There bending o'er the fleeping queen, fhe cries,
Rife, my Penelope, my daughter, rise
To fee Ulyffes thy long absent spouse,
Thy foul's defire and lord of all thy vows:

Though late, he comes, and in his rage has flain,
For all their wrongs, the haughty fuitor train.

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,
That held my forrows in so soft a chain?
A fleep fo fweet I never could enjoy
Since my dear lord left Ithaca for Troy :
Curft Troy-oh! why did I thy name disclose?
Thy fatal name awakens all my woes :
But fly-fome other had provok'd my rage*,
And you but owe your pardon to your age.

No artful tales, no ftudied lies, I frame,
Ulyffes lives (rejoins the reverend dame)
In that dishonour'd ftranger's clofe disguise,
Long has he pafs'd all unfufpecting eyes,
All but thy fon's-and long has he supprest
The well-concerted fecret in his breaft;

The words in Italic are copied by Mr. Pope.

N.

Till his brave father fhould his foes defeat,
And the close scheme of his revenge compleat.
Swift as the word the queen transported fprung,
And round the dame in strict embraces hung ;
Then, as the big round tears began to roll,
Spoke the quick doubts and hurry of her foul.
If my victorious hero fafe arrives,
If my dear lord, Ulyffes, ftill furvives,
Tell me, oh tell me, how he fought alone?
How were fuch multitudes destroy'd by one?

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.
Call'd by thy fon to view the scene I fled,
And saw Ulyffes ftriding o'er the dead!
Amidst the rifing heaps the hero stood
All grim, and terribly adorn'd with blood.

"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;
But couch'd the hungry monsters fit,
And fawning lick his facred feet;

H 3

Swift

Swift shot an angel from above,
And chang'd their fury into love.

As fwift did. Britain's Genius fly,
And for her charge ftand trembling by;
When Brunswick, pious, brave, and wife,
Like Him the favourite of the skies,
Play'd with the monster's dreadful teeth,
And sported with the fangs of death.

Genius of Britain, fpare thy fears,
For know, within, our Sovereign wears
The fureft guard; the best defence;
A firm untainted innocence.

So fweet an innocence difarms

The fierceft rage with powerful charms,
So far rebellion it beguiles,

That Faction bends; that Envy fmiles;
That furious favages fubmit,

And pay due homage at his feet.
Britain! by this example prove
Thy duty, loyalty, and love.
See! the fierce brutes thy King carefs,
And court him with a mute addrefs;
Well may'st thou own his gentle fway,
If tigers bend, and favages obey.

A DIA

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.

SERVANT.

SIR,

-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.
P. Well, as your wages ftill are due, I'll bear
Your rude impertinence this time of

year.

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

His life and politics of every fhape,
This hour a Roman, and the next an ape.
The gout in every limb from every vice,
Poor Clodio hir'd a boy to throw the dice.
Some wench for ever; and their fins on those,
By cuftom, fit as eafy as their cloaths.
Some fly, like pendulums, from good to evil,
And in that point are madder than the devil:
For they

P. To what will these wild maxims tend?
And where, fweet fir, will your reflections end?
S. In you.

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.

"And