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Is that a birthday r 'tis, alas! too clear,
'Jis 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 ev'ry thought, inspirit ev'ry grace,
Clow in thy heart, and smile upon thy face,
litt day improve on day, and year on year,
Without a pain, a trouble, or a fear;
Till death unfelt that tender frame destroy,
In" tome soft dream, or ecstasy of joy.
Peaceful sleep out the sabbath of the tomb,
And wake to raptures in a life to come.

On his Birthday, 1742.

RESIGN'D to live, prepar'd 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 tow'ring genins marks
In yonder wild-goose aud the larks!
The mushrooms show his wit was sudden!
And for his judgement, lo a pudden I
Roast beef, though old, proclaim s-him stout.
And grace, although a bard, devout.
May Tom, whom heaven sent down to raise
The price of prologues and of plays,
Be ev'ry birthday more a winner,
Digest his thirty-thousandth dinner;
Wi.'k to his grave without reproach.
And scorn u rascal and a coach.


TN beanty or wit,
No mortal as yet,

To question your empire has dar'd;
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:

So papists refuse

The Bible to use,
Lest flocks should be wise as their guide.

'Twas a woman at first

(Indeed she was curst)
In knowledge that tasted delight,

And sages agree

The laws should decree To the first of possessors the right.

Then bravely, fair dame,

Resume the old claim,
Which to your whole sex does belong;

And let men receive,

From a second bright Eve, The knowledge of right and of wrong.

* This panegyric on Lady Mary Wortley Montague might have been suppressed by Mr. Pope, on account of her having satirised him in her verses to the imitator of Horace; which abuse he returned in the first satire of the second book of Horace.

From furious Sappho, scarce a milder fate,
P—'d by.herlove, or iibtl'd by her hate.

Bat if the first Eve

Hard doom did receive, When only one apple had she,

What a punishment new .'

Shall be found out for you,
Who tasting, have robb'd the whole tree?


A modern Imitation,

SAYt, St. John, who alone peruse
With candid eye, the mimic muse,
What schemes of politics, or laws,
In Gallic lands the patriot draws 1
Is then a greater work in hand,
Than all the tomes of Haines's band?
1 Or shoots he folly as it flies?
Or catches manners as they rise J?'
Or, urg'd by unquench'd native heat,
J Does St. John Greenwich sports repeat?

* This satire on Lord Bolingbroke, and the praise bestowed on htm in a letter to Mr. Richardson, where Mr. Pope says,

The sons shall blush their fathers were his foes: being so contradictory, probably occasioned tlie former to be suppressed. S.

Ad Albinm Tibullam. t Albi, nostrorum sermonum candide jndex, Quid nunc te dtcara facere in regione Pedana? Scribere, qnod Caasi Parmensis opuscula vincat? J The line* here qnoted occur in the Essay on $ An tacitam silvas inter reptare salubres?

Where (emulous of Chartres' fame)
Ev'd Chartres' self is scarce a name.

* To you (th' all-envy'd gift of heaven)
Th' indulgent gods, unask'd, have given
A form complete in ev'ry part,
And, to enjoy that gift, the art.
t What could a tender mother's care
Wish better to her favourite heir,
Than wit, and fame, and lucky hours,
A stock of health, and golden showers,
And graceful fluency of speech,
Precepts before unknown to teach?

% Amidst thy various ebbs of fear,
And gleaming hope, and black despair:
Yet let thy friend this truth impart;
A truth I tell with bleeding heart
(In justice for your labours past),
$ That ev'ry day shall be your last;
That ev'ry hour you life renew
Is to yourinjur'd country due.

In spite of fears, of mercy spite,
My genins still must rail, and write.
Haste to thy Twickenham's safe retreat,
And mingle with the grumbling great:
There, half devour'd by spleen, yon'll find
The rhyming bubbler of mankind;
There (objects of our mutual hate)
We'll ridicule both church and state.

• — - Di tibi formam

Di tibi divitias dederant, artemque fruendi.

t Quid voveat dulci nutricula majus alumno, Quam sapere, et Can posset qua: sentiat, et cui Gratia, fama, valetudo contingat abunde,

. non deficiente crumena?

X Inter spem, curamque, timores inter et iras.

§ Omuem crede diem tibi diluxisse supremum. Me pinguem, et nitidum bene curata cute vises, Cum riderevoles Epicuri de grege porcum.


A handsome Woman with a fine Voice, but very covetous and prond9,

CO bright is thy beanty, 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.


On one who made long Epitaphs\,

FRIEND, for your epitaphs I'mgriev'd,
Where still so much is sakl;
One half will never be believ'd,
The other uever read.

* This epigram, first printed anonymously in Steele's Collection, and copied in the Miscellanies of Swift and Pope, is ascribed to Pope by sir John Hawkins, in his History of Music.—Mrs. Tofts, who was the danghter of a person in the family of Bishop Burnet, is celebrated as a singer little inferior, either for her voice or manner, to the best Italian women. She lived at the introduction of the opera into this kingdom, and sung in company with Nicolini; but, being ignorant of Italian, chanted her recitative in English, in answer to his Italian; yet the charms of their voices overcame the absurdity.

t It is not generally known that the persou here meant was Dr. Robert Freind, head master of Westminster-school.

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