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Equal the injured to defend,

To charm the mistress, or to fix the friend. He, with a hundred arts refined,

Shall stretch thy conquests over half the kind: To him each rival shall submit,

Make but his riches equal to his wit. Then shall thy form the marble grace,

(Thy Grecian form) and Chloe lend the face; His house, embosom'd in the grove,

Sacred to social life and social love, Shall glitter o'er the pendent green,

Where Thames reflects the visionary scene: Thither the silver-sounding lyres

Shall call the smiling loves and young desires; There, every grace and muse shall throng,

Exalt the dance, or animate the song; There youths and nymphs, in concert gay, Shall hail the rising, close the parting day. With me, alas! those joys are o'er;

For me the vernal garlands bloom no more. Adieu! fond hope of mutual fire,

The still-believing, still renew'd desire: Adieu! the heart-expanding bowl,

And all the kind deceivers of the soul! But why? ah tell me, ah too dear!

Steals down my cheek the involuntary tear? Why words so flowing, thoughts so free,

Stop, or turn nonsense, at one glance of thee? Thee, dress'd in Fancy's airy beam,

Absent I follow through the extended dream; Now, now I cease, I clasp thy charms,

And now you burst (ah cruel) from my arms! And swiftly shoot along the Mall,

Or softly glide by the canal; Now shown by Cynthia's silver ray,

And now on rolling waters snatch'd away.

PART OF ODE IX. OF BOOK IV.
A FRAGMENT.

LEST you should think that verse shall die,
Which sounds the silver Thames along,
Taught on the wings of truth to fly

Above the reach of vulgar song;
Though daring Milton sits sublime,
In Spenser native muses play;
Nor yet shall Waller yield to time,

Nor pensive Cowley's moral laySages and chiefs, long since had birth

Ere Cæsar was, or Newton named; These raised new empires o'er the earth, And those new heavens and systems framed. Vain was the chief's, the sage's pride! They had no poet, and they died; In vain they schemed, in vain they bled! They had no poet, and are dead.

MISCELLANIES.

On Receiving from the Right Hon. Lady Frances Shirley, a Standish and two Pens.

YES, I beheld the Athenian queen

Descend in all her sober charms; And, 'Take,' she said, and smiled serene, "Take at this hand celestial arms:

'Secure the radiant weapons wield; This golden lance shall guard desert, And if a vice dares keep the field,

This steel shall stab it to the heart.'

Awed, on my bended knees I fell,

Received the weapons of the sky, And dipp'd them in the sable well, The fount of fame or infamy. 'What well? what weapon?' Flavia cries, 'A standish, steel and golden pen;

It came from Bertrand's, not the skies;
I gave it you to write again.

'But, friend, take heed whom you attack;
You'll bring a house, I mean of peers,
Red, blue, and green, nay, white and black,
L***** and all about your ears.

'You'd write as smooth again on glass,

And run on ivory so glib,
As not to stick at fool or ass,
Nor stop at flattery or fib.
'Athenian queen! and sober charms!

I tell you, fool, there's nothing in't:
'Tis Venus, Venus gives these arms;
In Dryden's Virgil see the print.
'Come, and if you'll be a quiet soul,

That dares tell neither truth nor lies, I'll list you in the harmless roll

Of those that sing of these poor eyes.'

EPISTLE TO ROBERT, EARL OF OXFORD,
AND EARL MORTIMER.

Sent to the Earl of Oxford, with Dr. Parnell's Poems, published by our Author, after the said Earl's imprisonment in the Tower and Retreat into the Country, in the Year 1721.

SUCH were the notes thy once-loved poet sung, Till death untimely stopp'd his tuneful tongue. Oh, just beheld, and lost: admired, and mourn'd! With softest manners, gentlest arts adorn'd! Bless'd in each science, bless'd in every strain! Dear to the muse! to Harley dear-in vain! For him, thou oft hast bid the world attend, Fond to forget the statesman in the friend; For Swift and him, despised the farce of state, The sober follies of the wise and great; Dexterous, the craving, fawning crowd to quit, And pleased to escape from flattery to wit.

Absent or dead, still let a friend be dear,
(A sigh the absent claims, the dead a tear,)
Recall those nights that closed thy toilsome days,
Still hear thy Parnell in his living lays,
Who, careless now of interest, fame, or fate,
Perhaps forgets that Oxford e'er was great;
Or, deeming meanest what we greatest call,
Beholds thee glorious only in thy fall.

And sure, if aught below the seats divine
Can touch immortals, 'tis a soul like thine:
A soul supreme, in each hard instance tried,
Above all pain, and passion, and all pride,
The rage of power, the blast of public breath,
The lust of lucre and the dread of death.

In vain to deserts thy retreat is made;
The muse attends thee to thy silent shade:
"Tis hers the brave man's latest steps to trace,
Re-judge his acts, and dignify disgrace.
When interest calls off all her sneaking train,
And all the obliged desert, and all the vain;
She waits, or to the scaffold, or the cell,
When the last lingering friend has bid farewell.
E'en now she shades thy evening walk with bays,
(No hireling she, no prostitute to praise ;)
E'en now, observant of the parting ray,
Eyes the calm sunset of thy various day,
Through fortune's cloud one truly great can see,
Nor fears to tell that Mortimer is he.

EPISTLE TO JAMES CRAGGS, ESQ.

Secretary of State in the Year 1720.

A SOUL as full of worth, as void of pride,
Which nothing seeks to show, or needs to hide :
Which nor to guilt nor fear its caution owes,
And boasts a warmth that from no passion flows:
A face untaught to feign; a judging eye
That darts severe upon a rising lie,

And strikes a blush through frontless flattery:
All this thou wert; and being this before,
Know, kings and fortune cannot make thee more.
Then scorn to gain a friend by servile ways,
Nor wish to lose a foe these virtues raise;
But candid, free, sincere as you began,
Proceed-a minister, but still a man.
Be not (exalted to whate'er degree)
Ashamed of any friend, not e'en of me:
The patriot's plain, but untrod, path pursue;
If not, 'tis I must be ashamed of you.

EPISTLE TO MR. JERVAS;

What flattering scenes our wandering fancy

wrought,

Rome's pompous glories rising to our thought!
Together o'er the Alps methinks we fly,
Fired with ideas of fair Italy.

With thee on Raphael's monument I mourn,
Or wait inspiring dreams at Maro's urn:
With thee repose where Tully once was laid,
Or seek some ruin's formidable shade:
While fancy brings the vanish'd piles to view,
And builds imaginary Rome anew.
Here thy well-studied marbles fix our eye;
A fading fresco here demands a sigh:
Each heavenly piece unwearied we compare,
Match Raphael's grace with thy loved Guido's air,
Caracci's strength, Corregio's softer line,
Paulo's free stroke, and Titian's warmth divine.
How finish'd with illustrious toil appears
This small well-polish'd gem, the work of years!
Yet still how faint by precept is express'd
The living image in the painter's breast!
Thence endless streams of fair ideas flow,
Strike in the sketch, or in the picture glow;
Thence beauty, waking all her forms, supplies
An angel's sweetness, or Bridgewater's eyes.

Muse at that name thy sacred sorrows shed,
Those tears eternal that embalm the dead!
Call round her tomb each object of desire,
Each purer frame inform'd with purer fire :
Bid her be all that cheers or softens life,
The tender sister, daughter, friend, and wife:
Bid her be all that makes mankind adore;
Then view this marble, and be vain no more!

Yet still her charms in breathing paint engage;
Her modest cheek shall warm a future age.
Beauty, frail flower that every season fears,
Blooms in thy colours for a thousand years
Thus Churchill's race shall other hearts surprise,
And other beauties envy Worsley's eyes;
Each pleasing Blount shall endless smiles bestow,

With Mr. Dryden's Translation of Fresnoy's Art And soft Belinda's blush for ever glow.

of Painting.

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THIS verse be thine, my friend, nor thou refuse
This, from no venal or ungrateful muse.
Whether thy hand strikes out some free design,
Where life awakes and dawns at every line;
Or blend in beauteous tints the colour'd mass,
And from the canvass call the mimic face:
Read these instructive leaves, in which conspire
Fresnoy's close art, and Dryden's native fire:
And reading wish, like theirs our fate and fame,
So mix'd our studies, and so join'd our name:
Like them to shine through long succeeding age,
So just thy skill, so regular my rage.

Smit with the love of sister arts we came,
And met congenial, mingling flame with flame;
Lake friendly colours found them both unite,

And each from each contract new strength and light.
How oft in pleasing tasks we wear the day,
While summer suns roll unperceived away!
How oft our slowly-growing works impart,
While images reflect from art to art!

How oft review; each finding, like a friend,
Something to blame and something to commend!

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Oh, lasting as those colours may they shine,
Free as thy stroke, yet faultless as thy line;
New graces yearly like thy works display,
Soft without weakness, without glaring gay;
Led by some rule, that guides, but not constrains
And finish'd more through happiness than pains!
The kindred arts shall in their praise conspire,
One dip the pencil, and one string the lyre.
Yet should the Graces all thy figures place,
And breathe an air divine on every face;
Yet should the Muses bid my numbers roll
Strong as their charms, and gentle as their soul;
With Zeuxis' Helen thy Bridgewater vie,
And these be sung till Granville's Myra die;
Alas! how little from the grave we claim !
Thou but preserv'st a face, and I a name.

EPISTLE TO MISS BLOUNT ·
With the Works of Voiture.

IN these gay thoughts the loves and graces shine,
And all the writer lives in every line:
His easy art may happy nature seem,
Trifles themselves are elegant in him.
Sure to charm all was his peculiar fate,
Who without flattery pleased the fair and great;

Still with esteem no less conversed than read;
With wit well-natured, and with books well-bred:
His heart, his mistress and his friend did share;
His time, the muse, the witty, and the fair.
Thus wisely careless, innocently gay,
Cheerful he play'd the trifle, life, away;
Till fate, scarce felt, his gentle breath suppress'd,
As smiling infants sport themselves to rest.
E'en rival wits did Voiture's death deplore,
And the gay mourn'd who never mourn'd before;
The truest hearts for Voiture heaved with sighs,
Voiture was wept by all the brightest eyes:
The smiles and loves had died in Voiture's death,
But that for ever in his lines they breathe.

Let the strict life of graver mortals be

A long, exact, and serious comedy;

In

every scene some moral let it teach,

And, if it can, at once both please and preach.
Let mine, an innocent gay farce appear,
And more diverting still than regular,
Have humour, wit, a native ease and grace,
Though not too strictly bound to time and place:
Critics in wit, or life, are hard to please;
Few write to those and none can live to these.

Too much your sex are by their forms confined,
Severe to all, but most to womankind;
Custom, grown blind with age, must be your guide;
Your pleasure is a vice, but not your pride;
By nature yielding, stubborn but for fame;
Made slaves by honour, and made fools by shame.
Marriage may all those petty tyrants chase,
But sets up one, a greater, in their place:
Well might you wish for change by those accursed,
But the last tyrant ever proves the worst.
Still in constraint your suffering sex remains,
Or bound in formal, or in real chains :
Whole years neglected, for some months adored,
The fawning servant turns a haughty lord.
Ah, quit not the free innocence of life,

For the dull glory of a virtuous wife;
Nor let false shows, nor empty titles please:
Aim not at joy, but rest content with ease.

The gods, to curse Pamela with her prayers,
Gave the gilt coach and dappled Flanders mares,
The shining robes, rich jewels, beds of state,
And, to complete her bliss, a fool for mate.
She glares in balls, front boxes, and the ring,
A vain, unquiet, glittering, wretched thing!
Pride, pomp, and state, but reach her outward part;
She sighs, and is no dutchess at her heart.

But, madam, if the fates withstand, and you Are destined Hymen's willing victim too; Trust not too much your now resistless charms, Those, age or sickness, soon or late, disarms: Good-humour only teaches charms to last,

Now crown'd with myrtle on the Elysian coast, Amid those lovers, joys his gentle ghost:

Pleased, while with smiles his happy lines you view,

And finds a fairer Rambouillet in you.

The brightest eyes in France inspired his muse;
The brightest eyes in Britain now peruse;
And dead, as living, 'tis our author's pride
Still to charm those who charm the world beside.

EPISTLE TO THE SAME,

On her leaving the Town after the Coronation, 1715.

As some fond virgin, whom her mother's care
Drags from the town to wholesome country air
Just when she learns to roll a melting eye,
And hear a spark, yet think no danger nigh;
From the dear man unwilling she must sever,
Yet takes one kiss before she parts for ever;
Thus from the world fair Zephalinda flew,
Saw others happy, and with sighs withdrew;
Not that their pleasures caused her discontent,
She sigh'd, not that they stay'd but that she went.

She went to plain-work, and to purling brooks,
Old-fashion'd halls, dull aunts, and croaking rooks:
She went from opera, park, assembly, play,
To morning walks, and prayers three hours a-day;
To part her time 'twixt reading and bohea,
To muse, and spill her solitary tea;
Or o'er cold coffee trifle with the spoon,
Count the slow clock, and dine exact at noon;
Divert her eyes with pictures in the fire,
Hum half a tune, tell stories to the 'squire;
Up to her godly garret after seven,
There starve and pray, for that's the way to heaven
Some 'squire, perhaps, you take delight to rack;
Whose game is whist, whose treat a toast in sack:
Who visits with a gun, presents you birds,
Then gives a smacking buss, and cries,- No words!"
Or with his hounds comes hallooing from the stable,
Makes love with nods, and knees beneath a table;
Whose laughs are hearty, though his jests are

coarse,

And loves you best of all things-but his horse.

In some fair evening, on your elbow laid,
You dream of triumphs in the rural shade;
In pensive thought recall the fancied scene,
See coronations rise on every green;
Before you pass the imaginary sights

Of lords, and earls, and dukes, and garter'd knights,
While the spread fan o'ershades your closing eyes:
Then give one flirt, and all the vision flies.

Still makes new conquests, and maintains the past; Thus vanish sceptres, coronets, and balls,

Love raised on beauty will, like that, decay,
Our hearts may bear its slender chain a day;
As flowery bands in wantonness are worn,
A morning's pleasure, and at evening torn;
This binds in ties more easy, yet more strong,
The willing heart, and only holds it long.

Thus Voiture's* early care still shone the same,
And Monthausier was only changed in name;
By this, e'en now they live, e'en now they charm,
Their wit still sparkling, and their flames still warm.
*Mademoiselle Paulet,

And leave you in lone woods, or empty walls!

So when your slave, at some dear idle time,
Not plagued with headaches, or the want of rhyme,
Stands in the streets, abstracted from the crew,
And while he seems to study, thinks of you;
Just when his fancy paints your sprightly eyes,
Or sees the blush of soft Parthenia rise,
Gay pats my shoulder, and you vanish quite,
Streets, chairs, and coxcombs, rush upon my
sight;

Vex'd to be still in town I knit my brow,
Look sour, and hum a tune, as you may now.

THE BASSET-TABLE,

AN ECLOGUE.

CARDELIA. SMILINDA.

CARDELIA.

THE basset-table spread, the tallier come; Why stays Smilinda in the dressing-room? Rise, pensive nymph; the tallier waits for you.

SMILINDA.

Ah, madam, since my Sharper is untrue,
I joyless make my once adored alphiew.
I saw him stand behind Ombrelia's chair,
And whisper with that soft deluding air,

And, oh! what makes the disappointment hard,
'Twas my own lord that drew the fatal car
In complaisance I took the queen he gave;
Though my own secret wish was for the knave.
The knave won sonica, which I had chose,
And the next pull, my septleva I lose.
SMILINDA.

But, ah! what aggravates the killing smart,
The cruel thought, that stabs me to the heart;
This cursed Ombrelia, this undoing fair,
By whose vile arts this heavy grief I bear;
She, at whose name I shed these spiteful tears,
She owes to me the very charms she wears.
An awkward thing when first she came to town;
Her shape unfashion'd, and her face unknown:
She was my friend; I taught her first to spread

And those feign'd sighs which cheat the list'ning fair. Upon her sallow cheeks enlivening red:

CARDELIA.

Is this the cause of your romantic strains?
A mightier grief my heavy heart sustains.
As you by love, so I by fortune cross'd;
One, one bad deal, three septlevas have lost.
SMILINDA.

Is that the grief which you compare with mine?
With ease the smiles of fortune I resign:
Would all my gold in one bad deal were gone,
Were lovely Sharper mine, and mine alone.

CARDELIA.

A lover lost, is but a common care;

And prudent nymphs against that change prepare:
The knave of clubs thrice lost; oh! who could guess
This fatal stroke, this unforeseen distress?

SMILINDA.

See Betty Lovet! very a-propos,

She all the cares of love and play does know:
Dear Betty shall the important point decide:
Betty who oft the pain of each has tried;
Impartial, she shall say who suffers most,
By cards, ill-usage, or by lovers lost.

LOVET.

Tell, tell your griefs; attentive will I stay,
Though time is precious, and I want some tea.
CARDELIA.

Behold this equipage, by Mathers wrought,
With fifty guineas (a great penn'worth) bought.
See, on the tooth-pick Mars and Cupid strive;
And both the struggling figures seem alive.
Upon the bottom shines the queen's bright face:
A myrtle foliage round the thimble-case.
Jove, Jove himself does on the scissars shine;
The metal, and the workmanship, divine!

SMILINDA.

I introduced her to the park and plays;
And by my interest, Cozens made her stays.
Ungrateful wretch, with mimic airs grown pert,
She dares to steal my favourite lover's heart!
CARDELIA.

Wretch that I was! how often have I swore,
When Winnall tallied, I would punt no more!
I know the bite, yet to my ruin run;
And see the folly, which I cannot shun.

SMILINDA.

How many maids have Sharper's vows deceived!
How many cursed the moment they believed!
Yet his known falsehoods could no warning prove:
Ah! what is warning to a maid in love?

CARDELIA.

But of what marble must that breast be form'd,
To gaze on Basset, and remain unwarm'd?
When kings, queens, knaves, are set in decent rank;
Exposed in glorious heaps the tempting bank,
Guineas, half-guineas, all the shining train;
The winner's pleasure, and the loser's pain:
In bright confusion open rouleaus lie,
They strike the soul, and glitter in the eye.
Fired by the sight, all reason I disdain;
My passions rise, and will not bear the rein.
Look upon Basset, you who reason boast;
And see if reason must not there be lost.

SMILINDA.

What more than marble must that heart compose,
Can hearken coldly to my Sharper's vows?
Then, when he trembles! when his blushes rise!
When awful love seems melting in his eyes!
With eager beats his Mechlin cravat moves:
He loves,-I whisper to myself,' He loves!'
Such unfeign'd passion in his looks appears,
I lose all memory of my former fears;
My panting heart confesses all his charms,

This snuff-box; once the pledge of Sharper's love, I yield at once, and sink into his arms.

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Their several graces in my Sharper meet; Strong as the footman, as the master sweet.

LOVET.

Was there a generous, a reflecting mind,

But pitied Belisarius old and blind?
Was there a chief but melted at the sight?

A common soldier, but who clubb'd his mite?

Cease your contention, which has been too long; Such, such emotions should in Britons rise,

I grow impatient, and the tea's too strong.

Attend, and yield to what I now decide;
The equipage shall grace Smilinda's side:
The snuff-box to Cardelia I decree;
Now leave complaining, and begin your tea.

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 you each a shell We thrive at Westminster on fools like you: Twas a fat oyster-Live in peace-Adieu.'

ANSWER TO THE FOLLOWING QUESTION OF MRS. HOWE.

WHAT is prudery?

"Tis a beldam, Seen with wit and beauty seldom. "Tis a fear that starts at shadows: "Tis (no, 'tis n't) like miss Meadows; "Tis a virgin hard of feature, Old, and void of all good-nature; Lean and fretful; would seem wise; Yet plays the fool before she dies. "Tis an ugly, envious shrew, That rails at dear Lepell and you.

Occasioned by some Verses of

HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM.
MUSE, 'tis enough: at length thy labour ends.
And thou shalt live, for Buckingham commends.
Let crowds of critics now my verse assail,
Let Dennis write, and nameless numbers rail:
This more than pays whole years of thankless pain,
Time, health, and fortune, are not lost in vain.
Sheffield approves, consenting Phoebus bends,
And I and malice from this hour are friends.

When press'd by want and weakness Dennis lies.
Dennis, who long had warr'd with modern Huns,
Their quibbles routed, and defied their puns;
A desperate bulwark, sturdy, firm, and fierce,
Against the Gothic sons of frozen verse:
How changed from him who made the boxes groan,
And shook the stage with thunder 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 scorn;
If there's a critic of distinguish'd rage;
If there's a senior, who contemns this age;
Let him to night his just assistance lend,
And be the critic's, Briton's, old man's friend.

PROLOGUE TO SOPHONISBA.

By Pope and Mallet.*

WHEN learning, after the long Gothic night, Fair, o'er the western world renew'd its light, With arts arising, Sophonisba rose :

The tragic muse, returning, wept her woes. With her the Italian scene first learn'd to glow; And the first tears for her were taught to flow. Her charms the Gallic muses next inspired: Corneille himself saw, wonder'd, and was fired.

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 rise, to grace the British scene.
Here, as in life, she breathes her genuine flame;
She asks what bosom has not felt the same?
Ask of the British youth-Is silence there?
She dares to ask it of the British fair.

To night our home-spun author would be true,
At once to nature, history, and you.
Well-pleased to give our neighbours due applause,
He owns their learning, but disdains their laws.
Not to his patient touch, or happy flame,

'Tis to his British heart he trusts 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 raise or melt the heart,
Thou art his guide; each passion, every line,
Whate'er he draws to please, must all be thine.
Be thou his judge: in every candid breast,
Thy silent whisper is the sacred test.

PROLOGUE BY MR. POPE,

To a Play for Mr. Dennis's Benefit, in 1733, when he
was old, blind, and in great distress, a little before
his Death.

As when the hero, who in each campaign
Had braved the Goth, and many a Vandal slain,
Lay fortune-struck, a spectacle of woe!
Wept by each friend, forgiven by every foe:

MACER:-A CHARACTER. WHEN simple Macer, now of high renown, First sought a poet's fortune in the town,

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

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