THIS verse be thine, my friend, nor thou refufe
This, from no venal or ungrateful muse.
Whether thy hand ftrike out fome free defign,
Where life awakes, and dawns at every line;
Or blend in beauteous tints the colour'd mass,
And from the canvafs call the mimic face:
Read thefe inftructive leaves, in which conspire
Frefnoy's close art, and Dryden's native fire:
And reading wish, like theirs, our fate and fame,
So mix'd our studies, and fo join'd our name;
Like them to fhine through long fucceeding age,
So just thy skill, fo regular my rage.

Smit with the love of fifter-arts we came,
And met congenial, mingling flame with flame;
Like friendly colours found them both unite,
And each from each contract new flrength and
light.

How oft in pleafing tasks we wear the day,
While fummer-funs roll unperceiv'd away!

How oft our flowly-growing works impart,
While images reflect from art to art!
How oft review; each finding like a friend
Something to blame, and something to com-
mend?

What flattering fcenes our wandering fancy wrought,

Rome's pompous glories rifing to our thought!
Together o'er the Alps methinks we fly,
Fir'd with ideas of fair Italy.

With thee on Raphael's monument I mourn,
Or wait infpiring dreams at Maro's urn:
With thee repofe, where Tully once was laid,
Or feek fome ruin's formidable shade:
While fancy brings the vanish'd piles to view,,
And builds imaginary Rome anew.

Here thy well-ftudied marbles fix our eye;
A fading fresco here demands a figh:
Each heavenly piece unwearied we compare,
Match Raphael's grace with thy lov'd Guido's

air,

Carracci's ftrength, Correggio's fofter line, Paulo's free ftroke, and Titian's warmth divine.

How finish'd with illuftrious toil appears This fmall, well-polifh'd gem, the work of years! Yet ftill how faint by precept is exprefs'd The living image in the painter's breast! Thence endless streams of fair ideas flow, Strike in the sketch, or in the picture glow; Thence beauty, waking all her forms, fupplies An angel's fweetnefs, or Bridgewater's eyes.

Mufe! at that name thy facred forrows fhed, Those tears eternal that embalm the dead; Call round her tomb each object of defire, Each purer frame inform'd with purer fire: Bid her be all that cheers or foftens life, The tender fifter, daughter, friend, and wife : Bid her be all that makes mankind adore; Then view this marble, and be vain no more! Yet fill her charms in breathing paint en

gage;

Her modeft cheek fhall warm a future age.
Beauty, frail flower, that every season fears,
Blooms in thy colours for a thousand years.
Thus Churchill's race fhall other hearts furprife,
And other beauties envy Worfley's eyes;
Each pleafing Blount fhall endlefs fmiles beftow,
And foft Belinda's blush for ever glow.

Oh, lafting as thofe colours may they shine,
Free as thy ftroke, yet faultlefs as thy line;
New graces yearly like thy works difplay,
Soft without weaknefs, without glaring gay;
Led by fome rule, that guides, but not con-
ftrains;

And finish'd more through happiness than pains!
The kindred arts shall in their praise conspire,
One dip the pencil, and one string the lyre.
Yet fhould the graces all thy figures place,
And breathe an air divine on every face;
Yet fhould the mufes bid my numbers roll
Strong as their charms, and gentle as their foul;
With Zeuxis' Helen thy Bridgewater vie,
And these be fung till Granville's Myra die :
Alas how little from the grave we claim !
Thou but preferv'ft a face, and I a name.

EPISTLE

TO MISS BLOUNT,

WITH THE WORKS OF VOITURE.

Is there gay thoughts the loves and graces shine,
And all the writer lives in every line:
His eafy art may happy nature feem,
Trifles themselves are elegant in him.
Sure to charm all was his peculiar fate,
Who without flattery pleas'd the fair and great;
Still with efteem no lefs convers'd than read;
With wit well-natur'd, and with books weil-bred :
His heart, his mistress, and his friend did share;
His time, the mufe, the witty and the fair.
Thus wifely carelefs, innocently gay,
Cheerful he play'd the trifle, life, away;
Till fate fcarce felt his gentle breath fuppreft,
As fmiling infants sport themselves to reft,
Ev'n rival wits did Voiture's death deplore,
And the gay mourn'd who never mourn'd before;
The trueft hearts for Voiture heav'd with fighs,
Voiture was wept by all the brighteft eyes:
The fmiles and loves had died in Voiture's death,
But that for ever in his lines they breathe.

Let the ftri&t life of graver mortals be
A long, exact, and ferious comedy;
In every fcene fome mortal let it teach,
And, if it can, at once both please and preach.
Let mine, an innocent gay farce appear,
And more diverting ftill than regular,
Have humour, wit, a native ease and grace,
Though not too strictly bound to time and place:
Critics in wit, or life, are hard to please;
Few write to thofe, and none can live to these.
Too much your fex are by their forms confin'd,
Severe to all, but most to womankind;
Caftom, grown blind with age, must be your guide;
Your pleafure is a vice, but not your pride;
By nature yielding, stubborn but for fame;
Made flaves by honour, and made fools by shame.
Marriage may all thofe petty tyrants chafe,
But fets up one, a greater in their place:
Well might you wifh for change by thofe accurft,
But the laft tyrant ever proves the worst.
Still in constraint your fuffering fex remains,
Or bound in formal, or in real chains:
Whole years neglected, for fome months ador'd,
The fawning fervant turns a haughty lord.
Ah, quit not the free innocence of life,
For the dull glory of a virtuous wife;
Nor let falfe thows, nor empty titles please :
Aim not at joy, but reft content with ease.

The gods, to curfe Pamela with her prayers, Gave the gilt coach and dappled Flanders mares, The fhining robes, rich jewels, beds of state, And, to complete her blifs, a fool for mate. She glares in balls, front boxes, and the ring, A vain, unquiet, glittering, wretched thing! Pride, pomp, and state, but reach her outward part;

She fighs, and is no duchefs at her heart.

But, madam, if the fates with ftand, and you Are deftin'd Hymen's willing victim too;

Truft not too much your now refiftless charms,
Thofe, age or ficknefs, foon or late disarms :
Good-humour only teaches charms to laft,
Still makes new conquefts, and maintains the pas
Love, rais'd on beauty, will like that decay,
Our hearts may bear its flender chain a day;
As flowery bands in wantonnefs are worn,
A morning's pleasure, and at evening torn;
This binds in ties more eafy, yet more strong,
The willing heart, and only holds it long.

Thus Voiture's early care ftill fhone the fame,
And Monthaufier was only chang'd in name;
By this, ev'n now they live, ev'n now they charm,
Their wit flill sparkling, and their flames still warm.

Now crown'd with myrtle, on th' Elysian coaft, Amid thofe lovers, joys his gentle ghost: Pleas'd, while with imiles his happy lines you view, And finds a fairer Ramboüillet in you. The brighteft eyes in France infpir'd his muse; The brightest eyes in Britain now peruse; And dead, as living, 'tis our author's pride Still to charm thole who charm the world befide,

TO THE SAME.

On ber leaving the Town after the Coronation, 1715.~ As fome fond virgin, whom her mother's care Drags from the town to wholefome country air, Juft when the learns to roll a melting eye, And hear a spark, yet think no danger nigh; From the dear man unwilling the muft fever, Yet takes one kifs before the parts for ever: Thus from the world fair Zephalinda flew, Saw others happy, and with fighs withdrew; Not that their pleasures caus'd her discontent, She sigh'd, not that they stay'd, but that she went.

She went to plain-work, and to purling brooks, Old-fashion'd halls, dull aunts, and croaking rooks: She went from opera, park, affembly, play, To morning-walks, and prayers three hours a-day; To part her time 'twixt reading and bohea, To mufe, and fpill her folitary tea; Or o'er cold coffee trifle with the spoon, Count the flow clock, and dine exact at noon; Divert her eyes with pictures in the fire, Hum half a tune, tell ftories to the 'fquire; Up to her godly garret after seven, There ftarve and pray, for that's the way to heaven. Some 'fquire, perhaps, you take delight to rack; Whofe game is whift, whofe treat a toast in fack: Who vifits with a gun, prefents you birds,

Then gives a fmacking bufs, and cries-no words! Or with his hounds comes hallooing from the stable,

Makes love with nods, and knees beneath a table; Whofe laughs are hearty, though his jefts are

coarfe,

And loves you best of all things-but his horfe.
In fome fair evening, on your elbow laid,
You dream of triumphs in the rural fhade;
In penfive thought recal the fancy'd scene,
Sec coronations rife on every green;

• Mademoiselle Paulet.

Before you pass th' imaginary fights
Of lords, and caris, and dukes, and garter'd knights,
While the spread fan o'erfhades your clofing eyes;
Then give one flirt, and all the vifion flies.
Thus vanish fceptres, coronets, and balls,
And leave you in lone woods, or empty walls!
So when your flave, at fome dear idle time,
(Not plagu'd with headachs, or the want of
rhyme),

Stands in the streets, abstracted from the crew,
And while he seems to ftudy, thinks of you.
Juft when his fancy points your fprightly eyes,
Or fees the blush of foft Parthenia rife,
Gay pats my shoulder, and you vanish quite,
Streets, chairs, and coxcombs, rufh upon my fight;
Vex'd to be ftill in town, I knit my brow,
Book four, and hum a tune, as you may now.

See, on the tooth-pick, Mars and Cupid ftrive;
And both the struggling figures feem alive.
Upon the bottom shines the queen's bright face;
A myrtle foliage round the thimble-cafe;
Jove, Jove himself does on the fciffars fhine;
The metal and the workmanship divine!
SMILINDA.

This fnuff-box-once the pledge of Sharper's love,
When rival beauties for the present strove;
At Corticelli's he the raffle won;
Then first his paffion was in public fhown:
Hazardia blufh'd, and turn'd her head aside,
A rival's envy (all in vain) to hide.

This fnuff-box,-on the hinge fee brilliants fhine!
This Inuff-box will I stake; the prize is mine.

CARDELIA.

Alas far leffer loffes than I bear, Have made a foldier figh, a lover fwear. And oh what makes the disappointment hard, 'Twas my own lord that drew the fatal card. In complaifance, I took the queen he gave; Though my own fecret wish was for the knave. The knave was Sonica, which I had chofe ; And the next pull, my Septleva I lose.

SMILINDA.

But ah what aggravates the killing smart,
The cruel thought, that ftabs me to the heart;
This curs'd Ombrelia, this undoing fair,
By whofe vile arts this heavy grief I bear;
She, at whose name I shed those spiteful tears,
She owes to me the very charms fhe wears.
An awkward thing, when firft fhe came to town;
Her shape unfafhion'd, and her face unknown:
She was my friend; I taught her first to spread
Upon her fallow cheeks enlivening red:

I introduc'd her to the park and plays;
And by my intereft, Cozens made her stays.
Ungrateful wretch, with mimic airs grown pert,
She dares to fteal my favourite lover's heart!

CARDELIA.

Wretch that I was! how often have I swore, When Winnal tally'd, I would punt no more! I know the bite, yet to my ruin run; And fee the folly which I cannot hun.

SMILINDA.

How many maids have Sharper's vows deceiv'd! How many curs'd the moment they believ'd! Yet his known falfehoods could no warning prove; Ah! what is warning to a maid in love?

CARDELIA.

But of what marble must that breaft be form'd,
To gaze on Baffet, and remain unwarm'd?
When kings, queens, knaves, are fet in decent
rank;

Expos'd in glorious heaps the tempting bank,
Guineas, half-guineas, all the fhining train;
The winner's pleasure, and the loser's pain:
In bright confufion open rouleaus lie,
They ftrike the foul, and glitter in the eye.
Fir'd by the fight, all reason I disdain;
My paffions rife, and will not bear the rein.
Look upon Baffet, you who reason boaft;
And see if reason must not there be lost.

SMILINDA.

What more than marble must that heart compofe Can hearken coldly to my Sharper's vows!

Then, when he trembles when his blushes rife !
When awful love feems melting in his eyes!
With eager beats his Mechlin cravat moves :
He loves-I whisper to myself, he loves!
Such unfeign'd paffion in his looks appears,
I lofe my memory of my former fears;
My panting heart confeffes all his charms,
I yield at once, and fink into his arms.
Think of that moment, you who prudence boast;
For fuch a moment, prudence well were lost.

CARDELIA.

At the groom-porter's, batter'd bullies play,
Some dukes at Marybone bowl time away.
But who the bowl, or rattling dice compares
To Baffet's heavenly joys, and pleafing cares?
SMILINDA.

Soft Simplicetta doats upon a beau;
Prudina likes a man, and laughs at show.
Their feveral graces in my Sharper meet;
Strong as the footman, as the master sweet.
LOVET.

Ceafe your contention, which has been too long; I grow impatient, and the tea's too strong. Attend, and yield to what I now decide; The equipage fhall grace Smilinda's fide: The fnuff-box to Cardella I decree;

Now leave complaining, and begin your tea.

ONCE (fays an author, where I need not say)
Two travellers found an oyster in their way;
Both fierce, both hungry; the dispute grew strong;
While scale in hand dame Juftice pafs'd along.
Before her each with clamour pleads the laws,
Explain'd the matter, and would win the cause.
Dame Justice weighing long the doubtful right,
Takes, opens, fwallows it, before their fight.
The caufe of ftrife remov'd fo rarely well,
There take (fays Juftice) take you each a shell.
We thrive at Weftminster on fools like you :
'Twas a fat oyfter-Live in peace--Adieu.

OCCASIONED BY SOME VERSES OF HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM.

MUSE, 'tis enough: at length the labour ends,
And thou fhalt live, for Buckingham commends.
Let crowds of critics now my verse affail,
Let Dennis write, and nameless numbers rail:
This more than pays whole years of thankless pain,
Time, health, and fortune, are not loft in vain.
Sheffield approves, confenting Phoebus bends,
And I and malice from this Hour are friends.

A PROLOGUE

BY MR. POPE,

To a Play for Mr. Dennis's Benefit, in 1733, when be was Old, Blind, and in great Diftrefs, a little be fore his Death.

As when that hero, who in each campaign
Had brav'd the Goth, and many a Vandal flain,
Lay fortune-ftruck, a spectacle of woe!
Wept by each friend, forgiv'n by every foe:
Was there a generous, a reflecting mind,
But pitied Belifarius old and blind?

Was there a chief but melted at the fight?
A common foldier, but who clubb'd his mite?
Such, fuch emotions fhould in Britons rife,
When prefs'd by want and weakness Dennis lies;
Dennis, who long had warr'd with modern Huns,
Their quibbles routed, and defy'd their puns,
A desperate bulwark, fturdy, firm, and fierce,
Against the Gothic fons of frozen verfe :
How chang'd from him who made the boxes groan,
And fhook the ftage with thunders all his own!
Stood up to dafh each vain pretender's hope,
Maul the French tyrant, or pull down the Pope!
If there's a Briton then, true bred and born,
Who holds dragoons and wooden fhoes in fcorn;
If there's a critic of diftinguish'd rage;
If there's a fenior, who contemns this age;
Let him to-night his juft affiftance lend,
And be the critic's, Briton's, old man's friend.

When freedom is the cause, 'tis her's to fight;
And her's, when freedom is the theme, to write.
For this a British author bids again

The heroine rife, to grace the British scene.
Here, as in life, the breathes her genuine flame:
She asks, what bofom has not felt the fame :
Aiks of the British youth-Is filence there?
She dares to ask it of the British fair.

To-night, our home-fpun author would be true,
At once, to nature, hiftory, and you.
Well pleas'd to give our neighbours due applaufe,
He owns their learning, but difdains their laws.
Not to his patient touch, or happy flame,
"Tis to his British heart he trufts for fame.
If France excel him in one freeborn thought,
The man, as well as poet, is in fault.

Nature informer of the poet's art,
Whofe force alone can raife or melt the heart,
Thou art his guide; each paffion, every line,
Whate'er he draws to please, must all be thine.
Be thou his judge: in every candid breast,
Thy filent whifper is the facred teft.

MACER:

A CHARACTER.

WHEN fimple Macer, now of high renown,
Firk fought a poet's fortune in the town,
'Twas all th' ambition his high foul could feel,
To wear red ftockings, and to dine with Steel.
Some ends of verse his betters might afford;
And gave the harmless fellow a good word;
Set up with these, he ventur'd on the town,
And with a borrow'd play out-did poor Crown.
There he stopp'd fhort, nor fince has writ a title,
But has the wit to make the most of little :
Like ftunted hide-bound trees, that just have got
Sufficient fap at once to bear and rot.

Now he begs verfe, and what he gets commends,
Not of the wits, his foes, but fools his friends.

So fome coarse country wench, almost decay'd, Trudges to town, and firft turns chambermaid; Aukward and fupple, each devoir to pay, She flatters her good lady twice a-day; Thought wondrous honeft, though of mean degree, And frangely lik'd for her fimplicity: In a tranflated fuit, then tries the town, With borrow'd pins, and patches not her own: But just endur'd the winter fhe began, And in four months a batter'd harridan. Now nothing left, but wither'd, pale, and fhrunk, To bawd for others, and go fhares with punk.

TO MR. JOHN MOORE,

AUTHOR OF THE CELEBRATED WORM-POWDER.

How much, egregious Moore, are we Deceiv'd by fhows and forms!

Whate'er we think, whate'er we fee,

All humankind are worme.