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IV.

TO MRS. M. B. ON HER BIRTH-DAY.

VI.

Cynthia, tunc harmonious numbers;

Fair discretion, string the lyre; Sooth my ever-waking flumbers:

Bright Apollo, lend thy choir. Gloomy Pluto, king of terrors,

Arm'd in adamantine chains, Lead me to the crystal mirrors,

Watering soft Elysian plains. Mournful cypress, verdant willow,

Gilding my Aurelia's brows, Morpheus hovering o'er my pillow,

Hear me pay my dying vows. Melancholy smooth Mæander,

Swiftly purling in a round, Oa thy margin lovers wander,

With thy flowery chaplets crown'd. Thus when Philomela drooping,

Sofely seeks her filent mate, See the bird of Juno stooping ; Melody resigns to fate.

Oh, be thou blest with all that heaven can send,
Long health, long youth, long pleasure, and a

friend!
Not with those toys the female world admire,
Riches that vex, and vanities that tire.
With added years, if life bring nothing new,
But like a lieve let every blesling through,
Some joy Gill lost, as each vain year runs o'er, :
And all we gain, some sad reflection more;
Is that a birth-day? 'tis alas! coo clear,
'Tis but the funeral of the former year. IO

Let joy or ease, let affluence or content,
And the gay conscience of a life well spent,
Calm every thought, inspirit every grace,
Glow in thy heart, and smile upon thy face.
Let day improve on day, and year on year.
Without a pain, a trouble, or a fear;
Till death unfelt that tender frame destroy,
In some soft dream, or ecftasy of jny,
Peaceful sleep out the Sabbath of the tomb,
And wake to raptures in a life to come.

VII.

VIII.

VARIATION. ON A CERTAIN LADY AT COURT,

Ver. 15. Originally thus in the MS.

And oh, fince death must that fair frame destroy, I know the thing that's most uncommon; Die, by some sudden ecstasy of joy; (Envy be silent, and attend :)

In some soft dream may thy mild soul remove, I know a reasonable woman,

And be thy latest gasp a ligh of love.
Handsome and witty, yet a friend.
Noe warp'd by passion, aw'd by rumour ;

TO MR THOMAS SOUTHERN,
Not grave through pride, nor gay through folly
An equal mixture of good-humour,

ON HIS BIRTHDAY, 1742,
And Ienlible loft melancholy.

Resign's to live, prepar'd to die,
" Has lhe no faults then, (Envy says) Sir?” With not one fin, buț poetry,
Yes, the has one, I must aver :

This day Tom's fair account has run,
When all the world conspires to praise her, (Without a bloc) to eighty-one.
The woman's deaf, and does not hear.

Kind Boyle, before his poet, lays
A table, with a cloth of bays;

And Ireland, mother of sweet singers,
ON HIS GROTTO AT TWICKENHAM, Presents her harp still to his fingers.

The feast, his towering genius marks Composed of Marble, Spars, Gems, Ores, and Minerals. In yonder wild-goose and the lurks!

The mushrooms show his wit was sudden! Trop who shalt (top, where Thames' tranlucent And for his judgment, lo, a pudden!

Roast beef, though old, proclaims him stout, Shines a broad mirror through the shadowy cave; And grace, although a bard, devout. Where lingering drops from mineral roofs diftil, May Tom, whom heaven fent down to raise And pointed crystals break the sparkling rill, The price of prologues and of plays, Unpolith'd gems no ray on pride below, Be every birth-day more a winner, And latent metals innocently glow;

Digest his thirty-thousandth dinner; Approach. Great Nature ftudiously behold! Walk to his grave without reproach, And eye the mine without a wish for gold. And (corn a rascal and a coach, Approach : but awful! lo! th' Ægerian grot, Where, nobly pensive, St. John fat and thought; Where British lighs from dying Wyndham stole, TO LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGUE. And the bright Aame was shot through March

mope's soul. Let such, such only, tread this facred Hoor,

In beauty, or wit Who dare to love their country, and be poor,

No mortal as yet VOL, VIII,

wave

I.

II.

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To quetiop your empire has dar'd;

Than wit, and fame, and lucky hours,
But men of discerning

A stock of health, and golden showers,
Have thought that in learning,

And graceful fluency of Apeech,
To yield to a lady was hard.

Precepts before unknown to teach?

• Amidst thy various ebbs of fear,
Impertinent schools,

And gleaming hope, and black despair ;
With mufty dull rules,

Yec let thy friend this truth impart;
Have reading to females depy'd:

A truth I tell with bleeding heart,
So Papists refuse

(In justice for your labours paft)
The Bible to use,

† That every day shall be your last; Left locks fhould be wise as their guide.

That every hour you life renew

Is to your injur'd country due. 'Twas a woman at first,

In spight of fears, of mercy spight, (Indeed me was curft)

My genius still must rail, and write.
In knowledge that tasted delight,

Haste to thy Twickenham's safe retreat,
And sages agree

wind mingle with the grumbling great:
The laws should decree

There, half devour'd by spleen, you'll find To the first of pollefsors the right.

The rhyming bubbler of mankind;
įv.

There (objects of our mutual hate)
Then bravely, fair dame,

We'll ridicule both church and ftatc.
Resume the old claim,
Whịch to your whole sex does belong;

And let men receive,
From a second bright Eve,

EPIGRAM ON MRS. TOFTS,
The knowledge of right, and of wrong:

A bandsome woman with a fine voice, but very w9ۥ But if the firft Eve

tous and proud il Hard doom did receive, When only one apple had she,

So bright is thy beauty, fo charming thy song, What a punishment new

As had drawn both the beasts and their Orpheus Shall be found out for you,

along; Who casting, have robb’d the whole tree? But such is thy avarice; and fiich is thy pride,

That the beasts must have farv'd, and the poet

have died. THE FOURTH EPISTLE

OF THE FIRST BOOK OF HORACE.

EPIGRAM
ON ONE WIO MADE LONG Epitapus f.
Friend, for your epitaphs I'm griev'd,

Where ftill so much is laid;
One hals will never be believ'd,

The other never read.

TO SIR GODFREY KNELLER,

A Modern Imitation,
SAY, * St. John, who alone peruse
With candid eye, the mimic muse,
What schemes of politics, or laws,
In Gallic lands the patriot draws!
Is then a greater work in hand,
Than all the tomes of Haines's band ?
" Or shoots he folly as it Aies ?
" Or catches manners as they rise!"
Or, urg'd by unquenchd native heat,
Does St. John Greenwich sports repeat?
Where (emnulous of Chartres' fame)
Ev'n Chartres' self is scarce a name.

+ To you (th' all-envy'd gift of heaven)
Th' indulgent gods, unafk'd, have given
A form complete in every part,
And, to enjoy that gift, the art.

# What could a tender mother's care With better, to her favourite heir,

Ad Albium Tibullum.
Albi, nofirorum fermonum candide judex,
Quid nunc te dicam facere in regione Pedana ?
Scribere, quod Coffi Parmenfis opuscula vincat ?
+

Di tibi formam
Di tibi divitias dederant, artemque fruendi.

# Quid voveat dulci nutricula majus alumno, Ruan Jepere, et fari poffet que fentiat, et cul

Dr bis painting for me the Statues of Apollo, Perugia

and Hercules, What god, what genius did the pencil move

When Kneller painted these ?

Gratia, fama, paletudo contingat abunde,

non deficiente crumena
Inter spem, curamque, timores inter et iras.

+ Omnem crede diem tibi diluxiffe fupremum.
Me pinguem, et nitidum bene curata cute vises,
Cum ridere veles Epicuri de grege porcum.

|| This epigram is inscribed to Pope by Sir Foba Hawkins in bis History of Music.

Dr. Robert Friend, Head Master of Welningar School

This Friendship-warm as Phæbus, kind as | Luxurious lobster-nights, farewell, Love,

For sober, studious days! And strong as Hercules,

And Burlington's delicious meal,

For fallads, tarts, and peale !

A FAREWELL TO LONDON

Adieu to all but Gay alone,

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

And so may starve with me.

IN THE YEAR 1915.

A DIALOGUE.

Pope.

SINCE my old friend is grown so great,
As to be Minister of State,
I'm told (but 'tis not true I hope)

That Craggs will be asham'd of Pope. Craggs. Alas! if I am such a creature,

To grow the worse for growing greater;
Why faith, in spite of all my brags,
'Tis Pope must be asham'd of Craggs,

EPIGRA M.

Engraved on the Collar of a Dog, wbich I gave ta bis

Royal Higbrefs.

Lam his Highness' dog at Kew;
Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?

EPI G R A M.

Dear, dama'd, diftra&ing town, farewell!

Thy fools no more I'll teaze :
This year in peace, ye critics, dwell,

Ye harlots, leep at ease!
Soft Band rough

Cadieu !
Earl Warwick make your moan,
The lively H-k and you

May knock ap whores alone.
To drink and droll be Rowe allow'd

Till the third watchman toll;
Let servais gratis paint, and Frowde

Save threepence and his soul.
Farewell Arbuthnot's raillery

On every learned fot;
And Garth, the best good Christian he,

Although he knows it not.
Listot, farewell! thy bard must go ;

Farewell, unhappy Tonson !
Heaven gives chee, fins thy loss of Rowe,

Lean Philips, and fat Johnsorr.
Why should I stay? Both parties rage;

My vixen mistress fqualls,
The wits in envious feuds engage;

And Homer (damn him!) calls.
The love of arts lies cold and dead

lo Halifax's urn; And not one muse of all he fed,

Has get the grace to mourn. [v friends, by turns, my friends confound,

2-tray, and are beti ay'd : Pue Y-r's sold for fifty pound,

And B-l is a jade. ozy make a friendships with the

great, When I no favour seek? Oz follow girls seven hours in eight?

1 geed but once a weck. all idle, with a busy air,

Deep whimsies to contrive; The gayet valetudinaire,

Molt thinking rake alive. Blidtpus for others ends,

Though fond of dear repose; Careless of drowsy with my friends,

And Isolie with my focs.

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But soft recesses for th' uneasy mind

And such as wicked kings may mourn, To figh unheard in, to the passing wind !

When freedom is more dear than life. So the struck deer, in some sequester'd part, Lies dowo to die (the arrow in his heart); There hid in shades, and wasting day by day, Inly he bleeds, and pants his soul away.

YERSES TO MR. C.

ST. JAMES'S PLACE,
VERSES LEFT BY MR. POPE,

London, O&tober 22.
Or bis lying in the fame Bed whicb Wilmot tbe cele

brated Earl of Rochester pept in, at Adderbury, tben Few words are best; I will you well; belonging to the Duke of Argyl, July gtb. 1739. Bethel, I'm told, will soon be here:

Some morning walks along the Mall, With no poetic ardour fir'd

And evening friends, will end the year. I press the bed where Wilmot lay; That here he lov'd, or here 'expir'd,

If in this interval, between Begets no numbers grave, os gay.

The falling leaf and coming frost,

You please to fee, on Twit'nam green, But in thy roof, Argyll, are bred

Your friend, your poet, and your hol; Such thoughts as prompt the brave to lic. Stretch'd out in honour's nobler bed,

For three whole days you here may reft, Beneath a nobler roof-the sky.

From office, businefs, ncws, and strise ;

And (what most folks would think a jeft) Buch flames as high in patriots burn,

Want nothing else, except your wife. Yet stoop to bless a child or wife ;

Ε Ρ Ι Τ Α Ρ Η S.

« His faltem accumulem donis, et fungar inani
« Munere !"

VIRG,

1.

III.
ON CHARLES EARL OF DORSET.
In tbe Cburcb of Withyam in Suffex.

ON THE HON. SIMON HARCOURT, Dorset, the grace of courts, the muses' pride, Only Son of the Lord Chancellor HARCOURT, at the Patron of arts, and judge of nature, dy'd.

Cburcb of Stanton-Harcourt, in Oxfordshire, 1720. The scourge of pride, though sanctified or great, Of tops in learning, and of knaves in state :

To this sad shrine, whoe'er thou art! draw near, Yet loft his nacure, though severe his lay,

Here lies the friend most lov’d, the son most dear; Ha anger moral, and his wisdom gay.

Who ne'er knew joy, but friendship might divide, Bet satirift! who couch'd the mean so true,

Or gave his father grief, but when he dy'd. As how'd, vice had his hate and pity too.

How vain is reason, eloquence how weak! Blect courtier ! who could king and country please, If Pope must tell what Harcourt cannot spcak, Yet facred keep his friendships, and his case. Oh let thy once-lov'd friend infcribe thy stone, Bleft peer! his great forefathers every grace And, with a father's forrows, mix his own! Refecting, and reflected in his race ; Where other Buckhursts, other Dorsets thine, And patrons still, or poets, deck the line.

IV. 11.

ON JAMES CRAGGS, ESQ.
ON SIR WILLIAM TRUMBALL,

In Wefmin fer-Abbey.
Oor of the principal Secretaries of State to King Wil-
liana III. wbo, having resigned bis place, died in bis
Retirement at Eafibamfied, in Berkjbire, 1716.

JACOBUS CRAGGS.

Regi Magnæ Britanniæ a Secretis A PLZANING form ; a firm, yet cautious mind;

et Confiliis fan&ioribus, Sincere, though prudent; conftant, yet resign'd; Principis pariter ac populi amor et deliciæ, Honour unchang'a, a principle profeft,

vixit riculis et invidia major Fx'd to one fide, but moderate to the rest;

annos, heu paucos, xxxv. An honest courtier, yet a patroit too;

Ob. Feb. xvi. M.DCC.XX. Jest to his prince, and to his country true; F.I'd with the sense of age, the fire of youth, Statesman, yet friend to truth! of soul sincere, A scorn of wrangling, yet a zeal for truth; In action faithful, and in honour clear! A generous faith, from superftition free:

Who broke no promise, serv'd no private end, A love to peace, and hate of tyranny ; (mov’d, Who gain'd no title, and who lost no friend, Euch this man was: who now, from carth re. Ennobled by himself, by all approv'd, A: lepgeh enjoys that liberty he lov’d,

Prais'd, wept, and honour'd, by the muse he lov'd.

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