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This Snuff-box,-on the Hinge fee Brilliants shine!
Alas! far leffer loffes than I bear,
Have made a Soldier figh, a Lover fwear.
And oh! what makes the difappointment hard,
But ah! what aggravates the killing fmart,
She, at whofe name I fhed these spiteful tears,
She owes to me the very charms she wears.
An aukward Thing, when first she came to Town;
Wretch that I was! how often have I swore,
How many Maids have Sharper's vows deceiv'd! 'How many curs'd the moment they believ'd! Yet his known Falfehoods could no Warning prove: Ah! what is Warning to a Maid in Love?
But of what marble must that breast be form'd, To gaze on Baffet, and remain unwarm'd? When Kings, Queens, Knaves, are set in decent rank; Expos'd in glorious heaps the tempting Bank, Guineas, Half-guineas, all the fhining train; The Winner's pleasure, and the Lofer's pain: In bright Confusion open Rouleaus lie, They ftrike the Soul, and glitter in the Eye. Fir'd by the fight, all reafon I difdain; My Paffions rife, and will not bear the rein. Look upon Baffet, you who reafon boast; And fee if reafon must not there be lost.
What more than marble must that heart compose, Can hearken coldly to my Sharper's Vows?
Then, when he trembles! when his Blufhes rife!
When awful Love feems melting in his Eyes!
I lose my Memory of my former Fears;
Think of that moment, you who Prudence boast;
At the Groom-Porter's, batter'd Bullies play, Some Dukes at Marybone bowl Time away. But who the Bowl, or rattling Dice compares To Baffet's heavenly Joys, and pleafing Cares?
Soft Simplicetta doats upon a Beau; Prudina likes a Man, and laughs at Show. Their feveral graces in my Sharper meet; Strong as the Footman, as the Master sweet.
Cease your contention, which has been too long;
VERBATIM FROM BOILEAU.
UN JOUR, DIT UN AUTEUR, &C.
NCE (fays an Author, where I need not say)
Both fierce, both hungry; the Difpute grew ftrong,
ANSWER to the following Queftion of Mrs. Howe.
HAT IS PRUDERY?
'Tis a Beldam,
Seen with Wit and Beauty seldom.
'Tis a fear that starts at shadows.
Occafioned by fome Verfes of his Grace the Duke of BUCKINGHAM.
USE, 'tis enough at length thy labour ends,
Let Crowds of Critics now my verse affail,
Let Dennis write, and nameless numbers rail:
BY MR. POPE,
To a Play for Mr. DENNIS'S Benefit, in 1733, when he was old, blind, and in great Diftrefs, a little before his Death.
S when that Hero, who in each Campaign
A Had brav'd the Goth, and many a Vandal slain,
Lay Fortune-ftruck, a fpectacle of Woe!
Wept by each Friend, forgiv'n by every Foe:
But pitied Belifarius old and blind?
Was there a Chief but melted at the Sight?
A common Soldier, but who clubb'd his Mite?