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Pope. SINCE my old friend is grown so great,

As to be
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,

To grow the worse for growing greater;
Why, 'faith, in spite of all my brags,
'Tis Pope must be asham'd of Craggs. I

EPIGRAM, Engraved on the Collar of a Dog, which I gave

to his Royal Highness.

I

AM his Highness' dog at Kew;
Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?

EPIGRAM,
Occasioned by an Invitation to Court.

IN

the lines that you sent are the muses and

graces ; You've the nine in your wit, and the three in your

faces,

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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 Hans Sloane

Let me alone:
Burlington brought me hither.

17 +2.

WHA

A FRAGMENT.
THAT are the falling rills, the pendent shades,

The morning bowers, the evening colonades,
But soft recesses for th'

uneasy

mind
To sigh unheard in, to 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.

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 Argylea July 9th, 1739.

no poetic ardour fir'd I press'd the bed where Wilmot lay; That here he lov'd, or here expir’d,

Begets no numbers grave or gay,

WITH

But in thy roof, Argyle, are bred

Such thoughts as prompt the brave to lie Stretch'd out in honour's nobler bed,

Beneath a pobler roof.--the sky. Such flames as high in patriots burn,

Yet stoop to bless a child or wife; Aud such as wicked kings may mourn,

When freedom is more dear than life.

VERSES TO MR. C.

St. James's Place, London, October 22.

FEW

words are best; I wish you well;

Bechel, I'm told, will soon be here: Some morning-walks along the Mall,

And evening friends, will end the year. If, in this interval, between

The falliug leaf and coming frost, You, please to see, on Twit'nam green,

Your friend, your poet, and your host; For three whole days you here may rest,

From office, business, news, and strife; And (what most folks would think a jest)

Want nothing else, except your wife.

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His saltem accumulem donis, et fungar inani
Munere!

VIRG.

ON CHARLES EARL OF DORSET,

In the Church of Withyam, in Sussex.

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DORSET, the grace of courts, the muses’ pride,

Patron of arts, and judge of nature, died.
The scourge of pride, though sanctified or great,
Of fops in learning, and of knaves in state :
Yet soft his nature, though severe his lay,
His anger moral, and his wisdom gay.
Blest satirist! who touch'd the mean so true,
As show'd, vice had his hate and pity too.
Blest courtier ! who could king and country please,
Yet sacred keep his friendships, and his ease.
Blest peer! his great forefathers' every grace
Reflecting, and reflected in his race;
Where other Buckhursts, other Dorsets shine,
And patrons still, or poets, deck the line.

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ON SIR WILLIAM TRUMBALL, One of the principal Secretaries of State to King

William the Third, who, having resigned his Place, died in his Retirement at Easthamsted, in Berkshire, 1716. A

Sincere, though prudent; constant, yet resign'd; Honour unchang’d, a principle profest, Fix'd to one side, but mod'rate to the rest : An honest courtier, yet a patriot too ; Just to his prince, and to his country true: Fill'd with the sense of age, the fire of youth, A scorn of wrangling, yet a zeal for truth: A gen'rous faith, from superstition free; A love to peace, and liate of tyranny: Such this man was; who now from earth remov'd, At length enjoys that liberty he lov'd.

ON THE HON. SIMON HARCOURT, Only Son of the Lord Chancellor Harcourt, at

the Church of Stanton-Harcourt, in Oxford

shire, 1720. To this sad shrine, whoe'er thou art, draw near ;

Here lies the friend most lov'd, the son most dear;
Who ne'er knew joy but friendship might divide,
Or gave his father grief but when he died..

How.vain is reason, eloquence how weak!
If Pope must tell what Harcourt cannot speak.
Oh let thy once-loy'd friend inscribe thy, stonen
And with a father's sorrows mix his own!

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