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.

VERBATIM FROM BOILEAU.
Un jour, dit un auteur, etc.

ONCE (says an author, where I need not say)
Two travellers found an oyster in their way;
Both fierce, both hungry; the dispute grew strong;
While scale in hand dame Justice pass'd along.
Before her each with clamour pleads the laws,
Explain'd the matter, and would win the cause.
Dame Justice weighing long the doubtful right,
Takes, opens, swallows it, before their sight.
The cause of strife removed so rarely well,
There take (says Justice), take ye each a shell.
We thrive at Westminster on fools like you:
'Twas a fat oyster-Live in peace-Adieu.

ANSWER TO THE FOLLOWING QUESTION OF MRS. HOW.

WHAT IS PRUDERY?

'Tis a beldam, Seen with wit and beauty seldom. 'Tis a fear that starts at shadows; "Tis (no, 'tisn't) like Miss Meadows. "Tis a virgin hard of feature, Old, and void of all good-nature; 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.

OCCASIONED BY SOME 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 verse assail,
Let Dennis write, and nameless numbers rail:
This more than pays whole years of thankless pain,
Time, health, and fortune, are not lost in vain.
SHEFFIELD approves, consenting Phoebus bends,
And I and Malice from this hour are friends.

A PROLOGUE

TO A PLAY FOR MR. DENNIS'S BENEFIT IN 1733, WHEN HE WAS OLD, BLIND, AND IN GREAT DISTRESS, A LITTLE BEFORE HIS DEATH.

As when that hero, who in each campaign,
Had braved the Goth, and many a Vandal slain,
Lay fortune-struck, a spectacle of woe!
Wept by each friend, forgiven by every foe;
Was there a generous, a reflecting mind,
But pitied BELISARIUS old and blind?
Was there a chief but melted at the sight?
A common soldier, but who clubb'd his mite?
Such, such emotions should in Britons rise,
Dennis, who long had warr'd with modern Huns,
When press'd by want and weakness DENNIS lies;
Their quibbles routed, and defied their puns;
A desperate bulwark, sturdy, firm and fierce,
Against the Gothic sons of frozen verse:
How changed from him who made the boxes groan,
And shook 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 shoes in scorn;
If there's a critic of distinguish'd rage;
If there's a senior, who contemns this age;
Let him to-night his just assistance lend,
And be the critic's, Briton's, old man's friend.

MACER:

A CHARACTER.

WHEN Simple Macer, now of high renown,
First sought a poet's fortune in the town,
"Twas all the ambition his high soul 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 ventured on the town,
And with a borrow'd play, outdid poor Crown.
There he stopp'd short, nor since has writ a tittle,
But has the wit to make the most of little:
Like stunted hide-bound trees, that just have got
Sufficient sap at once to bear and rot.
Now he begs verse, and what he gets commends,
Not of the wits his foes, but fools his friends.

So some coarse country wench, almost decay'd,
Trudges to town, and first turns chambermaid;
Awkward and supple, each devoir to pay;
She flatters her good lady twice a day;
Thought wondrous honest, though of mean degre
And strangely liked for her simplicity:

In a translated suit, then tries the town,
With borrow'd pins, and patches not her own:
But just endured the winter she began,
And in four months a batter'd harridan.
Now nothing left, but wither'd, pale, and shrunk,
To bawd for others, and go shares with Punk.

TO MR. JOHN MOORE,

AUTHOR OF THE CELEBRATED WORM-POWDER,

How much, egregious Moore, are we
Deceived by shows and forms!
Whate'er we think, whate'er we see,
All humankind are worms.

Man is a very worm by birth,

Vile, reptile, weak, and vain!
A while he crawls upon the earth,
Then shrinks to earth again.
That woman is a worm, we find

E'er since our grandame's evil;

She first conversed with her own kind,

That ancient worm, the devil.

The learn'd themselves we book-worms name,
The blockhead is a slow-worm;

The nymph whose tail is all on flame,
Is aptly term'd a glow-worm.

The fops are painted butterflies,
That flutter for a day;

First from a worm they take their rise,
And in a worm decay.

The flatterer an earwig grows:

Thus worms suit all conditions ;
Misers are muck-worms, silk-worms beaus,
And death-watches physicians.
That statesmen have the worm, is seen
By all their winding play;
Their conscience is a worm within,
That gnaws them night and day.

Ah Moore! thy skill were well employ'd,
And greater gain would rise,

If thou couldst make the courtier void
The worm that never dies!

O learned friend of Abchurch-lane,
Who sett'st our entrails free!
Vain is thy art, thy powder vain,

Since worms shall eat even thee.

Our fate thou only canst adjourn

Some few short years, no more!
Even Button's wits to worms shall turn,
Who maggots were before.

SONG,

BY A PERSON OF QUALITY.

WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1733.

I.

FLUTTERING spread thy purple pinions,
Gentle Cupid, o'er my heart,

I a slave in thy dominions;
Nature must give way to art.

I KNOW the thing that's most uncommon; (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.

ON HIS GROTTO AT TWICKENHAM,

COMPOSED OF

MARBLES, SPARS, GEMS, ORES, AND MINERALS.

THOU who shalt stop, where Thames' translucent

wave

Shines a broad mirror through the shadowy cave;
Where lingering drops from mineral roofs distil,
And pointed crystals break the sparkling rill,
Unpolish'd gems no ray on pride bestow,
And latent metals innocently glow:

Approach. Great NATURE studiously behold!
And eye the mine without a wish for gold.
Approach: but awful! Lo! the Ægerian grot,
Where, nobly pensive, ST. JOHN sate and thought;
Where British sighs from dying WYNDHAM stole,
And the bright flame was shot through MARCH-
MONT'S Soul.

Let such, such only, tread this sacred floor,
Who dare to love their country, and be poor.

TO MR. GAY,

WHO CONGRATULATED HIM ON FINISHING HIS HOUSE AND GARDENS.

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 checquer'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

TO MRS. M. B.

vex,

ON HER BIRTH-DAY.

OH be thou blest with all that Heaven can send,
Long health, long youth, long pleasure, and a friend:
Not with those toys the female world admire,
Riches that and vanities that tire.
With added years, if life bring nothing new,
But like a sieve let every blessing through,
Some joy still lost, as each vain year runs o'er,
And all we gain, some sad reflection more;
Is that a birth-day? 'tis alas! too clear,
"Tis but the funeral of the former year.

Let joy or ease, let affluence or content,
And the gay conscience of a life well spent,
Calm every thought, inspirit every grace,
Glow in thy heart, and smile upon thy face.
Let day improve on day, and year on year,
Without a pain, a trouble, or a fear;
Till death unfelt that tender frame destroy,
In some soft dream, or ecstacy of joy,
Peaceful sleep out the sabbath of the tomb,
And wake to raptures in a life to come.

TO MR. THOMAS SOUTHERN, ON HIS BIRTH-DAY, 1742.

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 a pudden!
Roast beef, though old, proclaims him stout,
And grace, although a bard, devout.
May Toм, whom Heaven sent down to raise
The price of prologues and of plays,
Be every birth-day more a winner,
Digest his thirty-thousandth dinner;
Walk to his grave without reproach,
And scorn a rascal in a coach.

ROXANA, OR THE DRAWING-ROOM. AN ECLOGUE'.

ROXANA from the court returning late,
Sigh'd her soft sorrow at St. James's gate:
Such heavy thoughts lay brooding in her breast;
Not her own chairmen with more weight opprest:
They curse the cruel weight they're doomed to bear;
She in more gentle sounds express'd her care.

Was it for this, that I these roses wear?
For this, new-set the jewels for my hair?
Ah princess! with what zeal have I pursued!
Almost forgot the duty of a prude.

This king, I never could attend too soon;

I miss'd my prayers, to get me dress'd by noon.
For thee, ah! what for thee did I resign?
My passions, pleasures, all that e'er was mine:
I've sacrificed both modesty and ease;
Left operas, and went to filthy plays:
Double-entendres shock'd my tender ear;
Yet even this, for thee, I choose to bear:
In glowing youth, when nature bids be gay,
And every joy of life before me lay;

By honour prompted, and by pride restrain❜d,
The pleasures of the young my soul disdain'd:
Sermons I sought, and with a mien severe,
Censured my neighbours, and said daily prayer.
Alas, how changed! with this same sermon-mien,
The filthy What-d'ye-call it—I have seen.
Ah, royal princess! for whose sake I lost
The reputation, which so dear had cost;
I, who avoided every public place,

When bloom and beauty bid me show my face,
Now near thee, constant, I each night abide,
With never-failing duty by my side;
Myself and daughters standing in a row,
To all the foreigners a goodly show.
Oft had your drawing-room been sadly thin,
And merchants' wives close by your side had been;
Had I not amply fill'd the empty place,
And saved your highness from the dire disgrace:
Yet Cockatilla's artifice prevails,
When all my duty and my merit fails:
That Cockatilla, whose deluding airs
Corrupts our virgins, and our youth ensnares;
So sunk her character, and lost her fame,
Scarce visited, before your highness came;
Yet for the bed-chamber 'tis she you choose,
Whilst zeal, and fame, and virtue you refuse.

1 This Eclogue is by some attributed to Lady Mary Wortley Montagu.

EXTEMPORANEOUS LINES,

ON THE PICTURE OF LADY MARY W. MONTAGU BY KNELLER.

[From Dallaway's Life of Lady Mary.]

THE playful smiles around the dimpled mouth,
That happy air of majesty and truth;
So would I draw (but oh! 'tis vain to try,
My narrow genius does the power deny)
The equal lustre of the heavenly mind,
Where every grace with every virtue's join'd;
Learning not vain, and wisdom not severe,
With greatness easy, and with wit sincere ;
With just description show the work divine,
And the whole princess in my work should shine.

THE LOOKING-GLASS.

ON MRS. PULTENEY.

WITH Scornful mien, and various toss of air, Fantastic, vain, and insolently fair,

Grandeur intoxicates her giddy brain,
She looks ambition, and she moves disdain.
Far other carriage graced her virgin life,
But charming G-y's lost in P-y's wife.
Not greater arrogance in him we find,
And this conjunction swells at least her mind:
O could the sire, renown'd in glass, produce
One faithful mirror for his daughter's use!
Wherein she might her haughty errors trace,
And by reflection learn to mend her face:
The wonted sweetness to her form restore,
Be what she was, and charm mankind once more!

To drink and droll be Rowe allow'd
Till the third watchman's toll;
Let Jervase 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.
Why should I stay? Both parties rage;
My vixen mistress squalls;
The wits in envious feuds engage:

And Homer (damn 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- -rs sold for fifty pounds,

And B-l is a jade.

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

Still idle, with a busy air,

*

Deep whimsies to contrive; The gayest valetudinaire,

Most thinking rake alive. Solicitous for other ends,

Though fond of dear repose; Careless or drowsy with my friends, And frolic with my foes. Luxurious lobster-nights, farewell,

For sober, studious days! And Burlington's delicious meal, For salads, 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.

THE FOLLOWING LINES WERE SUNG BY DURAS TANTI, 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 !
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 !

UPON THE DUKE OF MARLBOROUGH'S HOUSE AT WOODSTOCK.

Atria longa patent; sed nec cœnantibus usquam,
Nec somno locus est: quàm bene non habitas!
MART. Epig.

SEE, sir, here's the grand approach,
This way is for his Grace's coach;
There lies the bridge, and here's the clock,
Observe the lion and the cock,
The spacious court, the colonnade,
And mark how wide the hall is made!
The chimneys are so well design'd,
They never smoke in any wind.
This gallery's contrived for walking,
The windows to retire and talk in ;
The council-chamber for debate,
And all the rest are rooms of state.

Thanks, sir, cried I, 'tis very fine,
But where d'ye sleep, or where d'ye dine?
I find by all you have been telling,
That 'tis a house, but not a dwelling.

VERSES 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 9, 1739.

WITH no poetic ardour fired

I press the bed where Wilmot lay;
That here he loved, or here expired,
Begets no numbers, grave or gay.

Beneath thy roof, Argyle, are bred
Such thoughts as prompt the brave to lie
Stretch'd out in honour's nobler 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.

THE CHALLENGE.

A COURT BALLAD.

To the tune of "To all you ladies now at land," c.

I.

To one fair lady out of court,

And two fair ladies in,

Who think the Turk and Pope a sport,

And wit and love no sin;

Come, these soft lines, with nothing stiff in,
To Bellenden, Lepell, and Griffin,
With a fa, la, la.

II.

What passes in the dark third row,
And what behind the scene,
Couches and crippled chairs I know,
And garrets hung with green;
I know the swing of sinful hack,
Where many damsels cry alack.
With a fa, la, la.

III.

Then why to courts should I repair,
Where's such ado with Townshend ?
To hear each mortal stamp and swear,
And every speech with zounds end
To hear 'em rail at honest Sunderland,
And rashly blame the realm of Blunderland.
With a fa, la, la.

IV.

Alas! like Schutz I cannot pun,

Like Grafton court the Germans; Tell Pickenbourg how slim she's grown, Like Meadows run to sermons; To court ambitious men may roam, But I and Marlbro' stay at home. With a fa, la, la.

V.

In truth, by what I can discern,
Of courtiers 'twixt you three,
Some wit you have, and more may learn
From court, than Gay or me:
Perhaps, in time, you'll leave high diet,
To sup with us on milk and quiet.
With a fa, la, la.

VI.

At Leicester-Fields, a house full high,
With door all painted green,
Where ribbons wave upon the tie,
(A milliner I mean ;)

There may you meet us three to three,
For Gay can well make two of me.
With a fa, la, la.

VII.

But should you catch the prudish itch,
And each become a coward,
Bring sometimes with you Lady Rich,
And sometimes Mistress Howard;
For virgins, to keep chaste, must go
Abroad with such as are not so.
With a fa, la, la.

VIII.

And thus, fair maids, my ballad ends:
God send the king safe landing;
And make all honest ladies friends
To armies that are standing;
Preserve the limits of those nations,
And take off ladies' limitations.
With a fa, la, la.