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Cold is that breast which warm'd the world before, And those love-darting eyes must roll no more. Thus, if Eternal justice rules the ball,

35 Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall : On all the line a sudden vengeance waits, And frequent herfes fhall befiege your gates; There paffengers shall stand, and pointing fay, (While the long fun'rals blacken all the way) 40 Lo! these were they, whose fouls the Furies steel'd, And curs'd with hearts unknowing how to yield. Thus unlamented pass the proud away, The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day! So perish all, whose breast ne'er learn'd to glow For others good, or melt at others woe.


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 ftrangers 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?


What though no facred earth allow thee room,
Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb?
Yet fhall thy grave with rifing flow'rs be drest,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast:
There shall the morn her earlieft tears beftow, 65
There the first roses of the year shall blow;
While angels with their filver wings o'ershade
The ground now facred by thy reliques made.

So, peaceful refts, without a stone, a name,
What once had beauty, titlęs, wealth, and fame.
How lov'd, how honour'd, once, avails thee not,
To whom related, or by whom begot ;
A heap of duft alone remains of thee,
"Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be!

Poets themselves must fall, like those they sung, Deaf the prais'd ear, and mute the tuneful tongue. Ev'n he, whose foul now melts in mournful lays, Shall shortly want the gen'rous tear he pays; Then from his clofing eyes thy form shall part, And the last pang fhall tear thee from his heart, Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er, 81 The Muse forgot, and thou belov'd no more!





THERE are (I scarce can think it, but am told)
There are, to whom my Satire seems too bold:
Scarce to wife Peter complaifant enough,

And fomething faid of Chartres much too rough.
The lines are weak, another's pleas'd to say, 5
Lord Fanny spins a thousand such a day.
Tim'rous by nature, of the Rich in awe,
I come to Council learned in the Law;

You'll give me, like a friend, both fage and free Advice; and (as you use) without a Fee.


F. I'd write do more.

P. Not write? but then I think, And for my foul I cannot fleep a wink; I nod in company, I wake at night, Fools rush into my head, and fo I write,

F. You could not do a worse thing for your life. Why, if the nights feem tedious-take a wife: Or rather truly, if your point be reft, Lettuce and cowflip-wine; Probatum eft.

But talk with Celfus, Celfus will advise
Hartshorn, or something that shall close your eyes.
Or, if you needs must write, write CAESAR's praise,
You'll gain at least a Knighthood or the Bays.

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, With Gun, Drum, Trumpet, Blunderbufs, and


Or nobly wild, with Budgell's fire and force,
Paint Angels trembling round his falling Horse?
F. Then all your Muse's fofter arts display,
Let CAROLINA fmooth the tuneful lay,
Lull with AMELIA's liquid name the Nine,
And fweetly flow thro' all the Royal Line.

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, 35 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 truft in Peter. Ev'n those you touch not, hate you.

P. What fhould ail them? F. A hundred smart in Timon and in Balaam:


The fewer still you name, you wound the more; 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 fhe fee The doubling Luftres dance as fast as she : F-loves the Senate, Hockley-hole his brother, Like in all else as one egg to another.


I love to pour out all myself, as plain
As downright SHIPPEN, or as old Montagne :
In them, as certain to be lov'd as feen,

The Soul food forth, nor kept a thought within;
In me what fpots (for spots I have) appear, 55
Will prove at least the Medium must be clear.
In this impartial glass, my Muse intends
Fair to expose myself, my foes, my friends;
Publish the prefent age; but when my text
Is Vice too high, reserve it for the next:
My foes fhall wish my life a longer date,
And ev'ry friend the less lament my fate.
My head and heart thus flowing thro' my quill,
Verse-man or Profe-man, term me which you will,
Papift, or Proteftant, or both between,


Like good Erafmus in an honest mean,
In moderation placing all my glory,
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;



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