Ye ladies, too, draw forth your pen;
I pray, where can the hurt lie?

Since you

have brains as well as men,

As witness Lady Wortley.

Now, Tonson, list thy forces all,
Review them and tell noses:
For to poor Ovid shall befall
A strange metamorphosis;

A metamorphosis more strange

Than all his books can vapour"To what (quoth 'squire) shall Ovid change?" Quoth Sandys, " To waste paper."

UMBRA.'

CLOSE to the best known author Umbra sits, The constant index to old Button's wits, "Who's here?" cries Umbra: "Only Johnson."

-"O!

"2

Your slave," and exit; but returns with Rowe :
"Dear Rowe, let's sit and talk of tragedies :"
Ere long Pope enters, and to Pope he flies.
Then up comes Steele: he turns upon his heel,
And in a moment fastens upon Steele;

1 Intended, it is said, for Ambrose Philips,
* Charles Johnson, a third rate dramatist.

But cries as soon, "Dear Dick, I must be gone,
For, if I know his tread, here's Addison."
Says Addison to Steele, ""Tis time to go:"
Pope to the closet steps aside with Rowe.
Poor Umbra, left in this abandon'd pickle,
E'en sits him down, and writes to honest Tickell.
Fool! 'tis in vain from wit to wit to roam;
Know, sense like charity "begins at home."

SYLVIA, A FRAGMENT.1

SYLVIA my heart in wondrous wise alarm'd,
Aw'd without sense, and without beauty charm'd:
But some odd graces and some flights she had,
Was just not ugly, and was just not mad :
Her tongue still ran on credit from her eyes,
More pert than witty, more a wit than wise:
Good-nature, she declar'd it, was her scorn,
Though 'twas by that alone she could be borne:
Affronting all, yet fond of a good name;
A fool to pleasure, yet a slave to fame :
Now coy, and studious in no point to fall,
Now all agog for Dy at a ball;

Now deep in Taylor, and the Book of Martyrs,
Now drinking citron with his Grace and Chartres.

Introduced, with some alterations, into the Second of the Moral Epistles, Of the Characters of Women

Men, some to business, some to pleasure take; But every woman's in her soul a rake.

Frail, feverish sex; their fit now chills, now burns:
Atheism and superstition rule by turns ;
And a mere heathen in the carnal part,

Is still a sad good Christian at her heart.

IMPROMPTU, TO LADY WINCHELSEA.1

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.

Authoress of a volume of poems, some of which possess very great merit.

EPIGRAM.

A BISHOP by his neighbours hated
Has cause to wish himself translated:
But why should Hough desire translation,
Lov'd and esteem'd by all the nation?
Yet, if it be the old man's case,

I'll lay my life I know the place:

'Tis where God sent some that adore him, And whither Enoch went before him.

EPIGRAM, ON THE FEUDS ABOUT HANDEL AND BONONCINI.

STRANGE! all this difference should be 'Twixt Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee!

ON MRS. TOFTS, A CELEBRATED OPERA

SINGER.

So bright is thy beauty, so charming thy song, As had drawn both the beasts and their Orpheus along :

But such is thy avarice, and such is thy pride, That the beasts must have starv'd, and the poet

have died.

THE BALANCE OF EUROPE.

Now Europe balanc'd, neither side prevails; For nothing's left in either of the scales.

EPITAPH ON LORD CONINGSBY.

HERE lies Lord Coningsby-be civil!
The rest God knows-perhaps the Devil.

EPIGRAM.

You beat your pate, and fancy wit will come : Knock as you please, there's nobody at home.

EPIGRAM FROM THE FRENCH.

SIR, I admit your general rule,
That every poet is a fool:

But you yourself may serve to show it,
That every fool is not a poet.

WELL then, poor G

EPITAPH.

lies under ground!

So there's an end of honest Jack.

So little justice here he found,

'Tis ten to one he'll ne'er come back.