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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.

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TO MR. THOMAS SOUTHERN,

ON HIS BIRTH-DAY, 1742.

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ᎡᎬ
ESIGN'D to live, prepared 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;1
And Ireland, mother of sweet singers,
Presents his harp still to his fingers.?
The feast, his tow'ring genius marks
In yonder wild-goose and the larks!
The mushrooms show his wit was sudden !
And for his judgment, lo a pudden !
Roast beef, though old, proclaims him stout,
And grace, although a bard, devout.
May Tom, whom Heaven sent down to raise
The price of prologues and of plays,3
Be ev'ry birthday more a winner,
Digest his thirty-thousandth dinner ;
Walk to his grave without reproach,
And scorn a rascal and a coach.

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1 [He was invited to dine on his birth-day with this nobleman, who had prepared for him the entertainment of which the bill of fare is here set down.-Warburton.] 2 [The harp is generally wove on the Irish linen, &c.—Warburton.]

[This alludes to a story Mr. Southern told of Dryden, about the same time, to Mr. P. and Mr. W. When Southern first wrote for the stage, Dryden was so famous for his prologues, that the players would act nothing without that decoration. His usual price till then had been four guineas : but when Southern came to him for the prologue he had bespoke, Dryden told him he must have six guineas for it; "which,” said he, “ young man, is out of no disrespect to you; but the players have had my goods too cheap.”—We now look upon these prologues with the same admiration that the virtuosi do on the apothecaries' pots painted by Raphael. —Warburton. Where are these apothecaries' pots to be found? The old dramatist outlived Pope: he died in 1746, aged eighty-six.]

TO MR. JOHN MOORE,

AUTHOR OF THE CELEBRATED WORM-POWDER.

HOW
COW much, egregious Moore, are we

Deceived by shows and forms !
Whate'er we think, whate'er we see,

All human kind are worms.

Man is a very worm by birth,

Vile reptile, weak and vain : Awhile he crawls upon the earth,

Then shrinks to earth again.

That woman is a worm, we find

E'er since our grandame's evil ;
She first conversed 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,

Is aptly term'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.

The flatterer an earwig grows;

Thus worms suit all conditions ;
Misers are muck-worms, silk-worms beaus,

And death-watches physicians.

That statesmen have the worm, is seen

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 gain would rise,
If thou could'st make the courtier void

The worm that never dies!

O learned Friend of Abchurch Lane,

Who sett’st our entrails free;
Vain is thy art, thy powder vain,

Since worms shall eat e'en thee. 1

Our fate thou only canst adjourn

Some few short years, no more!
Ev'n Button's wits to worms shall turn,

Who maggots were before.

1 [The Gentleman's Magazine announces the death of this worthy as having taken place April 12, 1737. * He will now shortly," says the grave Sylvanus Urban,“ verify Mr. Pope's witty observation, 'O learned Friend,' &c." Pope's Epistle to Moore was an early production, and first published in 1716.]

TO MR. C., ST. JAMES'S PLACE.1

Oct. 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 Twitnam 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.

1 [Mr. Cleland, whose residence was in St. James's Place, where he died in 1741. See Preface to the Dunciad.]

on it.

The Evening, I amived here I mett he Funeral of this unfortunate couple. They were both byd in one Gmve in the Parish Church yard of Santon Hareorist

. I have prevaila

on my
Lord Harcourt, so erect a little morement over them of plain
Stone; and have wit the following Epitaph which us to be
engrais

When laskem fovers feed the funral fire,
on the same pite the failhful Fair éscpire;
Here, pilying Heaon that virtue muhial found,
And lastes toth, Khat it might neither wound.
Hearts so sincere , th' Almighty law well-pleosd
Tent his own Lightning, and the Kch'n's Seizo.

FAC-SIMILE FROM POPE'S MANUSCRIPTS.

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