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ANTISTROPHE I

O Heav'n-born sisters! source of Art! Who charm the sense, or mend the heart; Who lead fair Virtue's train along, Moral Truth and mystic Song!

To what new clime, what distant sky, Forsaken, friendless, shall ye fly? Say, will ye bless the bleak Atlantic shore? Or bid the furious Gaul be rude no more? STROPHE II

When Athens sinks by fates unjust, When wild Barbarians spurn her dust; Perhaps ev'n Britain's utmost shore Shall cease to blush with strangers' gore, See Arts her savage sons control, And Athens rising near the pole! Till some new tyrant lifts his purple hand, And civil madness tears them from the land.

ANTISTROPHE II

Ye Gods! what justice rules the ball?
Freedom and Arts together fall;
Fools grant whate'er Ambition craves,
And men, once ignorant, are slaves.
O curs'd effects of civil hate,

In ev'ry age, in ev'ry state!

Still, when the lust of tyrant Power suc

ceeds,

Some Athens perishes, some Tully bleeds.

CHORUS OF YOUTHS AND VIRGINS
SEMICHORUS

O tyrant Love! hast thou possest
The prudent, learned, and virtuous
breast?

Wisdom and wit in vain reclaim,
And arts but soften us to feel thy flame.
Love, soft intruder, enters here,
But ent'ring learns to be sincere.
Marcus with blushes owns he loves,
And Brutus tenderly reproves.
Why, Virtue, dost thou blame desiro
Which Nature hath imprest?
Why, Nature, dost thou soonest fire
The mild and gen'rous breast?

CHORUS

Love's purer flames the Gods approve; The Gods and Brutus bend to love: Brutus for absent Portia sighs, And sterner Cassius melts at Junia's eyes. What is loose love? a transient gust, Spent in a sudden storm of lust,

A vapour fed from wild desire,
A wand'ring, self-consuming fire.
But Hymen's kinder flames unite,

And burn for ever one;

Chaste as cold Cynthia's virgin light,
Productive as the sun.

SEMICHORUS

O source of ev'ry social tie,
United wish, and mutual joy!
What various joys on one attend,

As son, as father, brother, husband, friend?
Whether his hoary sire he spies,
While thousand grateful thoughts arise;
Or meets his spouse's fonder eye,
Or views his smiling progeny;

What tender passions take their turns!

What home-felt raptures move! His heart now melts, now leaps, now burns,

With Rev'rence, Hope, and Love.

CHORUS

Hence guilty joys, distastes, surmises, Hence false tears, deceits, disguises, Dangers, doubts, delays, surprises, Fires that scorch, yet dare not shine! Purest Love's unwasting treasure, Constant faith, fair hope, long leisure, Days of ease, and nights of pleasure,

Sacred Hymen! these are thine.

TO MRS. M. B. ON HER BIRTHDAY

Written to Martha Blount in 1723. Lines 5-10 were elsewhere adapted for a versified celebration of his own birthday, and for an epitaph on a suicide!

Он, be thon blest with all that Heav'n can send,

Long Health, long Youth, long Pleasure, and a Friend:

Not with those Toys the female world ad

mire,

Riches that vex, and Vanities that tire. With added years if Life bring nothing new, But, like a sieve, let ev'ry blessing thro', Some joy still lost, as each vain year runs o'er,

And all we gain, some sad Reflection more; Is that a birthday? 't is alas! too clear, 'Tis but the funeral of the former year.

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Catharine Howard, one of Queen Caroline's waiting-women; afterward Countess of Suffolk and mistress to George II. Her identification as the Chloe of Moral Essays, II., makes it easier to believe Walpole's statement that this lady once reprieved a condemned criminal that an experiment might be made on his ears for her benefit.'

I KNOW the thing that 's most uncommon; (Envy, be silent, and attend!)

I know a reasonable Woman,
Handsome and witty, yet a friend:

Not warp'd by Passion, awed by Rumour,
Not grave thro' Pride, nor gay thro' Folly,
An equal mixture of Good-humour,
And sensible soft Melancholy.

Has she no faults then (Envy says), sir?' Yes, she has one, I must aver: When all the world conspires to praise her, The woman's deaf and does not hear.

TO MR. JOHN MOORE AUTHOR OF THE CELEBRATED WORM

POWDER

How much, egregious Moore! are we Deceiv'd by shows and forms! Whate'er we think, whate'er we see, All humankind are Worms.

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

That woman is a Worm we find,
E'er since our Grandam's evil:
She first convers'd with her own kind,
That ancient Worm, the Devil.

The learn'd themselves we Bookworms name,

The blockhead is a Slowworm;
The nymph whose tail is all on flame,
Is aptly term'd a Glowworm.

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 suit all conditions;
Misers are Muckworms; Silkworms, beaux;
And Deathwatches, physicians.

That statesmen have the worm, is seen
By all their winding play;
Their conscience is a Worm within,
That gnaws them night and day.

Ah, Moore, thy skill were well employ'd,
And greater gain would rise,

If thou couldst make the courtier void
The Worm that never dies!

O learned friend of Abchurch-Lane,
Who sett'st our entrails free,
Vain is thy Art, thy Powder vain,
Since Worms shall eat ev'n thee.

Our fate thou only canst adjourn
Some few short years, no more!
Ev'n Button's Wits to Worms shall turn,
Who Maggots were before.

THE CURLL MISCELLANIES

UMBRA

Though speculation has connected several other persons with this poem, it is probably still another hit at the luckless Ambrose Philips. It, with the three following poems, was first published in the Miscellanies, 1727.

CLOSE to the best known author Umbra sits,

The constant index to old Button's Wits. 'Who's here?' cries Umbra. 'Only Johnson.'-'0!

Your slave,' and exit; but returns with Rowe.

'Dear Rowe, let's sit and talk of tragedies :

Ere long Pope enters, and to Pope he flies.

Then up comes Steele: he turns upon his heel,

And in a moment fastens upon Steele; But cries as soon, 'Dear Dick, I must be gone,

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For, if I know his tread, here's Addison.' Says Addison to Steele, T is time to go: Pope to the closet steps aside with Rowe. Poor Umbra, left in this abandon'd pickle, Ev'n sits him down, and writes to honest Tickell.

Fool! 't is in vain from Wit to Wit to

roam;

Know, Sense, like Charity, begins at home.'

BISHOP HOUGH

A BISHOP, by his neighbors hated,
Has cause to wish himself translated;
But why should Hough desire translation,
Loved and esteem'd by all the nation?
Yet if it be the old man's case,

I'll lay my life I know the place :

"T is where God sent some that adore

him,

And whither Enoch went before him.

SANDYS' GHOST

OR, A PROPER NEW BALLAD ON THE NEW OVID'S METAMORPHOSES: AS IT WAS INTENDED TO BE TRANSLATED BY PERSONS OF QUALITY

This refers to the translation undertaken by Sir Samuel Garth, which aimed to complete Dryden's translation of Ovid, avoiding the rigidness of Sandys' method. The enterprise was begun in 1718, when these verses were probably written.

YE Lords and Commons, men of wit

And pleasure about town,
Read this, ere you translate one bit
Of books of high renown.

Beware of Latin authors, all,

Nor think your verses sterling, Tho' with a golden pen you scrawl, And scribble in a Berlin.

For not the desk with silver nails,
Nor bureau of expense,
Nor standish well japann'd, avails
To writing of good sense.

Hear how a Ghost in dead of night,
With saucer eyes of fire,
In woful wise did sore affright
A Wit and courtly Squire:

Rare imp of Phoebus, hopeful youth!
Like puppy tame, that uses
To fetch and carry in his mouth
The works of all the Muses.

Ah! why did he write poetry, That hereto was so civil; And sell his soul for vanity

To Rhyming and the Devil?

A desk he had of curious work,
With glitt'ring studs about;
Within the same did Sandys lurk,
Tho' Ovid lay without.

Now, as he scratch'd to fetch up thought,
Forth popp'd the sprite so thin,
And from the keyhole bolted out,
All upright as a pin.

With whiskers, band, and pantaloon,
And ruff composed most duly,

This Squire he dropp'd his pen full soon,
While as the light burnt bluely.

Ho! master Sam, quoth Sandys' sprite,
Write on, nor let me scare ye!
Forsooth, if rhymes fall not in right,
To Budgell seek or Carey.

I hear the beat of Jacob's drums,
Poor Ovid finds no quarter!
See first the merry P[embroke] comes
In haste without his garter.

Then Lords and Lordlings, Squires and
Knights,

Wits, Witlings, Prigs, and Peers: Garth at St. James's, and at White's, Beats up for volunteers.

What Fenton will not do, nor Gay, Nor Congreve, Rowe, nor Stanyan, Tom B[urne]t, or Tom D'Urfey may, John Dunton, Steele, or any one.

If Justice Philips' costive head

Some frigid rhymes disburses, They shall like Persian tales be read, And glad both babes and nurses.

Let W[a]rw[ic]k's Muse with Ash[urs]t join,

And Ozell's with Lord Hervey's, Tickell and Addison combine,

And P[o]pe translate with Jervas.

L[ansdowne] himself, that lively lord,
Who bows to every lady,

Shall join with F[rowde] in one accord,
And be like Tate and Brady.

Ye ladies, too, draw forth your pen;
I pray, where can the hurt lie?
Since you have brains as well as men,
As witness Lady Wortley.

Now, Tonson, list thy forces all,
Review them and tell noses;
For to poor Ovid shall befall
A strange metamorphosis;

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EPIGRAM

AN EMPTY HOUSE

You beat your Pate, and fancy Wit will

come:

Knock as you please, there's nobody at home.

POEMS SUGGESTED BY GULLIVER

ODE TO QUINBUS FLESTRIN

THE MAN MOUNTAIN, BY TITTY TIT, POET LAUREATE TO HIS MAJESTY OF LILLIPUT. TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH

This 'Ode' and the three following poems, were written by Pope after reading Gulliver's Travels, and first published in the Miscellanies of Pope and Swift, in 1727.

IN amaze
Lost I gaze!
Can our eyes
Reach thy size!
May my lays
Swell with praise,
Worthy thee!
Worthy me!
Muse, inspire
All thy fire!
Bards of old
Of him told,
When they said
Atlas' head

Propp'd the skies:
See! and believe your eyes!
See him stride
Valleys wide,
Over woods,
Over floods!
When he treads,
Mountains' heads
Groan and shake,
Armies quake;
Lest his spurn
Overturn

Man and steed:
Troops, take heed!
Left and right,
Speed your flight!
Lest an host

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