Oft had your drawing-room been sadly thin,
And merchants' wives close by your side had been,
Had I not amply fill'd the empty place,

And saved your Highness from the dire disgrace:
Yet Cockatilla's artifice prevails,

When all my duty and my merit fails:
That Cockatilla, whose deluding airs

Corrupts our virgins, and our youth ensnares;
So sunk her character, and lost her fame,
Scarce visited before your Highness came :
Yet for the bedchamber 'tis she

you choose,
Whilst zeal, and fame, and virtue you refuse.
Ah, worthy choice; not one of all your train
Which censures blast not, or dishonours stain.
I know the Court, with all its treacherous wiles,
The false caresses, and undoing smiles.
Ah, Princess! learn'd in all the courtly arts,
To cheat our hopes, and yet to gain our hearts.'

TO LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGUE.

1 IN beauty or wit,

No mortal as yet

To question your empire has dared;
But men of discerning

Have thought that in learning

To yield to a lady was hard.

2 Impertinent schools,
With musty dull rules,

Have reading to females denied:

So Papists refuse

The Bible to use,

Lest flocks should be wise as their guide.

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3 'Twas a woman at first
(Indeed she was cursed)

In knowledge that tasted delight,
And sages agree

The laws should decree

To the first possessor the right.

4 Then bravely, fair dame,
Resume the old claim,

Which to your whole sex does belong;
And let men receive,

From a second bright Eve,

The knowledge of right and of wrong.

5 But if the first Eve

Hard doom did receive,

When only one apple had she,

What a punishment new

Shall be found out for you,

Who, tasting, have robb'd the whole tree!

EXTEMPORANEOUS LINES

ON A PORTRAIT OF LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGUE, PAINTED 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.

LINES SUNG BY DURASTANTI,

WHEN SHE TOOK LEAVE OF THE ENGLISH STAGE.

1 GENEROUS, gay, and gallant nation,
Bold in arms, and bright in arts;
Land secure from all invasion,

All but Cupid's gentle darts!
From your charms, oh! who would run?
Who would leave you for the sun?
Happy soil, adieu, adieu!

2 Let old charmers yield to new;

In arms, in arts, be still more shining:
All your joys be still increasing;
All your tastes be still refining;

All your jars for ever ceasing;

But let old charmers yield to new :
Happy soil, adieu, adieu!

UPON THE DUKE OF MARLBOROUGH'S HOUSE AT WOODSTOCK.

'SEE, sir, here's the grand approach,

This way is for his Grace's coach:

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.'

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 ARGYLL, JULY 9, 1739.

1 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.

2 Beneath thy roof, Argyll, are bred

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

3 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.

THE CHALLENGE,

A COURT BALLAD.

TO THE TUNE OF 'TO ALL YOU LADIES NOW AT LAND.'

1 To one fair lady out of Court,

And two fair ladies in,

Who think the Turk1 and Pope 2 a sport,

And wit and love no sin;

Come these soft lines, with nothing stiff in,
To Bellenden, Lepell, and Griffin.3
With a fa, la, la.

2 What passes in the dark third row,
And what behind the scene,
Couches and crippled chairs I know,
And garrets hung with green;
I know the swing of sinful hack,
damsels cry alack.
With a fa, la, la.

Where many

3 Then why to Courts should I repair,
Where's such ado with Townshend ?
To hear each mortal stamp and swear,
And every speech with 'zounds!' end;
To hear 'em rail at honest Sunderland,
And rashly blame the realm of Blunderland.1
With a fa, la, la.

4 Alas! like Schutz I cannot pun,

Like Grafton court the Germans;

Tell Pickenbourg how slim she's grown,

Like Meadows 5 run to sermons;

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''Turk:' Ulrick, the Turk.- Pope: the author.-Bellenden, Lepell, and Griffin' ladies of the Court of the Princess Caroline.

6

Blunderland: '