pays whole years

of thankless pain,

This more than
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 he was old, blind, and in great Distress, a little before his Death.

A

S when that Hero, who in each Campaign,

Had brav'd the Goth, and many a Vanda!
flain,

Lay Fortune-ftruck, a spectacle of Woe!
Wept by each Friend, forgiv'n by ev'ry Foe:
Was there a gen'rous, a reflecting mind,
But pitied BELISARIUS old and blind?

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VER. 6. But pitied Belifarius, etc.] Nothing could be more happily imagined than this allufion, or finelier conducted. And the continued pleasantry fo delicately touched, that it took nothing from the self fatisfaction the Critic, who heard it, had in his merit, or the Audience in their charity. With

Was there a Chief but melted at the Sight?
A common Soldier, 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 defp'rate Bulwark, fturdy, firm, and fierce
Against the Gothic Sons of frozen verse :

9

How chang'd from him who made the boxes groan,
And shook the ftage with Thunders all his own! 16
Stood up to dash 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; zo
If there's a Critic of diftinguish'd rage;

If there's a Senior, who contemns this age;
Let him to night his just affistance lend,

And be the Critic's, Briton's, Old Man's Friend.

fo masterly a hand has the Poet profecuted, in this benevolent irony, that end, which he fuppofed Dennis himself, had he the wit to fee, would have the ingenuity to approve. This dreaded Satirift, Dennis will confefs,

Foe to his pride, but Friend to his Distress.

VER. 7. Was there a chief, etc.] The fine figure of the Commander in that capital Picture of Belifarius at Chiswick, fupplied the Poet with this beautiful idea,

MACE R:

Α

CHARACTER.

HEN fimple Macer, now of high renown,

'Twas all th' Ambition his high foul could feel,
To wear red stockings, 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 stop'd short, nor fince has writ a tittle:
But has the Wit to make the most of little :
Like stunted 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 coarfe Country Wench, almoft decay'd,
Trudges to town, and firft turns Chambermaid;
Aukward and fupple, each devoir to pay;
She flatters her good Lady twice a day ;

14

Thought wondrous honeft, tho' of mean degree,
And strangely liked for her Simplicity:

In a tranflated Suit, 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 shrunk,
To bawd for others, and go fhares with Punk.

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24

To Mr. JOHN MOORE,

AUTHOR of the celebrated W O R M

How

POWDER.

TOW much, egregious Moore, are we
Deceiv'd by fhews and forms!

Whate'er we think, whate'er we fee,
All Humankind are Worms.

Man is a very Worm by birth,
Vile, Reptile, weak, and vain!
A while he crawls upon the earth,
Then fhrinks to earth again.

That Woman is a Worm, we find
'E'er fince our Grandame's evil;
She first convers'd with her own kind,
That antient Worm, the Devil.

The Learn'd themfelves we Book-worms name,

The Blockhead is a Slow-worm;

The Nymph whofe tail is all on flame,
Is aptly term'd a Glow-worm :

The Fops are painted Butterflies,

That flutter for a day;

First from a Worm they take their rise,
And in a Worm decay.

The Flatterer an Earwig grows ;.

Thus Worms fuit all conditions ;

Mifers are Muck-worms, Silk-worms Beaus,
And Death-watches Physicians.

That Statefmen have the Worm, is feen'
By all their winding play;

Their Confcience is a Worm within,
That gnaws them night and day.

Ah Moore! thy fkill were well employ'd,
And greater gain would rife,

If thou could't make the Courtier void
The Worm that never dies!

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