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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*** and rough C*****, adieu!

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 toll;
Let Jervis 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***r's sold for fifty pound,

And B******ll is a jade.

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

Or follow girls seven hours in eight ?-
I need but once a week.

Still idle, with a busy air,
Deep whimsies to contrive;

The gayest valetudinaire,
Most thinking rake alive.
Solicitous for others' 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.

Pope.

A DIALOGUE.

SINCE my old friend is grown so great
As to be minister of state,

I'm told (but 'tis not true I hope)
That Craggs will be ashamed 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 ashamed of Craggs.

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 you! faces.

ON AN OLD GATE

Erected in Chiswick Gardens.

O GATE, how camest 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.

1742.

A FRAGMENT.

WHAT are the falling rills, the pendent shades,
The morning bowers, the evening colonnades,
But soft recesses for the 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 celo brated Earl of Rochester slept in, at Adderbury, then belonging to the Duke of Argyle, July 9th, 1739.

WITH no poetic ardour fired

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

But in thy roof, Argyle, are bred

Such thoughts as prompt the brave to lie;
Stretch'd out in honour's noble 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

VERSES TO MR. C.

St. James's Place, London, October 22.
FEW words are best; I wish you well;
Bethel, 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 falling 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.

EPITAPHS.

His saltem accumulem donis, et fungar inani
Munere!
VIRG

ON CHARLES EARL OF DORSET,

In the Church of Withyam, in Sussex.
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.

Bless'd satirist! who touch'd the mean so true,

As show'd vice had his hate and pity too.

Bless'd courtier! who could king and country please,
Yet sacred keep his friendships, and his ease.
Bless'd 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.

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 Easthamstead, in Berk shire, 1716.

A PLEASING form; a firm, yet cautious mind;
Sincere, though prudent; constant, yet resign'd;
Honour unchanged, a principle profess'd,
Fix'd to one side, but moderate 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:

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