Cold is that breast which warm'd the world before, And those love-darting eyes must roll no more. Thus, if Eternal juftice rules the ball, 35 Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall : The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day! 46 What can atone (oh ever-injur'd shade!) Thy fate unpity'd, and thy rites unpaid? No friend's complaint, no kind domestic tear, Pleas'd thy pale ghoft, or grac'd thy mournful bier; By foreign hands thy dying eyes were clos'd, 51 By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos'd, By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd, By ftrangers honour'd, and by strangers mourn'd! What tho' no friends in fable weeds appear, 55 Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year, And bear about the mockery of woe To midnight dances, and the public show ? What tho' no weeping Loves thy ashes grace, Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face? 60 What though no facred earth allow thee room, So, peaceful refts, without a stone, a name, Poets themselves must fall, like those they fung, Deaf the prais'd ear, and mute the tuneful tongue. Ev'n he, whose soul now melts in mournful lays, Shall shortly want the gen'rous tear he pays; Then from his clofing eyes thy form fhall part, And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart, Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er, The Muse forgot, and thou belov'd no more! THE FIRST SATIRE OF THE SECOND BOOK OF HORACE, IMITATED. BY THE SAME. то MR. FORTESCUE. THERE are (I scarce can think it, but am told) And something faid of Chartres much too rough. You'll give me, like a friend, both fage and free F. I'd write do more. P. Not write? but then I think, And for my foul I cannot fleep a wink; 10 life. F. You could not do a worse thing for your Why, if the nights feem tedious-take a wife: Or rather truly, if your point be rest, Lettuce and cowflip-wine; Probatum eft. But talk with Celfus, Celfus will advise P. What? like Sir Richard, rumbling, rough, and fierce, With ARMS, and GEORGE, and BRUNSWICK crowd the verse, Rend with tremendous found your ears asunder, Or nobly wild, with Budgell's fire and force, 30 P. Alas! few verses touch their nicer ear; They scarce can bear their Laureate twice a year; And justly CESAR fcorns the Poet's lays, It is to Hiftory he trusts for Praise. F. Better be Cibber, I'll maintain it ftill, Than ridicule all Tafte, blafpheme Quadrille, Abuse the City's best good men in metre, And laugh at Peers that put their trust in Peter. Ev'n thofe you touch not, hate you. 35 P. What fhould ail them? F. A hundred smart in Timon and in Balaam: The fewer still you name, you wound the morę; Bond is but one, but Harpax is a score. P. Each mortal has his pleasure: none deny 45 Scarfdale his bottle, Darty his ham-pye; Ridotta fips and dances, till she fee The doubling Luftres dance as fast as she: 50 55 I love to pour out all myself, as plain 60 you will, Papift, or Proteftant, or both between, 65 Like good Erasmus in an honest mean, Whilft Tories call me Whig, and Whigs a Tory. Satire's my weapon, but I'm too discreet To run a muck, and tilt at all I meet; 70 |