Than wit, and fame, and lucky hours,

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 juftice for your labours paft)
That every day shall be your last ;
That every hour you life renew
Is to your injur'd country due.

In fpight of fears, of mercy fpight
My genius ftill muft rail and write.
Haile to thy Twickenham's fafe retreat,
And mingle with the grumbling great:
There half devour'd by fpleen, you'll find
The rhyming bubbler of mankind;
There (objects of our mutual hate)
We'll ridicule both church and state..

EPIGRAM ON MRS. TOFTS.

20

25

35

A. HANDSOME WOMAN WITH A FINE VOICE BUT VERY COVETOUS AND PROUD.

SO bright is thy beauty, fo charming thy song, As had drawn both the beafts and their Orpheus along ;

But fuch is thy avarice, and fuch is thy pride, That the beats must have ftarv'd, and the poet have died.

The Fourth EPISTLE of the Firft Book of HORACE's Epiftles.

A MODERN IMITATION.

SAY, St. John, who alone perufe

With candid eye, the mimic Muse,
What schemes of politics, or laws,
In Gallic lands the patriot draws !
Is then a greater work in hand,

Than all the tomes of Haines's band P
"Or fhoots he folly as it flies?
"Or catches manners as they rife?
Or urg'd by unquench'd native heat,
Does St. John Greenwich fports repeat?
Where (emulous of Chartres' fame)
Ev'n Chartres' felf is fcarce a name.

To you (th' all-envy'd gift of Heaven) Th' indulgent gods, unafk'd, have given A form complete in every part, And, to enjoy that gift, the art.

What could a tender mother's care With better, to her favourite heir,

428

IN THE YEAR 1715.

This year in peace, ye critics, dwell,

The lively H

Ye harlots, fleep at eale!

Soft B and rough C, adieu!
Earl of Warwick make your moan,
-k and you

May knock up whores alone.

To drink and droll be Rowe allow'd

Till the thira watchman toll;

Let Jervais gratis paint, and Frowde
Save three-pence and his foul.

Farewell Arbuthnot's raillery

On every learned fot;

And Garth, the best good chriftian he,
Although he knows it not,

Lintot, farewell! thy bard muft go;
Farewell, unhappy Tonfon!
Heaven gives thee, for thy lofs of Rowey
Lean Philips, and fat Johnson.

Why should I ftay? Both parties rage;

My vixen miftrefs fqualls;
The wits in envious feuds engage ;
And Homer (damn him!) calls.

The love of arts lies cold and dead
In Hallifax's urn ;

And not one Mufe of all he fed,

Has yet the grace to mourn.

My friends, by turns, my friends confound,
Betray, and are betray'd:

Poor Yr's fold for fifty pound,
And B1 is a jade.

Why make I friendships with the great,
When I no favour feck?

Or follow girls feven hours in eight

I need but once a week.

Still idle, with a busy air,
Deep whimsies to contrive;
The gayeft valetudinaire,
Moft thinking rake alive.

Solicitous for others ends,
Though fond of dear repofe;
Careless or drowsy with my friends,
And frolick with my foes.
Luxurious lobfter-nights, farewelly
For feber ftudious days!
And Burlington's delicious meal,
For failads, tarts, and peafe!

Adieu to all but Gay alorie,

Whofe foul, fincere and free, Loves all mankind, but flatter note, And fo may starve with me.

VERSES left by Mr. Pope, on his lying in the fame B which WILMOT the celebrated Earl of Rochefter flept in, at Adderbury, then belonging to the Duke of Argyle, July 9th, 1739,

WITH no poetic ardour fir'd

I piefs the bed where Wilmot lay;
That here he lov'd or here expir'd,
Begets no numbers grave, or gay.
But in thy roof, Argyle, are bred

Such thoughts as prompt the brave to lie
Stretch'd out in honour's nobler bed,
Beneath a nobler roof-the fky.

Such flames as high in patriots buin,
Yet ftoop to bleis a child or wife;
And fuch as wicked kings may mourn,
When freedom is more dear than life.

LONDON, OCTOBER 22.

FEW words are beft; I wish you well
Bethel, I'm told, will foon 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 froft,
You please to fee, on Twit'nam green,

Your friend, your poet, and your hoft; For three whole days you here may reft, From office, bufinefs, news, and ftrife: And (what most folks would think a jett) Want nothing elfe, except your wife.

One of the principal Secretaries of State to Kirg WILLIAM III. who, having refigned his place, Died in his Retirement at Easthamfted in Berk. fhire, 1716.

A Pleafing Form; a firm, yet cautious Mind ; Sincere, though prudent; conftant, yet refign'd:

Honour unchang'd, a Principle profeft,
Fix'd to one fide, but moderate to the reft:
An honeft Courtier, yet a Patriot too;
Just to his Prince, and to his Country true:
Fill'd with the Senfe 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.

III.

On the Hon. SIMON HARCOURT. Only Son of the Lord Chancellor, HARCOURT, at the Church of Stanton-HARCOURT in Oxfordthire, 1720.

To this fad fhrine, 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 dy'd.

How vainis Reason, Eloquence how weak 1 If Pope must tell what HARCOURT cannot speak. Oh let thy once-lov'd Friend infcribe thy Stone, And, with a Father's forrows, mix his own!

'.

On CHARLES Earl of DORSET,
In the Church of Withyam in Suffex.

DORSET, the Grace of Courts, the Mufes' Pride,
Patron of Arts, and judge of Nature, dy'd.
The fcourge of Pride, though fanctified or great,
Of Fops in Learning, and of Knaves in State :
Yet foft his Nature, though fevere his Lay,
His anger moral, and his Wifdom gay.
Bleft Satirist who touch'd the Mean fo true,
As fhow'd, Vice had his hate and pity too.

IV.

On JAMES CRAGGS, Efq.
In Weftminster-Abbey.

JACOBUS CRAGGS, RECI MAGNE BRITANNIE A SECRETIS ET CO SILIIS SANCTIORIBUS, PRINCIPIS PARITER AC POPULI AMOR ET DELICIA.

VIXIT TITULIS ET VIDIA MAJOR
ANNOS, HEU PAUCOS, XXXV.

GB FEB. XVI. MDCCXX.

On Mrs. CORBET,

Who died of a Cancer in her Breaft.

HERE refts a Woman, good without pretence,

Bleft with plain Reason, and with fober Senfe :
No Conquests fhe, but o'er herself, defir'd,
No Arts effay'd, but not to be admir'd.
Paffion and Pride were to her Soul unknown,
Convinc'd that Virtue only is our own.
So unaffected, fo compos'da mind;

So firm, yet foft; fo strong, yet forefin'd;
Heaven, as its pureft gold, by Tortures try'd ;
The Saint fuftain'd it, but the Woman dy❜d.

GO! fair Example of untainted youth,

Of modelt wisdom,, and pacific truth;
Compofed in fufferings, and in joy fedate,
Good without noife, without pretenfion great.
Juft of thy word, in every thought fincere,

Who knew no with but what the world might hear:
Of foftest manners, unaffected mind,
Lover of peace, and friend of human kind:
Go live for Heaven's eternal year is thine,
Go, and exalt thy Moral to Divine.

And thou, blett Maid! attendant on his doom,
Penfive haft follow'd to the filent tomb,

IX.

On GENERAL HENRY WITHERS, In Westminster-Abbey, 1729.

HERE, WITHERS, rest! thou braveft, gentleft

mind,

Thy Country's friend, but more of human kind.
Oh born to Arms! O Worth in Youth approv'd!
O foft Humanity, in Age belov'd !

For thee, the hardy Veteran drops a tear,
And the gay Courtier feels the figh fincere.
WITHERS, adieu! yet not with thee remove
Thy martial fpirit, or thy Social love!
Amidst Corruption, Luxury, and Rage,
Still leave fome ancient Virtues to our age:
Nor let us fay (those English glories gone)
The laft true Briton lies beneath this stone.

X.

On Mr. ELIJAH FENTON,

At Eafthamfted, in Berks, 1730.

THIS modeft Stone, what few vain marbles can,
May truly fay, Here lies an honeft Man:

A Poet, bleft beyond the Poet's fate,
Whom Heaven kept facred from the Proud and
Great:

Foe to loud Praife, and Friend to learned Eafe,
Content with Science in the Vale of Peace,

Calmly he look'd on either Life, and here
Saw nothing to regret, or there to fear;
From Nature's temperate feaft refe fatisfy'd,
Thank'd Heaven that he had liv'd, and that he dy'd,

HE

Dear fhade! I will: more than Fortune, Friends, or Country loft! Then mix this duft with thine-0 spotless Ghoft!

Is there on Earth, one care, one with befide?
Yes-SAVE MY COUNTRY, HEAVEN,
-He faid, and dy'd.

XI.

On Mr. GAY,

In Westminster-Abbey, 1732. OF Manners gentle, of Affections mild;

In Wit, a Man; Simplicity, a Child: With native Humour tempering virtuous Rage, Form'd to delight at once and lash the age: Above Temptation in a low Eftate, And uncorrupted, ev'n among the Great : A fafe Companion, and an eafy Friend, Uublam'd through Life, lamented in the End. Thefe are thy Honours! not that here thy Buft 1s mix'd with Heroes, or with Kings thy duft; But that the Worthy and the Good thall fay, Striking their penfive bofoms-Here lies GAY.

Another.

WELL then! poor Gay lies under ground, So there's an end of honeft Jack:

So little juftice here he found,

'Tis ten to one he'll ne'er come back.

XIV.

On EDMOND Duke of BUCKINGHAM, Who died in the Nineteenth Year of his Age,' 1735

If modeft Youth, with cool Reflection crown'd,
And every opening Virtue blooming round,
Could fave a Parent's jufteit Pride from fate,
Or add one Patriot to a finking State;
This weeping marble had not afk'd thy Tear,
Or fadly told, how many hopes lie here!
The living Virtue now had fhone approv'd,
The Senate heard him, and his Country lov'd.
Yet fofter Honours, and lefs noify Fame
Attend the shade of Gentle BUCKINGHAM:
In whom a Race, for Courage fam'd and Art,
Ends in the milder Merit of the Heart;
And, Chiets or Sages long to Britain given,
Pays the laft Tribute of a Saint to Heaven.