An awkward thing, when first she came to town;
Her shape unfashion'd, and her face unknown:
She was my friend; I taught her first to spread
Upon her sallow cheeks enlivening red:
I introduced her to the park and plays;
And, by my interests, Cozens made her stays.
Un grateful wretch! with mimic airs grown pert,
She dares to steal my favourite lover's heart.

CARDELIA.

Wretch that I was, how often have I swore,
When Winnall tallied, I would punt no more?
I knew the bite, yet to my ruin run;
And see the folly which I cannot shun.

SMILINDA.

How many maids have Sharper's vows deceived ?

How many cursed the moment they believed ?
Yet his known falsehoods could no warning prove:
Ah! what is warning to a maid in love?

CARDELIA.

But of what marble must that breast be form'd, To gaze on Basset, and remain unwarm'd? When kings, queens, knaves, are set in decent rank; Exposed in glorious heaps the tempting bank, Guineas, half-guineas, all the shining train ; The winner's pleasure, and the loser's pain : In bright confusion open rouleaus lie, They strike the soul, and glitter in the eye. Fired by the sight, all reason I disdain; My passions rise, and will not bear the rein. Look upon Basset, you who reason boast, And see if reason must not there be lost.

SMILINDA.

What more than marble must that heart compose, Can hearken coldly to my Sharper's vows? Then, when he trembles! when his blushes rise! When awful love seems melting in his eyes! With eager beats his Mechlin cravat moves : He loves, I whisper to myself,-He loves! Such unfeign'd passion in his looks appears, I lose all memory of my former fears;

My panting heart confesses all his charms,
I yield at once, and sink into his arms:
Think of that moment, you who prudence boast;
For such a moment, prudence well were lost.

CARDELIA.

At the Groom-Porter's batter'd bullies play,
Some dukes at Mary-bone bowl time away;
But who the bowl or rattling dice compares
To Basset's heavenly joys and pleasing cares?

SMILINDA.

Soft Simplicetta dotes upon a beau;
Prudina likes a man, and laughs at show.
Their several graces in my Sharper meet;
Strong as the footman, as the master sweet.

LOVET.

Cease your contention, which has been too long;
I grow impatient, and the tea's too strong.
Attend, and yield to what I now decide:
The equipage shall grace Smilinda's side;
The snuff-box to Cardelia I decree.

Now leave complaining, and begin your tea.

THE FOLLOWING LINES WERE SUNG BY DURASTANTI, WHEN SHE TOOK HER LEAVE OF

THE ENGLISH STAGE.

THE WORDS WERE IN HASTE PUT TOGETHER BY MR. POPE, AT THE REQUEST

OF THE EARL OF PETERBOROUGH.

GENEROUS, gay, and gallant nation,

Bold in arms, and bright in arts;

Land secure from all invasion,

All but Cupid's gentle darts!
From your charms, oh who would run?
Who would leave you for the sun?
Happy soil, adieu, adieu!

1 [This lady was brought to England by Handel in 1719. Mr. Bowles states that she was so great a favourite at Court that the King stood godfather to one of her children.]

Let old charmers yield to new ;

In arms, in arts, be still more shining;

All your joys be still increasing;
All your tastes be still refining ;

All your jars for ever ceasing:

But let old charmers yield to new.
Happy soil, adieu, adieu!

WHAT IS PRUDERY?

["A prude would never have had any charms for Mr. Pope, to whom Mrs. Howe said one day, 'You men call us strange names; some of them I don't

understand. Coquetry, indeed, I guess at; but prudery, for heaven's sake, make me know thoroughly what that prudery is.' Mr. Pope wrote her an answer in the leaf of an ivory book."-Ayre's Life of Pope.]

Lean and fretful, would seem wise;
Yet plays the fool before she dies.
'Tis an ugly envious shrew,
That rails at dear Lepell, and you.

[Miss Sophia Howe was one of the Maids of Honour to the Princess Caroline. She was a daughter of General Howe, brother of the first Viscount of that name. An unfortunate acquaintance with Mr. A. Lowther, brother of Lord Lonsdale, lost this young lady her reputation. According to Sir Charles Hanbury Williams,

"Her breaking looks foretold a breaking heart;"

and she died in 1726.]

ON A CERTAIN LADY AT COURT.1

KNOW the thing that's most uncommon;

I (Envy be silent and attend!)

I know a reasonable woman,
Handsome and witty, yet a friend.

Not warp'd by passion, awed by rumour,

Not grave through pride, or gay through folly;

An equal mixture of good humour
And sensible soft melancholy.

"Has she no faults, then, (Envy says) sir?"
Yes, she has one, I must aver:
When all the world conspires to praise her,
The woman's deaf, and does not hear.

1 [Mrs. Howard, Countess of Suffolk.]

A FAREWELL TO LONDON.

IN THE YEAR 1715.

DEAR, damn'd, distracting town, farewell!

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

Soft B--s and rough C-s adieu, 1
Earl Warwick make your moan,

The lively H--k and you

May knock up whores alone.

To drink and droll be Rowe allow'd
Till the third watchman's toll;
Let Jervas 2 gratis paint, and Frowde
Save three-pence and his soul.

Farewell, Arbuthnot's raillery
On every learned sot;
And Garth, the best good Christian he,
Although he knows it not.

Lintot, farewell! thy bard must go;
Farewell, unhappy Tonson!
Heaven gives thee for thy loss of Rowe,
Lean Philips, and fat Johnson.4

3

1 [There was one Brocas "Beau Brocas"-whom Pope mentions in an epistle to H. Cromwell. Ayre also mentions a Mr. Fettiplace Bellers, of Crown Allins, Gloucestershire, an intimate acquaintance of Mr. Pope's, and much esteemed by him."]

2 [See poem, Sandys' Ghost, in which Frowde is alluded to.]

3 [Rowe had the year before, on the accession of George I., been made Poet-laureate, one of the land-surveyors of the port of London, Clerk of the Closet to the Prince of Wales, and Secretary of Presentations under the Lord Chancellor. Such an accumulation of offices might well suspend for a season the poetical and publishing pursuits of Rowe. But he did not enjoy his good fortune long. His death took place in 1718, when he was only forty-five years of age.]

4 [The "Johnson" coupled with Ambrose Philips, was Charles Johnson, the dramatist, who died in 1748.]