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

Royal Highness.
I am his Highness' dog at Kew;
Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you ?

EPIGRAM, Occasioned by an Invitation to Court. In the lines that you sent are the muses and graces: You've the nine in your wit, and the three in you:

faces.

ON AN OLD GATE

Erected in Chiswick Gardens.
O GATE, how camest thou here?
Gate. I was brought from Chelsea last year,

Batter'd with wind and weather ;
Inigo Jones put me together;

Sir Hans Sloane

Let me alone :
Burlington brought me hither.

1742.

A FRAGMENT.
What are the falling rills, the pendent shades,
The morning bowers, the evening colonnades,
But soft recesses for the 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 lyng in the same Bed which Wilmot the celo

brated Earl of Rochester slept in, at Adderbury,
then belonging to the Duke of Argyle, July 9th,
1739.
With no poetic ardour fired

I press'd the bed where Wilmot lay;
That here he loved, or here expired,

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 noble bed,

Beneath a nobler roof-the sky.
Such flames as high in patriots burn,

Yet stoop to bless a child or wise ;
And such as wicked kings may mourn,

When frecdom is more dear than life

VERSES TO MR. C.
St. James's Place, London, October 22.
Few words are best; I wish you well;

Bethel, I'm told, will soon be here :
Some morning-walks along the Mall,

And evening friends, will end the year.
If, in this interval, between

The falling leaf and coming frost,
You please to see, on Twit'nam green,

Your friend, your poet, and your host ;
For three whole days you here may rest,

From office, business, news, and strife
And (what most folks would think a jesi

Want nothing else, except your wife.

EPITAPHS.

His saltein accumulem donis, et fungar inani
Munere!

VIRG

ON CHARLES EARL OF DORSET,

In the Church of Withyam, in Sussex. DORSET, the grace of courts, the Muses' pride, Patron of arts, and judge of nature, died. The scourge of pride, though sanctified or great, Of fops in learning, and of knaves in state: Yet soft his nature, though severe his lay; His anger moral, and his wisdom gay. Bless'd satirist! who touch'd the mean so true, As show'd vice had his hate and pity too. Bless'd courtier! who could king and country please Yet sacred keep his friendships, and his ease. Bless'd peer! his great forefathers' every grace Reflecting, and reflected in his race ; Where other Buckhursts, other Dorsets shine, And patrons still, or poets, deck the line.

ON SIR WILLIAM TRUMBALL, One of the principal Secretaries of State to King

William the Third, who, having resigned his place, died in his Retirement at Easthamstead, in Berk shire, 1716.

A PLEASING form; a firm, yet cautious mind;
Sincere, though prudent; constant, yet resign'd;
Honour unchanged, a principle profess’d,
Fix'd to one side, but moderate to the rest :
An honest courtier, yet a patriot too;
Just to his prince, and to his country true :
Fill'd with the sense of age, the fire of youths
A scorn of wrangling, yet a zeal for truth:

A generous faith, from superstition free;
A love to peace, and hate of tyranny:
Such this man was; who now from earth removed,
At length enjoys that liberty he loved.

ON THE HON. SIMON HARCOURT, Only Son of the Lord Chancellor Harcourt, at the

Church of Stanton-Harcourt, in Oxfordshire, 1720

To this sad shrine, whoe'er thou art, draw near;
Here lies the friend most loved, the son most dear;
Who ne'er knew joy but friendship might divide,
Or gave his father grief but when he died.

How vain is reason, eloquence how weak!
If Pope must tell what Harcourt cannot speak.
Oh let thy once-loved friend inscribe thy stone,
And with a father's sorrows mix his own!

ON JAMES CRAGGS, ESQ.

In Westminster Abbey.

JACOBUS CRAGGS,
REGI MAGNÆ BRITANNIÆ A SECRETIS,

ET CONSILIIS SANCTIORIBUS,
PRINCIPIS PARITER AC POPULI AMOR ET

DELICIÆ
VIXIT, TITULIS ET INVIDIA MAJOR,
ANNOS, HEU PAUCOS, XXXV,

OB. FEB. XVI. MDCCXX.

STATESMAN, yet friend to truth! of soul sincerc, In action faithful, and in honour clear! Who broke no promise, served no private end, Who gain'd no title, and who lost no friend; Ennobled by himself, by all approved, Praised, wept, and honour'd, by the muse he loved

INTENDED FOR MR. ROWE,

In Westminster Abbey.
Tuy reliques, Rowe, to this fair urn we trust,
And, sacred, place by Dryden's awful dust :
Beneath a rude and nameless stone he lies,
To which thy tomb shall guide inquiring eyes.
Peace to thy gentle shade, and endless rest!
Bless'd in thy genius, in thy love too bless'd!
One grateful woman to thy fame supplies
What a whole thankless land to his denies.

ON MRS. CORBET,
Who died of a Cancer in her Breast.
HERE rests a woman, good without pretence,
Bless'd with plain reason, and with sober sense;
No conquest she, but o'er herself, desired,
No arts essay'd, but not to be admired.
Passion and pride were to her soul unknown,
Convinced that virtue only is our own.
So unaffected, so composed a mind;
So firm, yet soft; so strong, yet so refined ;
Heaven, as its purest gold, by tortures tried,
The saint sustain'd it, but the woman died.

ON THE MONUMENT OF THE
HONOURABLE ROBERT DIGBY,

AND OF HIS SISTER MARY,
Erected by their Father, the Lord Digby, in the Church

of Sherborne, in Dorsetshire, 1727.
Go! fair example of untainted youth,
Of modest wisdom, and pacific truth;
Composed in sufferings, and in joy sedate,
Good-without noise, without pretension great:

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