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There bending o'er the fleeping queen, fhe cries,
Though late, he comes, and in his rage has flain,
Ah! Euryclea, she replies, you rave; The gods resume that reason which they gave; For Heaven deep wisdom to the fool fupplies, But oft infatuates and confounds the wife. And wisdom once was thine! but now I find The gods have ruin'd thy distemper'd mind. How could you hope your fiction to impofe? Was it to flatter or deride my woes ?
How could you break a sleep with talk so vain,
No artful tales, no ftudied lies, I frame,
The words in Italic are copied by Mr. Pope.
Till his brave father fhould his foes defeat,
Nought I beheld, but heard their cries, the faid, When Death flew raging, and the fuitors bled: Immur'd we liften'd, as we fat around,
To each deep groan and agonizing sound.
"This is enough in conscience for this time: befides, I am defired, by Mr. Pope or Mr. Lintot, I don't know which, to write to Mr. Pope on a certain affair."
On his MAJESTY'S Playing with a TIGER in Kenfington Gardens.
"Primâ dicte mihi, fummâ dicende Camœnâ.”
the den, the lions prey,
Seal'd up for death the prophet lay;
Swift shot an angel from above,
As fwift did. Britain's Genius fly,
Genius of Britain, fpare thy fears,
So fweet an innocence difarms
The fierceft rage with powerful charms,
That Faction bends; that Envy fmiles;
And pay due homage at his feet.
A DIALOGUE between a POET and his SERVANT.
In Imitation of HORACE, BOOK II. SAT. VII.
To enter into the beauties of this Satire, it must be remembered, that Slaves, among the Romans, during the Feasts of Saturn, wore their Masters Habits, and were allowed to fay what they pleased.
-I've long waited in
my turn to have
A word with you---but I'm your humble slave. P. What knave is that? my rascal!
S. Sir, 'tis I,
No knave nor rascal, but your trusty Guy.
S. Some folks are drunk one day, and fome for ever, And fome, like Wharton, but twelve years together. Old Evremond, renown'd for wit and dirt, Would change his living oftener than his shirt; Roar with the rakes of state a month; and come To ftarve another in his hole at home. So rov'd wild Buckingham the public jeft, Now fome innholder's, now a monarch's guest; H 4
His life and politics of every fhape,
P. To what will these wild maxims tend?
P. In me, you knave? make out your charge. S. You praise low-living, but you live at large. Perhaps you scarce believe the rules you teach, Or find it hard to practise what you preach. Scarce have you paid one idle journey down, But, without business, you 're again in town. If none invite you, fir, abroad to roam, Then-Lord, what pleafure 'tis to read at home: And fip your two half-pints, with great delight, Of beer at noon, and muddled port at night. From Encome, John comes thundering at the door, With " Sir, my mafter begs you to come o'er, "To pass these tedious hours, thefe winter nights, "Not that he dreads invafions, rogues, or sprites." Strait for your two beft wigs aloud you call,
This fliff in buckle, that not curl'd at all,
The feat of John Pitt, Efq, in Dorsetshire.