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ON CERTAIN LADIES.

WHEN other fair ones to the shades go down,
Still Chloe, Flavia, Delia, stay in town;
Those ghosts of beauty wandering here reside,
And haunt those places where their honour died.

ON DRAWINGS OF THE STATUES OF APOLLO, VENUS, AND HERCULES,

MADE FOR POPE BY SIR GODFREY KNELLER.

WHAT god, what genius, did the pencil move,
When Kneller painted these?

'Twas friendship, warm as Phoebus, kind as love, And strong as Hercules.

EPIGRAM.

My Lord complains that Pope, stark mad with gardens,

Has cut three trees, the value of three farthings. "But he's my neighbour," cries the peer polite : "And if he visit me, I'll waive the right. What! on compulsion, and against my will, A lord's acquaintance? Let him file his bill !

EPIGRAM.

YES! 'tis the time (I cried), impose the chain,
Destined and due to wretches self-enslaved;
But when I saw such charity remain,

I half could wish this people should be saved.
Faith lost, and Hope, our Charity begins;
And 'tis a wise design in pitying Heaven.

If this can cover multitude of sins,

I stake the only way to be forgiven.

VERBATIM FROM BOILEAU.
'Un jour, dit un auteur,' &c.

ONCE (says 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 Justice pass'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, swallows it, before their sight.
The cause of strife removed so rarely well,—
"There, take,' says Justice, 'take ye each a shell:
We thrive at Westminster on fools like you:
"Twas a fat oyster-live in peace-adieu !'

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ON THE DUKE OF MARLBOROUGH'S
HOUSE AT WOODSTOCK.

Atria longa patent; sed nec cœnantibus usquam,
Nec somno locus est: quam bene non habites !'

SEE, sir, here's the grand approach;
This way is for his grace's coach;

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MARTIAL.

There lies the bridge, and here's the clock;
Observe the lion and the cock;

The spacious court, the colonnade;

And mark how wide the hall is made!
The chimneys are so well design'd,
They never smoke in any wind:
This gallery's contrived for walking,
The windows to retire and talk in ;
The council chamber for debate ;
And all the rest are rooms of state."

'Thanks, sir,' cried I; ''tis very fine;
But where d'ye sleep, or where d'ye dine?
I find, by all you have been telling,
That 'tis a house, but not a dwelling.'

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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 ashamed 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 ashamed of Craggs.

ON AN OLD GATE,

ERECTED IN CHISWICK GARDENS.

O GATE, how camest thou here?

Gate.-I was brought from Chelsea last year,
Batter'd with wind and weather.

Inigo Jones put me together.
Sir Hans Sloane

Let me alone :

Burlington brought me hither.

1742.

EPITAPHS.

I.

ON CHARLES, EARL OF DORSET.

IN THE CHURCH OF WYTHAM, IN SUSSEX.

DORSET, the grace of courts, the Muses' pride,
Patron of arts, and judge of nature, died.
The scourge of pride, though sanctified or great;
Of fops in learning, and of knaves in state:
Yet soft his nature, though severe his lay;
His anger moral, and his wisdom gay.

Bless'd satirist! who touch'd the mean so true,
As show'd vice had his hate and pity too.
Bless'd courtier! who could king and country
please,

Yet sacred keep his friendships and his ease.
Bless'd peer! his great forefathers' every grace
Reflecting, and reflected in his race;

Where other Buckhursts, other Dorsets shine;
And patriots still, or poets, deck the line.

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II.

ON SIR WILLIAM TRUMBULL.

A PLEASING form; a firm, yet cautious mind;
Sincere, though prudent; constant, yet resign'd :
Honour unchanged, a principle profess'd,

Fix'd to one side, but moderate to the rest :
An honest courtier, yet a patriot too ;
Just to his prince, and to his country true:

Fill'd with the sense of age, the fire of youth,
A scorn of wrangling, yet a zeal for truth;
A generous faith from superstition free;
A love to peace, and hate of tyranny:

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Such this man was; who now, from earth removed, At length enjoys that liberty he loved.

III.

ON THE HON. SIMON HARCOURT,

ONLY SON OF THE LORD CHANCELLOR HARCOURT. At the Church of Stanton-Harcourt, in Oxfordshire, 1720. To this sad shrine, whoe'er thou art, draw near! Here lies the friend most loved, the son most dear : Who ne'er knew joy, but friendship might divide Or gave his father grief but when he died.

How vain is reason, eloquence how weak! If Pope must tell what Harcourt cannot speak. O, let thy once-loved friend inscribe thy stone, And, with a father's sorrows, mix his own!

IV.

ON JAMES CRAGGS, ESQ.

IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

JACOBUS CRAGGS,

REGNI MAGNE BRITANNIÆ A SECRETIS

ET CONSILIIS SANCTIORIBUS,

PRINCIPIS PARITER AC POPULI AMOR ET DELICIÆ:
VIXIT TITULIS ET INVIDIA MAJOR
ANNOS, HEU PAUCOS, XXXV.

OB. FEB. XVI. MDCCXX.

STATESMAN, yet friend to truth! of soul sincere,
In action faithful, and in honour clear!

Who broke no promise, served no private end,
Who gain'd no title, and who lost no friend;

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