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Upon the bottom fhines the Queen's bright face;
A myrtle foliage round the thimble-cafe.
Jove, Jove himself, does on the fciffars fhine,
The metal and the workmanship divine-
Smil. This fruff-box-once the pledge of Sharper's
When rival beauties for the present strove ;
At Corticelli's he the raffle won;
Then firft his paffion was in public fhown:
Hazardia blufh'd, and turn'd her head afide,
A rival's envy (all in vain) to hide.
This inuff-box-on the hinge fee brilliants shine,
This fnuff-box will I take the prize is mine.
Card. Alas! far leffer loffes than I bear
Have made a foldier figh, a lover fwear.
And, oh! what makes the disappointment hard,
'Twas my own lord that drew the fatal card.
In complaifance I took the queen he gave,
Tho' my own fecret with was for the knave:
The knave won Sonica, which I had chofe,
And the next pull my Septleva I lofe.
The cruel thought that stabs me to the heart;
Smil. But, ah! what aggravates the killing smart,
This curs'd Ombrèlia, this undoing fair,
By whofe vile arts this heavy grief I bear;
She, at whofe name I fhed these spiteful tears,
She owes to me the very charms the wears.
An awkward thing when firft the came to town,
Her fhape unfashion'd, and her face unknown:
She was my friend; I taught her first to spread
Upon her fallow cheeks enliv'ning red;
I introduc'd her to the Park and plays,
And by my int'reft Cozens made her flays.
Ungrateful wretch! with mimic airs grown pert, 65
She dares to steal my fav'rite lover's heart.
Card. Wretch that I was, how often have I fwore
When Winnall tally'd I would punt no more?
I know the bite, yet to my ruin run,
And fee the folly which I cannot shun.
Smil. How many maids have Sharper's vows deHow many curs'd the moment they believ'd? [ceiv'd?
Yet his known falfehoods could no warning prove;
Ah! what is warning to a maid in love.
Card. But of what marble muft that breast be form'd,
To gaze on Baffet and remain unwarm'd?
When kings, queens, knaves, are fet in decent rank,
Expos'd in glorious heaps the tempting bank,
Guineas, half-guineas, all the fhining train,
The winner's pleafure, and the lofer's pain,
In bright confufion open rouleaus lie,
They ftrike the foul, and glitter in the eye:
Fir'd by the fight, all reafon I dildain,
My paffions rife, and will not bear the rein.
Look upon Baffet, you who reafon boast,
And fee if reafon must not there be loft.
Smil. What more than marble must that heart com-
Can hearken coldly to my Sharper's vows?
Then when he trenibles! when his blushes rife!
When awful love feems melting in his eyes!
With eager beats his Mechlin cravat moves,
He loves-I whifper to myself, He loves!
Such unfeign'd pallion in his looks appears,
I lofe all mem'ry of my former fears;
My panting heart confeffes all his charms;
I yield at once, and fink into his arms.
Think of that moment you who prudence boaft;
For fuch a moment prudence well were lost.
Card. At the Groom-porter's batter'd bullies play,
Some dukes at Marybone bowl time away;
But who the bowl or rattling dice compares
To Baffet's heav'nly joys and pleasing cares?
Smil. Soft Simplicetta dotes upon a beau;
Prudina likes a man, and laughs at fhow:
Their feveral graces in my Sharper's meet,
Strong as the footman, as the mafter sweet.
Lov. Ceafe your contention, which has been to long;
I grow impatient, and the tea's too strong.
Attend, and yield to what I now decide;
The equipage fhall grace Smilinda's fide;
The fnuff box to Cardelia I decree.
Now leave complaining, and begin your tea.
VERBATIM FROM BOILEAU.
Un jour, dit un auteur, &c.
NCE (fays an author, where I need not fay)
Two trav❜llers found an oyster in their way:
Both fierce, both hungry, the difpute grew ftrong,
While, fcale in hand, Dame Juftice pais'd along.
Before her each with clamour pleads the laws,
Explain'd the matter, and would win the cause.
Dame Juftice weighing long the doubtful right,
Takes, opens, fwallows it before their fight.
The caufe of ftrife remov'd fo rarely well,
There take, (fays Juftice,) take ye each a shell.
We thrive at Westminster on fools like you:
'Twas a fat oyfter-live in peace-Adieu.
Answer to the following Question of Mrs. Howe. WHAT is prud'ry?
Seen with wit and beauty feldom.
'Tis a fear that starts at fhadows;
'Tis (no, 'tis n't) like Mifs Meadows;
'Tis a virgin hard of feature,
Old, and void of all good nature;
Lean and fretful; would feem wife,
Yet plays the fool before the dies.
'Tis an ugly envious fhrew
That rails at dear Lepell and you.
Occafioned by fome Verses of his Grace
the Duke of Buckingham.
MUSE, 'tis enough, at length thy labour ends,
And thou shalt live, for Buckingham commends.
Let crowds of critics now my verfe affail,
Let Dennis write, and nameless numbers rail;
This more than pays whole years of thankless pain;
Time, health, and fortune, are not loft in vain.
Sheffield approves, confenting Phoebus bends,
And I and Malice from this hour are friends.
A Prologue by Mr. Pope, to a Play for Mr. Dennis's Benefit, in 1733, when he was old, blind, and in great Diftrefs, a little before his Death.
AS when that hero, who, in each campaign,
Had brav'd the Goth, and many a Vandal slain, Lay Fortune ftruck, a fpectacle of woe! Wept by each friend, forgiv'n by ev'ry foe; Was there a gen'rous, a reflecting mind, But pity'd Belifarius, old and blind ? Was there a chief but melted at the fight? A common foldier, but who club'd his mite? Such, fuch emotions fhould in Britons rife, When prefs'd by want and weakness Dennis lies; Dennis, who long had warr'd with modern Huns, Their quibbles routed, and defy'd their puns; A defp'ratè bulwark, fturdy, firm, and fierce, Against the Gothic fons of frozen verse: How chang'd from him who made the boxes groan, And fhook the stage 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 fhoes in fcorn; If there's a critic of diftinguifh'd rage, If there's a fenior who contemns this age, Let him to night his juft affiftance lend,
And be the critic's, Briton's, old man's, friend. 24
WHEN fimple Macer, now of high renown,
Firft fought a poet's fortune in the Town,
'Twas all th' ambition his high foul could feel
To wear red stockings, and to dine with Steele :
Some ends of verse his betters might afford,
And gave the harmless fellow a good word.
Set up with these he ventur'd on the Town,
And with a borrow'd play cutdid poor Crown.
There he ftop'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.
Now he begs verfe, and what he gets commends,
Not of the wits his foes, but fools his friends.
So fome coarse country-wench, almost decay'd, 15
Trudges to Town, and first 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 fimplicity:
In a tranflated fuit then tries the Town,
With borrow'd pins, and patches not her own;
But just endur'd the winter fhe began,
And in four months a batter'd harridan:
Now nothing left, but wither'd, pale, and fhrunk,
To bawd for others, and go fhares with punk.
BY A PERSON OF QUALITY.
Written in the Year 1733.
FLUTT'RING spread thy purple pinions,
Gentle Cupid! o'er my heart;
I a flave in thy dominions:
Nature must give way to Art.
Mild Arcadians, ever blooming,
Nightly nodding o'er your flocks,
See my weary days confuming
All beneath yon' flow'ry rocks.
Thus the Cyprian goddess weeping,
Mourn'd Adonis, darling youth!
Him the boar, in filence creeping,
Gor'd with unrelenting tooth.