A

PROLOGUE

By Mr. POPE,

To a Play for Mr. DENNIS's Benefit, in 1733, when he was old, blind, and in great Distress, a little before his Death.

S when that Hero, who in each Campaign,

AS

Had brav'd the Geth, and many a Vandal flain, Lay Fortune-ftruck, a spectacle of Woe! Wept by each Friend, forgiv'n by ev'ry Foe: Was there a gen'rous, a reflecting mind, But pitied BELISARIUS old and blind? Was there a Chief but melted at the Sight? A common Soldier, but who clubb'd his Mite? Such, fuch emotions should in Britons rife, When prefs'd by want and weakness DENNIS lies; 10 Dennis, who long had warr'd with modern Huns, Their Quibbles routed, and defy'd their Puns;

VER. 6. But pitied Belifarius, etc.] Nothing could be more happily imagined than this allufion, or finelier conducted. And the continued pleafantry fo delicately touched, that it took nothing from the felf-fatisfaction the Critic, who heard it, had in his Merit, or the Audience in their charity. With fo mafterly a hand has the Poet profecuted, in this benevolent irony, that end, which he fuppofed Dennis himself, had he the wit to fee, would have the ingenuity to approve.

This dreaded Sat'rift, Dennis will confefs,

Foe to bis Pride, but Friend to bis Diftrefs.

VER. 7. Was there a Chief, etc.] The fine figure of the Commander in that capital Picture of Belifarius at Chifwick, fupplied the Poet with this beautiful idea.

A defp'rate Bulwark, sturdy, firm, and fierce
Against the Gothic Sons of frozen verse:

How chang'd from him who made the boxes groan, 15
And shook the ftage with Thunders all his own!
Stood up to dash each vain PRETENDER's hope,
Maul the French Tyrant, or pull down the POPE!
If there's a Briton then, true bred and born,
Who holds Dragoons and wooden shoes in fcorn; 20
If there's a Critic of distinguish'd rage;

If there's a Senior, who contemns this age;
Let him to-night his juft affiftance lend,

And be the Critic's, Briton's, Old Man's Friend.

M

A CER:

A

CHARACTER.

WH

HEN fimple Macer, now of high renown,
First fought a Poet's Fortune in the Town,
'Twas all th' Ambition his high foul could feel,
To wear red ftockings, and to dine with Steel.
Some Ends of verfe his Betters might afford;
And gave the harmless fellow a good word,
Set up
with thefe, he ventur'd on the Town,
And with a borrow'd Play out-did poor Crown.
There he stopp'd fhort, nor fince has writ a tittle,
But has the Wit to make the most of little :
Like ftunted hide-bound Trees, that just have got
Sufficient fap at once to bear and rot.

5

10

Now he begs Verfe, and what he gets commends,
Not of the Wits his foes, but Fools his friends.

So fome coarfe Country Wench, almost decay'd, 15
Trudges to town, and firft turns Chambermaid;
Awkward and fupple, each devoir to pay ;
She flatters her good Lady twice a day;
Thought wondrous honeft, tho' of mean degree,
And strangely lik'd for her Simplicity:

In a tranflated Suit, then tries the Town,
With borrow'd Pins, and Patches not her own:
But just endur'd the Winter she began,

And in four Months a batter'd Harridan.

20

Now nothing left, but wither'd, pale, and shrunk, 25
To bawd for others, and go fhares with Punk.

To Mr. JOHN MOORE,

AUTHOR of the celebrated WOR M-
POWDER.

HOW much, egregious Moore, are we
Deceiv'd by Thews and forms!

Whate'er we think, whate'er we fee,
All Humankind are Worms.

Man is a very Worm by birth,
Vile, reptile, weak, and vain!
A while he crawls upon the earth,
Then shrinks to earth again.

That Woman is a Worm, we find

E'er fince our Grandame's evil;
She first convers'd with her own kind,
That ancient Worm, the Devil.

The Learn'd themfelves we Book-worms name,

The Blockhead is a Slow-worm ;

The Nymph whofe tail is all on flame,

Is aptly term'd a Glow-worm :

The Fops are painted Butterflies,

That flutter for a day;

First from a Worm they take their rife,

And in a Worm decay.

The Flatterer an Earwig grows;

Thus Worms fuit all conditions;

Mifers are Muck-worms, Silk-worms Beaus,

And Death watches Phyficians.

That Statefmen have the Worm, is feen
By all their winding play;
Their Confcience is a Worm within,

That gnaws them night and day.

Ah Moore! thy skill were well employ'd,
And greater gain would rise,

If thou could't make the Courtier void
The Worm that never dies!

O learned Friend of Abchurch-Lane,
Who fett'ft our entrails free ;
Vain is thy Art, thy Powder vain,
Since Worms shall eat ev'n thee.

Our Fate thou only can't adjourn
Some few short years, no more!

Ev'n Button's Wits to Worms shall turn,
Who Maggots were before.

SONG, by a Person of Quality.

Written in the Year 1733.

I.

FLutt'ring fpread thy purple Pinions,
Gentle Cupid, o'er my Heart;

I a Slave in thy Dominions;
Nature must give Way to Art.

II.

Mild Arcadians, ever blooming,
Nightly nodding o'er your Flocks,
See my weary Days confuming,
All beneath yon flow'ry Rocks.

III.

Thus the Cyprian Goddess weeping,
Mourn'd Adonis, darling Youth:
Him the Boar, in Silence creeping,
Gor'd with unrelenting Tooth.

IV.

Cynthia, tune harmonious Numbers;
Fair Difcretion, ftring the Lyre;
Sooth my ever-waking Slumbers:
Bright Apollo, lend thy Choir.

V.

Gloomy Pluto, King of Terrors,
Arm'd in adamantine Chains,
Lead me to the Crystal Mirrors,
Wat'ringf oft Elyfian Plains.