He draws him gentle, tender and forgiving;.
And sure such kind good creatures may be living.
In days of old, they pardon'd breach of vows,
Stern Cato's self was no relentless spouse:
Plu-Plutarch, what's his name, that writes his life?
Tells us, that Cato dearly lov'd his wife:
Yet if a friend, a night or so, should need her,
He'd recommend her as a special breeder.
To lend a wife, few here would scruple make;
But, pray, which of you all would take her back?
Though with the stoic chief our stage may ring,
The stoic husband was the glorious thing.
The man had courage, was a sage, 'tis true,
And lov'd his country-but what's that to you?
Those strange examples ne'er were made to fit ye,
But the kind cuckold might instruct the city:
There many an honest man might copy Cato,
Who ne'er saw naked sword, or look'd in Plato.
If, after all, you think it a disgrace,

That Edward's iniss thus perks it in your face;
To see a piece of failing flesh and blood,
In all the rest so impudently good;

Faith, let the modest matrons of the town

Come here in crowds, and stare the strumpet down.

Occasioned by some Verses of His Grace the Duke of Buckingham.

MUSE, 'tis enough, at length thy labour ends,
And thou shalt live, for Buckingham commends.
Let crowds of critics now thy verse assail,
Let Dennis write, and nameless numbers rail;
This more than pays whole years of thankless pain;
Time, health, and fortune, are not lost in vain.
Sheffield approves, consenting Phoebus bends,
And I and Malice from this hour are friends.

A PROROGUE

To a Play for Mr. Dennis's Benefit, in 1733, when he was old, blind, and in great distress, a little before his death.

As when that hero, who in each campaign
Had brav'd the Goth, and many a Vandal slain,
Lay fortune-struck, a spectacle of woe!
Wept by each friend, forgiv'n by every foe;
Was there a generous, a reflecting mind,
But pitied Belisarius, old and blind?
Was there a chief but melted at the sight?
A common soldier but who clubb'd his mite?
Such, such emotions should in Britons rise,
When press'd by want and weakness Dennis lies;
Dennis! who long had warr'd with modern Huns,
Their quibbles routed, and defied their puns;
A desperate bulwark, sturdy, firm, and fierce,
Against the gothic sons of frozen verse:

How chang'd from him who made the boxes groan;
And shook the stage with thunders all his own!
Stood up to dash each vain pretender's hope,
Maul the French tyrant, or pull down the Pope!
If there's a Briton then, true bred and born,
Who holds dragoons and wooden-shoes in scorn;
If there's a critic of distinguish'd rage;

If there's a senior who contemns this age;
Let him to-night his just assistance lend,
And be the critic's, Briton's, old-man's friend.

MACER.

A CHARACTER.

WHEN Simple Macer, now of high renown, First sought a poet's fortune in the town, 'Twas all th' ambition his high soul could feel To wear red stockings and to dine with Steele : Some ends of verse his betters might afford, And gave the harmless fellow a good word.

Set up with these he ventur'd on the town,
And with a borrow'd play outdid poor Crown.
There he stopp'd short, nor since has writ a tittle,
But has the wit to make the most of little;
Like stunted hide-bound trees, that just have got
Sufficient sap at once to bear and rot.

Now he begs verse, and what he gets commends,
Not of the wits his foes, but fools his friends.

So some course country wench, almost decay'd,
Tredges to town, and first turns chambermaid;
Awkward and supple each devoir to pay,
She flatters her good lady twice a-day;
Thought wondrous honest, though of mean degree,
And strangely lik'd for her simplicity:

In a translated suit then tries the town,
With borrow'd pins and patches not her own;
But just endur'd the winter she began,
And in four months, a batter'd harridan:
Now nothing left, but wither'd, pale, and shrunk,
To bawd for others, and go shares with punk.

THE HAPPY LIFE OF A COUNTRY PARSON.

PARSON, these things in thy possessing
Are better than the bishop's blessing:
A wife that makes conserves; a steed
That carries double when there's need;
October store, and best Virginia,
Tythe pig, and mortuary guinea;
Gazettes sent gratis down and frank'd,
For which thy patron's weekly thank'd;
A large concordance, bound long since:
Sermons to Charles the First, when prince;
A chronicle of ancient standing,

A Chysostom to smoothe thy hand in:
The Polyglot-three parts-my text,
Howbeit-likewise-now to my next:
Lo here the Septuagint-and Paul,
To sum the whole-the close of all.

He that has these may pass his life,
Drink with the 'squire, and kiss his wife;
On Sundays preach, and eat his fill,
And fast on Fridays-if he will;

Toast church and queen, explain the news,
Talk with church-wardens about pews,
Pray heartily for some new gift,
And shake his head at Doctor S-t.

SONG BY A PERSON OF QUALITY.

Written in the Year 1733.

FLUTTERING spread thy purple pinions,
Gentle Cupid! o'er my heart;
I a slave in thy dominions:
Nature must give way to art.

Mild Arcadians, ever blooming,
Nightly nodding o'er your flocks,
See my weary days consuming
All beneath yon flowery rocks.

Thus the Cyprian-goddess weeping,
Mourn'd Adonis, darling youth!
Him the boar, in silence creeping,
Gor'd with unrelenting tooth.

Cynthia! tune harmonious numbers;
Fair Discretion! string the lyre;
Soothe my ever-waking slumbers;
Bright Apollo! lend their choir.

Gloomy Pluto! king of terrors,
Arm'd in adamantine chains,
Lead me to the crystal mirrors
Watering soft Elysian plains.

Mournful cypress, verdant willow,
Gilding my Aurelia's brows,
Morpheus hovering o'er my pillow,
Hear me pay my dying vows.

E

Melancholy, smooth Mæander,
Swiftly purling in a round,
On thy margin lovers wander,
With thy flowery chaplets crown'd.

Thus when Philomela drooping,
Softly seeks her silent inate,
See the bird of Juno stooping:
Melody resigns to fate.

On a certain Lady at Court.

I KNOW the thing that's most uncommon; (Envy be silent and attend!)

I know a reasonable woman,

Handsome and witty, yet a friend;

Not warp'd by passion, aw'd by rumour,
Not grave through pride, nor gay through folly,
An equal mixture of good humour,

And sensible soft melancholy.

"Has she not faults then (envy says) sir?"

Yes, she has one, must aver:

When all the world conspires to praise her,

The woman's deaf, and does not hear.

On his grotto at Twickenham, composed of Marble; Spars, Gems, Ores, and Minerals.

THOU who shalt stop where Thames' translucent

wave

Shines a broad mirror through the shady cave;
Where lingering drops from mineral roofs distil,
And pointed crystals break the sparkling rill;
Unpolish'd gems no ray on pride bestow,
And latent metals innocently glow;
Approach. Great nature studiously behold!
And eye the mine without a wish for gold.
Approach; but awful! lo! th' Ægerian grot,
Where, nobly pensive, St. John sat and thought,