Amidst thy various ebbs of fear,
And gleaming hope, and black despair,
Yet let thy friend this truth impart,
A truth I tell with bleeding heart,
(In justice for your labours past)
That every day shall be your last;
That every hour you life renew
Is to your injur'd country due.

In spite of fears, of mercy spite,
My genius still must rail, and write.
Haste to thy Twickenham's safe retreat,
And mingle with the grumbling great;
There, half devour'd by spleen, you'll find
The rhyming bubbler of mankind;
There (objects of our mutual hate)
We'll ridicule both church and state.

A SERMON AGAINST ADULTERY;

BEING SOBER ADVICE FROM HORACE TO THE YOUNG GEN

TLEMEN ABOUT TOWN, AS DELIVERED IN HIS SECOND SERMON. IMITATED IN THE MANNER OF MR. POPE.1

SIR,

TO ALEXANDER POPE, ESQ.

I HAVE SO great a trust in your indulgence towards me, as to believe you cannot but patronize this Imitation, so much in your own manner, and whose birth I may truly say is owing to you. In that confidence, I would not suppress the criticisms made upon it by the Reverend Doctor; 2 the rather, since he has promised to mend the faults in the next edition, with the same goodness he has practised to Milton. I hope you will believe that while I express my regard for you, it is only out of modesty I conceal my name; since, though perhaps I may not profess myself your admirer, so much as some others, I cannot but be, with as much inward respect, good-will, and zeal, as any man,

Dear Sir, your most affectionate and

faithful Servant.

1 This imitation of the Second Satire of the First Book of Horace was certainly written by Pope. See Memoir prefixed to these volumes, p. c.

2 The Nota Bentleiana are not reprinted in the present work.

A SERMON AGAINST ADULTERY;

BEING SOBER ADVICE FROM HORACE, ETC.

THE tribe of templars, players, apothecaries, Pimps, poets, wits, Lord Fannys, Lady Marys, And all the court in tears, and half the town, Lament dear charming Oldfield,1 dead and gone! Engaging Oldfield! who, with grace and ease, Could join the arts, to ruin and to please.

Not so, who of ten thousand gull'd her knight, Then ask'd ten thousand for a second night; The gallant too, to whom she paid it down, Liv'd to refuse that mistress half a crown.2

8

Con. Philips cries, 'A sneaking dog I hate:' That's all three lovers have for their estate! Treat on, treat on,' is her eternal note,

And lands and tenements go down her throat. Some damn the jade, and some the cullies blame, But not Sir H-t, for he does the same.

With all a woman's virtues but the pox, Fufidia thrives in money, land, and stocks: For interest, ten per cent. her constant rate is; Her body! hopeful heirs may have it gratis. She turns her very sister to a job,

And, in the happy minute, picks your fob;

1 Mrs. Oldfield, the actress.

2 An allusion to the Duchess of Cleveland and the Duke

Yet starves herself, so little her own friend,
And thirsts and hungers only at one end:
A self-tormentor, worse than (in the play)
The wretch, whose avarice drove his son away.
But why all this? beloved, 'tis my theme:
'Women and fools are always in extreme.'
Rufa's at either end a common shore,
Sweet Moll and Jack are civet cat and boar.
Nothing in nature is so lewd as Peg,
Yet for the world she would not show her leg!
While bashful Jenny, e'en at morning prayer,
Spreads her fore-buttocks to the navel bare.
But different taste in different men prevails,
And one is fir'd by heads, and one by tails;
Some feel no flames but at the court or ball,
And others hunt white aprons in the mall.

My Lord of Lo-n, chancing to remark A noted Dean much busied in the park, 'Proceed (he cried), proceed, my reverend brother, 'Tis fornicatio simplex, and no other.

Better than lust for boys, with Pope and Turk, Or others' spouses, like my Lord of

4

May no such praise (cries J-s) e'er be mine, J-s, who bows at Hi-sb-w's hoary shrine. All you who think the city ne'er can thrive, 'Till every cuckold-maker's flay'd alive, Attend, while I their miseries explain, And pity men of pleasure still in pain !

4 Cork.

Survey the pangs they bear, the risks they run,
Where the most lucky are but last undone.
See wretched Monsieur flies to save his throat,
And quits his mistress, money, ring, and note!
K of his footman's borrow'd livery stript,
By worthier footmen piss'd upon and whipt!
Plunder'd by thieves, or lawyers, which is worse,
One bleeds in person, and one bleeds in purse;
This meets a blanket, and that meets a cudgel—
And all applaud the justice-all, but Budgell.

How much more safe, dear countrymen! his state,
Who trades in frigates of the second rate!
And yet some care of S―st should be had,
Nothing so mean for which he can't run mad;
His wit confirms him but a slave the more,
And makes a princess whom he found a whore.
The youth might save much trouble and expense,
Were he a dupe of only common sense.
But here's his point! a wench (he cries) for me!
'I never touch a dame of quality.'

To P-1-r's bed no actress comes amiss,
He courts the whole persona dramatis:
He too can say, 'With wives I never sin :'
But singing girls and mimics draw him in.
Sure, worthy sir, the difference is not great,
With whom you lose your credit and estate!
This, or that person, what avails to shun?
What's wrong is wrong, wherever it be done:
The ease, support, and lustre of your life,
Destroy'd alike with strumpet, maid, or wife.