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Whose laughs are hearty, tho' his jests are coarse, And loves you best of all things—but his horse. SO

In some fair evening, on your elbow laid,
You dream of triumphs in the rural shade;
In pensive thought recall the fancied scene,
See coronations rise on every green:
Before you pass th' imaginary sights Si

Of lords, and earls, and dukes, and garter'd knights,
While the spread fan o'ershades your closing eyes,
Then give one flirt, and all the vision flies.
Thus vanish sceptres, coronets, and balls,
And leave you in lone woods, or empty walls! 40

So when your slave, at some dear idle tine, -
(Not plagued with headachs or the want of rhyme,)
Stands in the street abstracted from the crew,
And while he seems to study, thinks of you;
Just when his fancy points your sprightly eyes. 45
Or sees the blush of soft Parthenia rise,
Gay pats my shoulder and you vanish quite,
Streets, chairs, ami coxcombs, rush upon my sight;
Vext to be still in town t knit my brow,
Look sour, and hum a tune, as you may now. 50

TO MR. JOHN MOORE,

AUTHOR OF THE CELEBRATED WORM-POWDER.

How much, egregious Moore! are we
Deceiv'd by shews and forms!
Whate'cr we think, whate'er we see,
All humankind are worms.

Man is a very worm by birth, 5

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 urandam's evil; 10

She first convers'd 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, 15

Is aptly tenu'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. JO

The flatterer an car-wig grows;

Thus worms suit all conditions;

Misers are muck-worms, silk-worms beaus,

And death-watches physicians.

That statesmen have the worm, is seen 25

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 gam would rise, 30

If thou couldst make the courtier void

The worm that never dies i

O learned friend of Abch urch-lane,

Who sett'st our entrails free;

Vain is thy art, thy powder vain, $$

Since worms shall eat ev'n thee.

Our fate thdu only canst adjourn

Some few short years, no more!

Ev'n Button's wits to worms shall turn,"

Who maggots were before. 40

TO MRS. M. B.

ON HER BIRTH-DAV.

On, be thou blesb'd with all that Heav'n can send, Long health, long youth, long pleasure, and a friend; Not with those toys the female world admire, Riches that vex, and vanities that tire.

With added years, if life bring nothing new, 5

But like a sieve let cuery blessing through,

Some joys 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. 10

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 jear, IS

Without a pain, a trouble, or a fear,
Till death, unfelt, that tender frame destroy,
In some soft dream, or ecstasy of joy,
Peaceful sleep out the sabbath of the tomb,
And wake to raptures in a life to come. 2p

TO MR. T. SOUTHERN.

ON HIS BIRTH-DAY, 1742.

Resigh'd to live, prepar'd to die,

With not one sin but poetry,

This day Tom's fair account has run

Without one blot to eighty-one.

Kind Boyle, before his poet, lays 5

A table with a cloth of bays;

And Ireland, mother of sweet lingers,

Presents her harp still to his fingers.

The feast his tow'ring genius marks

In yonder wild-goose and the larks! 10

The mushrooms shew his wit was sudden!

And for his judgment, lo, a pudden!

Roast beef, though old, proclaims him stou

And grace, although a bard, devout.

May Torn, whom Heav'n sent down to rai»c 15

The price of prologues and of plays,

Be every birth-day more a v»inner,

Digest his thirty-thousandth dinner;

Walk to his grave without reproach,

And scorn a rascal and a coach.

His saltern accumulem donis, et fungar inanl
Muncret Virg.

ON CHARLES EARL OF DORSET,

IN THE CHURCH OF WITHYAM, SUSSEX.

Dorset, the grace of courts, the Muse's pride,

Patron of arts, and judge of nature, died f

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, S

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. 1O

Bless'd peer! his great forefathers' every grace

Reflecting, and reflected in his race;

Where other Buckhursts, other Dorsets, shine,

And patriots still, or poets, deck the line. 14

ON SIR WILLIAM TRUMBALL,

ONE OF THE PRINCIPAL SECRETARIES OF STATE T0 KING WILLIAM III.

Who* having resigned his Place, died in his Retirement at Easthumsted, in Berkshire, 1716.

A Pleasing form, a firm yet cautious mind;

Sincere, though prudent, constant, yet resign'd:

Honour unchang'd, a principle protest,

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;

A generous faith, from superstition free,

A love of peace, and hate of tyranny:. It

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, Orfonhhire, 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! C

If Pope must tell what Harcourt cannot speak.
Ob! let thy once lov'd friend inscribe thy stone,
And with a father's sorrows mix his own!

ON JAMES CRAGGS, ESQ.

IN WESTMINSTER-ABBEY.

JACOBUS CRAGGS,

REGI MAGNJE BRITANNIA A SECRETIS,

ET CONSILIIS SANCTIORIBUS,

PRINCIPI9 PARITER AC POPOLI AMOR ET DELICIJt:

V1XIT TITULIS ET INV1DIA MAJOR

ANNOS, HEIT PAUCOS, XXXV.

OB. FEB. XVI. M.DCC.XX.

Statesman, yet friend to truth! of soul sincere.
In action faithful, and in honour clear!
Who broke no promise, serv'd no private end,
Who gain'd no title, and who lost no friend;
Ennobled by himself, by all approv'd,
Prais'd, wept, and honour'd, by the Muse he lov'd,
Vol. II. K

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