Vain means, alas, this frenzy to appease !
That straw, that straw, would heighten the dis-
My bed (the scene of all our former joys; Witness two lovely girls, two lovely boys) Alone I press in dreams I call my dear; I stretch my hand no Gulliver is there! I wake, I rise; and, shivering with the frost, Search all the house: my Gulliver is lost! Forth in the street I rush with frantic cries; The windows open, all the neighbours rise: 'Where sleeps my Gulliver? O, tell me where!' The neighbours answer, With the sorrel mare.' At early morn I to the market haste, Studious in every thing to please thy taste: A curious fowl and 'sparagus I chose,
For I remember'd you were fond of those :
Three shillings cost the first, the last seven groats;
Sullen you turn from both, and call for oats.
Others bring goods and treasures to their houses,
Something to deck their pretty babes and spouses:
My only token was a cup like horn,
That's made of nothing but a lady's corn.
'Tis not for that I grieve: O, 'tis to see
The groom and sorrel mare preferr'd to me!
These, for some moments when you deign to
quit,
And at due distance sweet discourse admit,
'Tis all my pleasure thy past toil to know;
For pleased remembrance builds delight on woe.
At every danger pants thy consort's breast,
And gaping infants squall to hear the rest.
How did I tremble, when, by thousands bound,
I saw thee stretch'd on Lilliputian ground:
When scaling armies climb'd up every part,
Each step they trod I felt upon my heart.
But when thy torrent quench'd the dreadful blaze,
King, queen, and nation staring with amaze,
Full in my view how all my husband came!
And what extinguish'd theirs, increased my flanie.
Those spectacles, ordain'd thine eyes to save,
Were once my present; love that armour gave.
How did I mourn at Bolgolam's decree!
For, when he sign'd thy death, he sentenced me. When folks might see thee all the country round
For sixpence, I'd have given a thousand pound.
Lord! when the giant babe that head of thine 81
Got in his mouth, my heart was up in mine!
When in the marrow-bone I see thee ramm'd,
Or on the house-top by the monkey cramm'd,
The piteous images renew my pain,
And all thy dangers I weep o'er again :
But on the maiden's nipple when you rid,
Pray Heaven, 'twas all a wanton maiden did!
Glumdalclitch too!-with thee I mourn her case:
Heaven guard the gentle girl from all disgrace!
O, may the king that one neglect forgive,
And pardon her the fault by which I live!
Was there no other way to set him free?
My life, alas! I fear proved death to thee.
O, teach me, dear, new words to speak my flame!
Teach me to woo thee by thy best loved name!
Whether the style of Grildrig please thee most,
So call'd on Brobdingnag's stupendous coast;
When on the monarch's ample hand you sate,
And halloo'd in his ear intrigues of state;
Or Quinbus Flestrin more endearment brings,
When like a mountain you look'd down on kings;
If ducal Nardac, Lilliputian peer,
Or Glumglum's humbler title soothe thy ear;
Nay, would kind Jove my organs so dispose,
To hymn harmonious Houyhnhnm through the
I'd call thee Houyhnhnm, that high-sounding
Thy children's noses all should twang the same : So might I find my loving spouse of course Endued with all the virtues of a horse.
THOUGH sprightly Sappho force our love and praise,
A softer wonder my pleased soul surveys,
The mild Erinna blushing in her bays.
So, while the sun's broad beam yet strikes the night,
All mild appears the moon's more sober light;
Serene in virgin majesty she shines,
And, unobserved, the glaring orb declines.
RESIGN'D to live, prepared to die,
With not one sin, but poetry,
This day Tom's fair account has run,
Without a blot, to eighty-one.
Kind Boyle, before his poet, lays
A table, with a cloth of bays;
And Ireland, mother of sweet singers,
Presents her harp still to his fingers.
The feast, his towering genius marks
In yonder wild goose, and the larks:
The mushrooms show his wit was sudden;
And, for his judgment, lo, lo-a pudden !
Roast beef, though old, proclaims him stout,
And grace, although a bard devout.
May Tom, whom Heaven sent down to raise
The price of prologues and of plays,
Be every birthday more a winner;
Digest his thirty-thousandth dinner;
Walk to his grave without reproach
And scorn a rascal in a coach.
WHO HAD CONGRATULATED POPE ON FINISHING HIS HOUSE AND GARDEN.
AH, friend! 'tis true-this truth you lovers know;
In vain my structures rise, my gardens grow;
In vain fair Thames reflects the double scenes
Of hanging mountains and of sloping greens:
Joy lives not here, to happier seats it flies,
And only dwells where Wortley casts her eyes.
What are the gay parterre, the chequer'd shade,
The morning bower, the evening colonnade,
But soft recesses of uneasy minds,
To sigh, unheard in, to the passing winds?
So the struck deer in some sequester'd part
Lies down to die, the arrow at his heart:
He, stretch'd unseen in coverts hid from day,
Bleeds drop by drop, and pants his life away.
IMPROMPTU, TO LADY WINCHELSEA.
OCCASIONED BY FOUR SATIRICAL VERSES ON WOMEN WITS, IN THE RAPE OF THE LOCK.'
In vain you boast poetic names of yore,
And cite those Sapphos we admire no more :
Fate doom'd the fall of every female wit;
But doom'd it then, when first Ardelia writ.
Of all examples by the world confess'd,
I knew Ardelia could not quote the best;
Who, like her mistress on Britannia's throne,
Fights and subdues in quarrels not her own.
To write their praise you but in vain essay:
E'en while you write, you take that praise away :
Light to the stars the sun does thus restore,
But shines himself till they are seen no more.
RIGHT HON. THE EARL OF OXFORD.
Upon a piece of news in Mist,* that the Rev. Mr. W. refused to write against Mr. Pope, because his best patron had a friendship for the said Mr. P.
WESLEY, if Wesley 'tis they mean,
They say, on Pope would fall,
Would his best patron let his pen
Discharge his inward gall.
What patron this, a doubt must be,
Which none but you can clear,
Or Father Francis 'cross the sea,
Or else Earl Edward here.
That both were good must be confess'd;
And much to both he owes ;
But which to him will be the best,
The Lord of Oxford knows.
TO LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGUE.
IN beauty or wit,
No mortal as yet
To question your empire has dared;
But men of discerning
Have thought that in learning
To yield to a lady was hard.
Impertinent schools,
With musty dull rules,
Have reading to females denied:
* Mist's Journal. See Dunciad, Bk. I. 1. 208.
+ Rev. Samuel Wesley.
Atterbury, Bishop of Rochester, then in exile.
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