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EXTEMPORANEOUS LINES

ON THE PORTRAIT OF LADY MARY W. MONTAGUE,
BY KNELLER.

THE playful smiles around the dimpled mouth,
That happy air of majesty and truth ;
So would I draw (but, oh! 'tis vain to try;
My narrow genius does the power deny)
The equal lustre of the heavenly mind,
Where every grace with every virtue's join'd;
Learning not vain, and wisdom not severe,
With greatness easy, and with wit sincere ;
With just description show the soul divine,
And the whole princess in my work should shine.

VERSES

Left by Mr Pope, on his lying in the same bed which Wilmot, the celebrated Earl of Rochester, slept in, at Adderbury, then belonging to the Duke of Argyle, July 9, 1739.

WITH no poetic ardour fired,

I press the bed where Wilmot lay:
That here he loved, or here expired,
Begets no numbers, grave or gay.

Beneath thy roof, Argyle, are bred
Such thoughts as prompt the brave to lie
Stretch'd out in honour's nobler bed,
Beneath a nobler roof-the sky.

Such flames as high in patriots burn,
Yet stoop to bless a child or wife;
And such as wicked kings may mourn,
When freedom is more dear than life.

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VERSES

IN THE NAME OF MRS. BUTLER'S SPIRIT, LATELY DECEASED. These verses were addressed to Dr. Bolton, late Dean of Carlisle, who lived some time at Twickenham with old Lady Blount. On the death of her mother, Mrs. Butler of Sussex, Dr. Bolton drew up the mother's character; and hence Pope took occasion to write this Epistle to Dr. Bolton, in the name of the spirit, in the regions of bliss.

STRIPP'D to the naked soul, escaped from clay,
From doubts unfetter'd, and dissolved in day;
Unwarm'd by vanity, unreach'd by strife,
And all my hopes and fears thrown off with life;
Why am I charm'd by friendship's fond essays,
And, though unbodied, conscious of thy praise?
Has pride a portion in the parted soul?
Does passion still the firmless mind control?
Can gratitude outpant the silent breath?
Or a friend's sorrow pierce the gloom of death?
No: 'tis a spirit's nobler task of bliss;
That feels the worth it left, in proofs like this;
That not its own applause, but thine approves;
Whose practice praises, and whose virtue loves;
Who livest to crown departed friends with fame;
Then dying, late, shalt all thou gav'st reclaim.

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ARGUS.*

WHEN wise Ulysses, from his native coast
Long kept by wars, and long by tempests toss'd,
Arrived at last, poor, old, disguised, alone,
To all his friends and e'en his queen unknown;

These lines were sent to Henry Cromwell, Esq. October 19, 1709, in a letter, containing a panegyric on dogs.

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Changed as he was, with age, and toils, and cares.
Furrow'd his reverend face, and white his hairs,
In his own palace forced to ask his bread,
Scorn'd by those slaves his former bounty fed,
Forgot of all his own domestic crew;
The faithful dog alone his master knew:
Unfed, unhoused, neglected, on the clay,
Like an old servant now cashier'd, he lay,
Touch'd with resentment of ungrateful man,
And longing to behold his ancient lord again.
Him when he saw-he rose, and crawl'd to meet,
('Twas all he could) and fawn'd, and kiss'd his feet,
Seized with dumb joy-then falling by his side,
Own'd his returning lord, look'd up, and died!

MACER:

A CHARACTER."

WHEN simple Macer, now of high renown,
First sought a poet's fortune in the town,
'Twas all the ambition his high soul could feel,
To wear red stockings, and to dine with Steele.
Some ends of verse his betters might afford,
And gave the harmless fellow a good word.
Set up with these, he ventured on the town,
And with a borrow'd play outdid poor Crown:
There he stopp'd short, nor since has writ a tittle,
But has the wit to make the most of little ;
Like stunted hide-bound trees, that just have got
Sufficient sap at once to bear and rot.
Now he begs verse, and what he gets commends,
Not of the wits his foes, but fools his friends.

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This first appeared in the 'Miscellanies,' A. D. 1774. Warton thinks Macer' means James Moore Smith; but Bowles, with more probability, believes Philips to be intended.

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So some coarse country wench, almost decay'd, Trudges to town, and first turns chambermaid: Awkward and supple, each devoir to pay, She flatters her good lady twice a day; Thought wondrous honest, though of mean degree; And strangely liked for her simplicity: In a translated suit, then tries the town, With borrow'd pins, and patches not her own : But just endured the winter she began, And in four months a batter'd harridan : Now nothing left, but wither'd, pale, and shrunk, To bawd for others, and go shares with punk.

UMBRA.*

CLOSE to the best known author Umbra sits, The constant index to old Button's wits. 'Who's here?' cries Umbra: Only Johnson.'+ -'0!

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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 ;
For, if I know his tread, here's Addison.'
Says Addison to Steele, 'Tis time to go :'
Pope to the closet steps aside with Rowe.
Poor Umbra, left in this abandon'd pickle,
E'en sits him down, and writes to honest Tickell.
Fool! 'tis in vain from wit to wit to roam;
Know, sense, like charity, begins at home.

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Probably Ambrose Philips.

+ Charles Johnson, a second-rate dramatist, and great frequenter of Button's.

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SYLVIA my heart in wondrous wise alarm'd;
Awed without sense, and without beauty charm'd :
But some odd graces and some flights she had;
Was just not ugly, and was just not mad:
Her tongue still ran on credit from her eyes,
More pert than witty, more a wit than wise:
Good nature, she declared it, was her scorn,
Though 'twas by that alone she could be borne :
Affronting all, yet fond of a good name;
A fool to pleasure, yet a slave to fame :
Now coy, and studious in no point to fall,
Now all agog for D-y at a ball:
Now deep in Taylor, and the Book of Martyrs,
Now drinking citron with his grace and Chartres.
Men, some to business, some to pleasure take;
But every woman's in her soul a rake.
Frail, feverish sex! their fit now chills, now burns ;
Atheism and superstition rule by turns;
And, a mere heathen in the carnal part,
Is still a sad good Christian at her heart.

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THE CHALLENGE.

A COURT BALLAD.

TUNE-To all you ladies now at land,' &c.

I.

To one fair lady out of court,

And two fair ladies in,

Who think the Turkt and Pope‡ a sport,
And wit and love no sin;

* This character is said to have been designed for the Duchess of Hamilton.

+ Ulrick, the Turk.

The author.

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