And will you run to perils, sword, and law,
All for a thing you ne'er so much as saw?
"The hare once seiz'd, the hunter heeds no more
The little scut he so pursu'd before,
Love follows flying game (as Suckling sings),
And 'tis for that the wanton boy has wings.'
Why let him sing-but when you're in the wrong
Think you to cure the mischief with a song?
Has nature set no bounds to wild desire?
No sense to guide, no reason to inquire
What solid happiness, what empty pride?
And what is best indulg'd, or best denied?
If neither gems adorn, nor silver tip
The flowing bowl, will you not wet your lip?
When sharp with hunger, scorn you to be fed,
Except on peachicks, at the Bedford-head?
Or when a tight, neat girl, will serve the turn,
In errant pride continue stiff, and burn?
I'm a plain man, whose maxim is profest,
'The thing at hand is of all things the best.'
But her who will, and then will not comply,
Whose word is If, Perhaps, and By-and-by,
Zounds! let some eunuch or platonic take-
So Bt cries, philosopher and rake!
Who asks no more (right reasonable peer)
Than not to wait too long, nor pay too dear.
Give me a willing nymph! 'tis all I care,
Extremely clean, and tolerably fair,
Her shape her own, whatever shape she have,
And just that white and red which nature gave.
Her I transported touch, transported view!
And call her Angel! Goddess! M———ue!
No furious husband thunders at the door;
No barking dog, no household in a roar;
From gleaming swords no shrieking women run;
No wretched wife cries out, Undone! Undone !
Seiz'd in the fact, and in her cuckold's power,
She kneels, she weeps, and worse! resigns her
dower.
Me, naked me, to posts, to pumps they draw,
To shame eternal, or eternal law.
Oh love, be deep tranquillity my luck!
No mistress H―ysh―m near, no Lady B―ck! For, to be taken, is the devil in hell;
This truth let L—————1, J
His saltem accumulem donis, et fungar inani
Munere !
ON CHARLES EARL OF DORSET,
IN THE CHURCH OF WITHYAM, 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 patriots still, or poets, deck the line.
ONE OF THE PRINCIPAL SECRETARIES OF STATE TO
Who, having resigned his Place, died in his Retirement at Easthamsted, in Berkshire, 1716.
A PLEASING form, a firm, yet cautious mind;
Sincere, though prudent; constant, yet resign'd:
Honour unchang'd, a principle profest,
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 to peace, and hate of tyranny:
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, Oxfordshire, 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!
If Pope must tell what Harcourt cannot speak.
Oh, let thy once-lov'd friend inscribe thy stone,
And with a father's sorrows mix his own!
JACOBUS CRAGGS,
REGNI MAGNE BRITANNIA A SECRETIS,
ET CONSILIIS SANCTIORIBUS,
PRINCIPIS PARITER AC POPULI AMOR ET DELICIÆ:
VIXIT TITULIS ET INVIDIA MAJOR
ANNOS, HEU PAUCOS, XXXV.
OB. FEB. XIV. MDCCXX.
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.
THY reliques, Rowe! to this sad shrine we trust,
And near thy Shakespeare place thy honour'd bust,
Oh, next him, skill'd to draw the tender tear,
For never heart felt passion more sincere;
To nobler sentiment to fire the brave,
For never Briton more disdain'd a slave.
Peace to thy gentle shade, and endless rest;
Blest in thy genius, in thy love too blest!
And blest, that timely from our scene remov'd,
Thy soul enjoys the liberty it lov'd.
To these, so mourn'd in death, so lov'd in life!
The childless parent, and the widow'd wife,
With tears inscribes this monumental stone,
That holds their ashes and expects her own.
WHO DIED OF A CANCER IN HER BREAST.
HERE rests a woman, good without pretence,
Bless'd with plain reason and with sober sense:
No conquest she but o'er herself desir'd,
No arts essay'd but not to be admir'd.
Passion and pride were to her soul unknown,
Convinc'd that virtue only is our own.
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