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NCE (fays an Author, where I need not fay) Two Travellers found an Oyfter in their way Both fierce, both hungry; the Dispute grew ftrong, While Scale in hand Dame Juftice pafs'd along. Before her each with clamour pleads the Laws, Explain'd the matter, and would win the cause. Dame Juftice weighing long the doubtful Right, Takes, opens, fwallows it, before their fight. The cause of ftrife remov'd fo rarely well, There take (fays Juftice) take you each a Shell. We thrive at Westminster on Fools like you: 'Twas a fat Oyfter-Live in peace-Adieu.

ANSWER to the following Queftion of Mrs. HowE.



'Tis a Beldam,

Seen with Wit and Beauty seldom.
'Tis a fear that starts at fhadows.
'Tis (no, 'tis n't)) like Mifs Meadows.
"Tis a Virgin hard of Feature,
Old, and void of all good-nature;
Lean and fretful; would feem wife;
Yet plays the fool before fhe dies.
'Tis an ugly, envious Shrew,
That rails at dear Lepell and You.


Occafioned by foine Verfes of his Grace the Duke of BUCKINGHAM.


USE, 'tis enough? at length thy labour ends, And thou shalt live, for Buckingham commends. Let Crowds of Critics now my verse affail, Let Dennis write, and nameless numbers rail: This more than whole years pays of thankless pain,` Time, health, and fortune, are not loft in vain. Sheffield approves, confenting Phoebus bends, And I and Malice from this hour are friends.




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 Had brav'd the Goth, and many a Vandal sain, Lay Fortune-ftruck, a fpectacle of Woe! Wept by each Friend, forgiv'n by every Foe: Was there a generous, a reflecting mind, But pitied Belifarius old and blind? 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 defperate Bulwark, sturdy, firm, and fierce,
Against the Gothic Sons of frozen verse:
How chang'd from him who made the boxes groan, 15
And shook the stage with Thunders all his own!
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 shoes in fcorn;
If there's a Critic of distinguish'd rage;

If there's a Senior, who contemns this age;}]
Let him to-night his juft affiftance lend,
And be the Critic's, Briton's, Old Man's Friend.









HEN Learning, after the long Gothic night, Fair, o'er the Western world, renew'd its light, With arts arifing, Sophonisba rofe:

The Tragic Mufe, returning, wept her woes.

* I have been told by Savage, that of the Prologue to Sophonifba the first part was written by Pope, who could not be perfuaded to finish it; and that the concluding lines were written by Mallet. Dr. JOHNSON.

With her th' Italian scene first learn'd to glow;
And the first tears for her were taught to flow.
Her charms the Gallic Mufes next infpir'd:
Corneille himself saw, wonder'd, and was fir'd.


What foreign theatres with pride have shown,
Britain, by juster title, makes her own.
When Freedom is the cause, 'tis hers to fight;
And hers, when Freedom is the theme, to write.
For this a British Author bids again

The heroine rife, to grace the British scene.

Here, as in life, the breathes her genuine flame: 15
She asks, what bofom has not felt the fame?
Afks of the British Youth-Is filence there?
She dares to ask it of the British Fair.

To-night, our home-fpun author would be true,
At once, to nature, history, and you.
Well-pleas'd to give our neighbours due applause,
He owns their learning, but difdains their laws.
Not to his patient touch, or happy flame,
'Tis to his British heart he trufts for fame.
If France excel him in one free-born thought,
The man, as well as poet, is in fault.

Nature! informer of the Poet's art,
Whose force alone can raife or melt the heart,
Thou art his guide; each paffion, every line,
Whate'er he draws to please, must all be thine.
Be thou his judge: in every candid breaft,
Thy filent whisper is the facred teft.










HEN fimple Macer, now of high renown,
First fought a Poet's Fortune in the Town,
"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 thefe, he ventur'd on the Town,
And with a borrow'd. Play out-did poor Crown.
There he stopp'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.

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So fome coarse Country Wench, almoft decay'd, 15 Trudges to town, and first turns Chambermaid; Awkward and fupple, each devoir to pay, She flatters her good Lady twice a-day; Thought wondrous honeft, though of mean degree, And strangely lik'd for her Simplicity:

In a tranflated Suit, then tries the Town,

With borrow'd Pins, and Patches not her own:

But juft endur'd the Winter fhe began,

And in four Months a batter'd Harridan.

Now nothing left, but wither'd, pale, and fhrunk, 25 To bawd for others, and go fhares with Punk.



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