VII. DR. SWIFT. The Happy Life of a COUNTRY PARSON. PARSON, these things in thy poffeffing A Wife that makes conferves; a Steed He that has thefe, may pafs his life, Toast Church and Queen, explain the News, And shake his head at Doctor Swift. 5 10 35 20% A FARE A FAREWELL TO LONDON D IN THE YEAR 1715. EAR, damn'd, distracting town, farewell! This year in peace, ye critics, dwell, Ye harlots, fleep at ease! May knock up whores alonę. To drink and droll be Rowe allow'd Farewell Arbuthnot's raillery And Garth, the best good christian he, Lintot, farewell! thy bard must go; Farewel, unhappy Tonson! Heaven gives thee, for thy lofs of Rowe, Why should I stay? Both parties rage; My vixen mistress fqualls; The wits in envious feuds engage; The love of arts lies cold and dead In Halifax's urn; And not one Mufe of all he fed, Has yct the grace to mourn. My friends, by turns, my friends confound, Betray, and are betray'd: Poor Y r's fold for fifty pound, And B Why make I friendships with the great, Or follow girls feven hours in eight? – Still idle, with a bufy air, Solicitous for others ends, Though fond of dear repose; Luxurious lobster-nights, farewell, Adieu to all but Gay alone, Whofe foul, fincere and free, Loves all mankind, but flatters none, And fo may ftarve with me. A DIALOGUE. POPE. SIN INCE my old friend is grown fo great, I'm told (but 'tis not true I hope) CRAGGS. Alas! if I am fuch a creature, To grow the worse for growing greater; EPIGRAM. Engraved on the Collar of a Dog, which I gave to his Royal Highness. I Am his Highness' dog at Kew; Pray tell me, Sir, whose dog are you? IN EPIGRAM. Occafioned by an Invitation to Court. N the lines that you sent, are the Muses and Graces; You've the Nine in your wit, and the Three in your faces. A FRAG A FRAGMENT. WHAT are the falling rills, the pendant shades, The morning bowers, the evening colonnades, But foft receffes for th' uneafy mind Tò figh unheard in, to the passing wind! 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 Argyle, July 9th, 1739. ITH no poetic ardour fir'd WITH I prefs the bed where Wilmot lay; That here he lov'd, or here expir'd, Begets no numbers grave, or gay. But in thy roof, Argyle, are bred Such flames as high in patriots burn, Yet ftoop to bless a child or wife; And fuch as wicked kings may mourn, When freedom is more dear than life. CON |