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Not to his patient touch, or happy flame,
'Tis to his British heart he trusts for fame.
If France excel him in one free-born thought,
The man, as well as poet, is in fault.

Nature! informer of the poets art,

Whose form alone can raise or melt the heart,
Thou artless guide; each passion, ev'ry line,
Whate'er he draws to please, must all be thine.
Be thou his judge: in every candid breast,
Thy silent whisper is the sacred test.


Pope. Since my old friend is grown so great As to be minister of state,

I'm told (but 'tis not true I hope)

That Craggs will be asham'd of Pope.

Craggs. Alas! if I am such a creature,
Το grow the worse for growing greater;
Why faith, in spite of all my braggs,
'Tis Pope must be asham'd of Craggs.


Erected in Chiswick Gardens.

GATE, how cam'st thou here ?

Gate.-I was brought from Chelsea last year

Batter'd with wind and weather.
Inigo Jones put me together.

Sir Han Sloane

Let me alone;

Burlington brought me hither.



Written in the Year 1715.

DEAR damn'd distracting town farewell!

Thy fools no more I'll teaze; This year in peace, ye critics, dwell, Ye harlots, sleep at ease!

Soft B

and rough Cadieu!

Earl Warwick make your moan, The lively H-k and you

May knock


w-h-es alone.

To drink and droll be Rowe allow'd
Till the third watchman toll;
Let Jervais gratis paint, and Frowde
Save threepence and his soul.

Farewell Arbuthnot's raillery
On every learned Sot;

And Garth, the best good christian he,
Although he knows it not.

Lintot farewel! thy Bard must go,

Farewel, unhappy Tonson!

Heaven gives thee for thy loss of Rowe, Lean Phillips and fat Johnson.

Why should I stay, both parties rage;
My vixen mistress squalls;
The wits in envious feuds engage;
And Homer (D-n him) calls.

The love of arts lies cold and dead
In Halifax's urn;

And not one Muse of all he fed
Has yet the grace to mourn.

My friends, by turns, my friends confound,

Betray and are betray'd;
Poor Y-r's sold for fifty pound
And B- -11, is a jade.

Why make I friendships with the great, When I no favor seek?

Or follow girls seven hours in eight ?— I need but once a week.

Still idle with a busy air,
Deep whimsies to contrive;

The gayest valetudinaire,

Most thinking rake aliye.

Solicitous for other's ends,

Though fond of dear repose; Careless or drowsy with my friends, And frolic with my foes.

Luxurious Lobster-nights, farewel,
For sober, studious days!
And Burlington's delicious meal,
For sallads, tarts, and pease!

Adieu to all but Gay alone,
Whose soul, sincere and free,
Loves all mankind, but flatters none,
And so may starve with me.



HAT are the falling rills, the pendant shades,
The morning bowers, the evening colonades,
But soft recesses for th' weary mind

To sigh unheard into the passing wind!
So the struck deer, in some sequester'd part,
Lies down to die; (the arrow in his heart:)
There hid in shades, and wasting day by day,
Inly he bleeds, and pants his soul away.


Left by Mr. Pope, on his lying in the same bed which Wilmot, the celebrated Earl of Rochester slept in, at Adderbury, then belonging to the Duke of Argyle, July 9th, 1739.


ITH no poetic ardor fir'd

I press the bed where Wilmot lay; That here he lov'd, or here expir'd, Begets no numbers grave or gay.

But in thy roof Argyle, are bred
Such thoughts as prompt the brave to lie
Stretch'd out in honor's noble bed,
Beneath a nobler roof—the sky.

Such flames as high in patriots burn,
Yet stoop to bless a child or wife;
And such as wicked kings may mourn,
When freedom is more dear than life-




London, Oct. 22.

Ew words are best, I wish you well;
Bethel, I'm told, will soon be here:
Some morning-walks along the Mall,
And evening friends, will end the year.

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