A Prologue 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.
AS when that hero, who, in each campaign,
Had brav'd the Goth, and many a Vandal flain, Lay Fortune-ftruck, a spectacle of woe! Wept by each friend, forgiv'n by ev'ry foe; Was there a gen'rous, a reflecting mind, But pity'd Belifarius, old and blind? Was there a chief but melted at the fight? A common foldier but who clubb'd his mite? Such, fuch emotions fhould in Britons rise,
When prefs'd by want and weakness Dennis lies;
Dennis! who long had warr'd with modern Huns, II
Their quibbles routed, and defy'd their puns;
A defp'rate bulwark, fturdy, firm, and fierce,
Against the Gothic fons of frozen verse :
How chang'd from him who made the boxes groan,
And shook the stage with thunders all his own!
Stood up to dafh 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 scorn;
If there's a critic of diftinguish'd rage,
If there's a fenior who contemns this age,
Let him to-night his just affistance lend,
And be the critic's, Briton's, old man's, friend. 24
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 ftockings, and to dine with Steele :
Some ends of verfe his betters might afford,
And gave the harmless fellow a good word.
Set up with these he ventur'd on the Town,
And with a borrow'd play outdid poor Crown.
There he ftop'd fhort, nor fince has writ a tittle,
But has the wit to make the most of little;
Like ftunted hide-bound trees, that just have got
fufficient 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.
So fome coarse country-wench, almoft decay'd,
Tiudges to Town, and first turns chambermaid;
Awkward and fupple each devoir to pay,
She flatters her good lady twice a-day;
Thought wond'rous honeft, tho' of mean degree,
And ftrangely lik'd for her fimplicity:
In a tranflated fuit then tries the Town,
With borrow'd pins, and patches not her own;
But just endur'd the winter fhe 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,
BY A PERSON OF QUALITY.
Written in the Year 1733.
FLUTT'RING Spread thy purple pinions,
Gentle Cupid! o'er my heart;
I a flave in thy dominions:
Nature must give way to Art.
Mild Arcadians, ever blooming,
Nightly nodding o'er your flocks,
See my weary days confuming
All beneath yon' flow'ry rocks.
Thus the Cyprian goddess weeping,
Mourn'd Adonis, darling youth!
Him the boar, in filence creeping,
Gor'd with unrelenting tooth.
Cynthia! tune harmonious numbers;
Fair Difcretion! ftring the lyre;
Sooth my ever-waking slumbers:
Bright Apollo! lend thy choir.
Gloomy Pluto! king of terrors,
Arm'd in adamantine chains,
Lead me to the crystal mirrors,
Wat'ring foft Elysian plains.
Mournful Cyprefs, verdant Willow,
Gilding my Aurelia's brows,
Morpheus hov'ring o'er my pillow,
Hear me pay my dying vows.
On a certain Lady at Court.
KNOW the thing that's most uncommon; (Envy be filent and attend!).
I know a reasonable Woman,
Handfome and witty, yet a friend.
Not warp'd by paffion, aw'd by rumour,
Not grave thro' pride, nor gay thro' folly,
An equal mixture of good humour,
And fenfible foft melancholy.
"Has fhe not faults then, (Envy says,) Sir?”
Yes, fhe has one, I must aver;
When all the world confpires to praise her,
The Woman's deaf, and does not hear.
On his Grotto at Twickenham, compofed of Marbles, Spars, Gems, Ores, and Minerals.
THOU who fhalt top where Thames' translucent
Shines a broad mirror through the fhady cave;
Where ling'ring drops from min'ral roofs diftil,
And pointed crystals break the fparkling rill;
Unpolish'd gems no ray on pride beftow,
And latent metals innocently glow;
Approach. Great Nature ftudiously behold!
And eye the mine without a wish for gold.
Approach; but awful! lo! th' Ægerian Grot,
Where nobly penfive, St. John fat and thought,
Where British fighs from dying Wyndham stole,
And the bright flame was thot thro' Marchmont's foul.
Let fuch, fuch only, tread this facred floor,
Who dare to love their country and be poor.
On receiving from the Right Hon. the Lady Frances Shirley a Standish and two Pens.
YES, I beheld th' Athenian Queen
Defcend in all her fober charms!
And take," the faid, and fmil'd ferene,
Take at this hand celeftial arms:
"Secure the radiant weapons wield;
"This golden lance fhall guard defert,
"And if a vice dares keep the field,
This fteel fhall ftab it to the heart."
Aw'd, on my bended knees I fell,
Receiv'd the weapons of the sky,
And dipp'd them in the fable well,
The fount of fame or infamy.
"What well? what weapon?" Flavia cries, "A ftandifh, fteel, and golden pen!
"It came from Bertrand's, not the skies;
"I gave it you to write agen.
"But, Friend! take heed whom you attack;
"You'll bring a Houfe (I mean of Peers)
"Red, blue, and green, nay, white and black,
"Land ail about your ears.
"You'd write as fmooth again on glass,
"And run on ivory fo glib,
"As not to ftick at fool or ass, "Nor ftop at flattery or fib.
"Athenian Queen! and fober charms! "I tell ye, fool! there's nothing in't: "'Tis Venus, Venus gives these arms; "In Dryden's Virgil fee the print.
"Come, if you'll be a quiet foul,
"That dares tell neither truth nor lies,
"I'll lift you in the harmless roll
"Of thofe that fing of these poor eyes."
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