain been a Scot, God would have alOn the Queen's Grotto at Richmond.
ter'd his doom ;
Not forc'd him to wander, but confind him at Lewis the living genius fed,
home. And rais'd the scientific head; Our Queen, more frugal of her meat,
By Prior. Raises those heads which cannot eat.
Tuus to the Muses spoke the Cyprian dame:
Adorn my altars, and revere my name; I heard last week, friend Edward, thou wast My son shall else assume his potent darts: dead.
Twang goes the bow ! my girls, have at your I'm very glad to hear it too, cries Ned. .