The gracious knight full well does weet,

Ten farthings ne'er will do

To keep a man each day in meat:
Some bread to meat is due.

A Rechabite poor Will must live,
And drink of Adam's ale;
Pure element no life can give,
Or mortal soul regale.

Spare diet, and spring-water clear,
Physicians hold are good:

Who diets thus need never fear
A fever in the blood.

But pass-The Esculapian crew,
Who eat and quaff the best,
They seldom miss to bake and brew,
Or lin to break their fast.

Could Yorkshire-tyke but do the same,
Then he like them might thrive;
But Fortune, Fortune, cruel dame!
To starve thou dost him drive.
In Will's old master's plenteous days,
His memory e'er be blest!
What need of speaking in his praise?
His goodness stands confest.

At his fam'd gate stood Charity,
In lovely sweet array;
Ceres and Hospitality

Dwelt there both night and day.
But, to conclude, and be concise,
Truth must Will's voucher be:
Truth never yet went in disguise,
For naked still is she.

There is but one, but one alone,

Can set the pilgrim free,

And make him cease to pine and moan;

O Frankland! it is thee.

O! save him from a dreary way;
To Coxwould he must hie,
Bereft of thee, he wends astray,

At Coxwould he must die.

Oh let him in thy hall but stand,

And wear a porter's gown, Duteous to what thou may'st command; Thus William's wishes crown.

PONTIUS AND PONTIA. PONTIUS (who loves, you know, a joke,

Much better than he loves his life) Chanc'd t'other morning to provoke The patience of a well-bred wife. "Talking of you," said he, my dear, Two of the greatest wits in town, One ask'd if that high furze of hair Was, bona fide, all your own. 'Her own! most certain,' t'other said;

For Nan, who knows the thing, will tell ye, The hair was bought, the money paid, And the receipt was sign'd Ducailly." Pontia (that civil prudent she,

Who values wit much less than sense,
And never darts a repartee,

But purely in her own defence)
Reply'd, "These friends of yours, my dear;
Are given extremely much to satire!
But pr'ythee, husband, let one hear
Sometimes less wit, and more good-nature.
"Now I have one unlucky thought,

That would have spoil'd your friend's conceit:
Some hair I have, I'm sure, unbought:
Pray bring your brother wits to see't."

THUS

CUPID TURNED STROLLER.
FROM ANACREON.

Ar dead of night, when stars appear,
And strong Boötes turns the bear;
When mortals sleep their cares away,
Fatigu'd with labours of the day,
Cupid was knocking at my gate;
"Who's there!" says I, "who knocks so late,
your Disturbs my dreams, and breaks my rest?"
"O fear not me, a harmless guest,"
He said, "but open, open, pray!
A foolish child, I've lost my way,
And wandering here this moon-light night,
All wet and cold, and wanting light."
With due regard his voice I heard,
Then rose, a ready lamp prepar'd,
And saw a naked boy below,
With wings, a quiver, and a bow;

In haste I ran, unlock'd my gate,
Secure and thoughtless of my fate:
I set the child an easy chair
Against the fire, and dry'd his hair;
Brought friendly cups of cheerful wine,
And warm'd his little hands with mine.
All this did I with kind intent;
But be, on wanton mischief bent,

Said, "Dearest friend, this bow you see,
This pretty bow, belongs to me:
Observe, I pray, if all be right;
I fear the rain has spoil'd it quite."
He drew it then, and straight I found
Within my breast a secret wound.
This done, the rogue no longer staid,
But leapt away, and laughing said,
"Kind host, adieu! we now must part;
Safe is my bow, but sick thy heart!"

TO A POET OF QUALITY,

PRAISING THE LADY HINCHINBROKE.

Or thy judicious Muse's sense,
Young Hinchinbroke so very proud is,
That Sacharissa and Hortense

She looks, henceforth, upon as dowdies.

Yet she to one must still submit,

To dear mamma must pay her duty: She wonders, praising Wilmot's wit, Thou should'st forget his daughter's beauty.

THE PEDANT.

LYSANDER talks extremely well;
On any subject let him dwell,

His tropes and figures will content ye:
He should possess, to all degrees,
The art of talk; he practises

Full fourteen hours in four-and-twenty.

TO FORTUNE.

WHILST I in prison or in court look down,
Nor beg thy favour, nor deserve thy frown,
In vain, malicious Fortune, hast thou try'd,
By taking from my state, to quell my pride:`
Insulting girl thy present rage abate,
And, would'st thou have me humbled, make me
great.

NONPAREIL.

LET others from the town retire;
And in the field seek new delight;
My Phillis does such joys inspire,
No other objects please my sight.
In her alone I find whate'er
Beauties a country landscape grace:
No shade so lovely as her hair,

Nor plain so sweet as in her face.
Lilies and roses there combine,

More beauteous than in flowery field; Transparent is her skin so fine,

To this each crystal stream must yield. Her voice more sweet than warbling sound, Though sung by nightingale or lark; Her eyes such lustre dart around,

Compar'd to them, the Sun is dark. Both light and vital heat they give; Cherish'd by them, my love takes root, From her kind looks does life receive,

Grows a fair plant, bears flowers and fruit Such fruit, I ween, did once deceive

The common parent of mankind, And made transgress our mother Eve: Poison its core, though fair its rind. Yet so delicious is its taste,

I caunot from the bait abstain, But to th' enchanting pleasure haste, Though I were sure 'twould end in pain,

CAUTIOUS ALICE.

So good a wife doth Lissy make, That from all company she flieth; Such virtuous courses doth she take, That she all evil tongues defieth; And, for her dearest spouse's sake, She with his brethren only lieth.

THE INCURABLE.

PHILLIS, you boast of perfect health in vain,
And laugh at those who of their ills complain;
That with a frequent fever Chloe burns,
And Stella's plumpness into dropsy turns!
O Phillis, while the patients are nineteen,
Little, alas! are their distempers seen.
But thou, for all thy seeming health, art ill,
Beyond thy lover's hopes, or Blackmore's skill;
No Initives can thy disease assuage,
4 tell thee, 'tis incurable-'tis age.

CHASTE FLORIMEL

"No-I'll endure ten thousand deaths,
Ere any farther I'll comply;

Oh, sir! no man on Earth that breathes,
Had ever yet his hand so high!

"Oh! take your sword, and pierce my hear
Undaunted see me meet the wound;
Oh! will you act a Tarquin's part?
A second Lucrece you have found.”
Thus to the pressing Corydon,
Poor Florimel, unhappy maid!
Fearing by love to he undone,

In broken dying accents said.
Delia, who held the conscious door,
Inspir'd by truth and brandy, smil'd,
Knowing that, sixteen months before,
Our Lucrece had her second child

UPON HONOUR.

"And, hark ye, madam !" cry'd the bawd; "None of your flights, your high-rope dodging; Be civil here, or march abroad;

Oblige the squire, or quit the lodging."

"Oh! have "-Florimel went on"Have I then lost my Delia's aid? Where shall forsaken Virtue run,

If by her friend she is betray'd?

་ "Oh! curse on empty Friendship's name ! Lord, what is all our future view! Then, dear destroyer of my fame, Let my last succour be to you! "From Delia's rage, and Fortune's frown, A wretched love-sick maid deliter; Oh! tip me but another crown,

Dear sir, and make me yours for ever."

A FRAGMENT.

HONOUR, I say, or honest fame,

I mean the substance, not the name;
(Not that light heap of taudry wares,
Of ermine, coronets, and stars,
Which often is by merit sought,
By gold and flattery oftener bought;
The shade, for which Ambition looks
In Selden's or in Ashmore's' books)
But the true glory, which proceeds,
Reflected bright, from honest deeds,
Which we in our own breast perceive,
And kings can neither take nor give.

BURYING THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM, 1720.

"I HAVE no hopes," the duke he says, and dies; "In sure and certain hopes," the prelate cries ; Of these two learned peers I pr'ythee, say, man, Who is the lying knave, the priest, or layman? The duke he stands an infidel confest,

"He's our dear brother" quoth the lordly priest. The duke, though knave, still "brother dear," he cries;

And who can say the reverend prelate lies?

Bishop of Gloucester.

Bishop Atterbury.

'See Atterbury's Letters, in Pope's works, ed.

1751.

THE OLD GENTRY.

Kingsale! eight hundred years have roll'd
Since thy forefathers held the plow;
When this in story shall be told,
Add, that my kindred do so now.

The man who by his labour gets

His bread, in independent state, Who never begs, and seldom eats, Himself can fix or change his fate.

But yet' till then it never did appear,
That, as she wanted eyes, she could not hear;
I begg'd that she would give me leave to lose,
A thing she does not commonly refuse!
Two matadores are out against my game,
Yet still I play, and still my luck's the same:
Unconquer'd in three suits it docs remain,
Whereas I only ask in one to gain ;

Yet she, still contradicting, gifts imparts,
And gives success in every suit-but hearts,

THE INSATIABLE PRIEST.

LUKE Preachill admires what we laymen can mean,
That thus by our profit and pleasure are sway'd:
He has but three livings, and would be a dean;
His wife dy'd this year, he has marry'd his maid
To suppress all his carnal desires in their birth,
At all hours a lusty young hussy is near:
And, to take off his thoughts from the things of this
Earth,

He can be content with two thousand a year.

A FRENCH SONG IMITATED.

WAY thus from the plain does my shepherdess rove,
Forsaking her swain, and neglecting his love?
You have heard all my grief, you see how I die,
Oh! give some relief to the swain whom you fly.

How can you complain, or what am I to say, Since my dog lies unfed, and my sheep run astray? Need I tell what I mean, that I languish alone! When I leave all the plain, you may guess 'tis for

one.

A CASE STATED.

"Now how shall I do with my love and my pride, Dear Dick', give me counsel, if friendship has any;" [reply'd,

Pry'thee purge, or let blood!" surly Richard "And forget the coquette in the arms of your Nanny 1."

While I pleaded with passion how much I deserv'd, For the pains and the torments of more than a year:

She look'd in an almanack, whence she observ'd,
That it wanted a fortnight to Bart'l'mew fair.
My Cowley and Waller how vainly I quote,
While my negligent judge only hears with her
eye!

In a long flaxen wig, and embroider'd new coat,
Her spark, saying nothing, talks better than I.

CUPID'S PROMISE,

A FRENCH SONG PARAPHRASED.

SOFT Cupid, wanton, amorous boy,
The other day mov'd with my lyre,
In flattering accents spoke his joy,

And utter'd thus his fond desire.

"Oh! raise thy voice! one song I ask; Touch then thy harmonious string: To Thyrsis easy is the task,

Who can so sweetly play and sing.
"Two kisses from my mother dear,
Thyrsis, thy due reward shall be;
None, none, like beauty's queen is fair,

Paris has vouch'd this truth for me."

I straight reply'd, "Thou know'st alone That brightest Chloe rules my breast: I'll sing thee two instead of one,

If thou'lt be kind, and make me blest. "One kiss from Chloe's lips, no more,

I crave." he promis'd me success ; I play'd with all my skill and power, My glowing passion to express, But, oh! my Chloe, beauteous maid! Wilt thou the wish'd reward bestow? Wilt thou make good what Love has said, And, by thy grant, his power show?

TO THE EARL OF OXFORD. WRITTEN EXTEMPORE IN LADY OXFORD'S STUDY, 1717.

PEN, ink, and wax, and paper, send
To the kind wife, the lovely friend:
Smiling bid her freely write
What her happy thoughts indite;
Of virtue, goodness, peace, and love,
Thoughts which angels may approve.

In double beauty say your prayer:
Our Father first,then Notre Pere:
And, dearest child, along the day,
In every thing you do and say,
Obey and please my lord and lady,
So God shall love, and angels aid ye.
If to these precepts you attend,
No second letter need I send,
And so I rest your constant friend.

LINES WRITTEN UNDER THE PRINT OF

TOM BRITTON THE SMALL-COAL-MAN,

PAINTED BY MR. WOOLASTON.

THOUGH doom'd to small-coal, yet to arts ally'd,
Rich without wealth, and famous without pride;
Music's best patron, judge of books and men,
Belov'd and honour'd by Apollo's train:
In Greece or Rome sure never did appear
So bright a genius, in so dark a sphere:
More of the man had artfully been sav'd,
Had Kneller painted, and had Vertue grav'd.

TRUTH TOLD AT LAST.

SAYS Pontius in rage, contradicting his wife, "You never yet told me one truth in your life." Vext Pontia no way could this thesis allow, "You're a cuckold," says she," do I tell you truth now?"

This stone had still remaind unmark'd,
I still writ prose, True still have bark'd.
But envious Fate has claim'd its due:
Here lies the mortal part of True:
His deathless virtues inust survive,
To better us that are alive.

His prudence and his wit were seen
In that, from Mary's grace and mien,
He own'd the power, and lov'd the queen.
By long obedience he confest

That serving her was to be blest-
Ye murmurers, let True evince

That men are beasts, and dogs have sense!
His faith and truth all Whitehall knows,
He ne'er could fawn or flatter those
Whom he believ'd were Mary's foes:

Ne'er skulk'd from whence his sovereign led him,
Or snarl'd against the hand that fed him.-
Read this ye statesmen now in favour,
And mend your own, by True's behaviour!

WRITTEN IN

LADY HOWE'S OVID'S EPISTLES. HOWEVER high, however cold, the fair, However great the dying lover's care, Ovid, kind author, found him some relief, Rang'd his unruly sighs, and set his grief: Taught him what accents had the power to move, And always gain'd him pity, sometimes love. But, oh! what pangs torment the destin'd heart, That feels the wound, yet dares not show the dart; What ease could Ovid to his sorrows give, Who must not speak, and therefore cannot live?

THE VICEROY,

A BALLAD,

TO THE TUNE OF, LADY ISABELLA'S TRAGEDY. Or Nero, tyrant, petty king2,

Who heretofore did reign
In fam'd Hibernia, I will sing,
And in a ditty plain.

He hated was by rich and poor,
For reasons you shall hear;
So ill he exercis'd his power,

That he himself did fear.

Full proud and arrogant was he
And covetous withal;
The guilty he would still set free,

But guiltless men enthral.

He, with a haughty impious nod
Would curse and dogmatize;
Not fearing either man or God:
Gold he did idolize.

A patriot' of high degree,

Who could no longer bear
This upstart Viceroy's tyranny,
Against him did declare.

And, arm'd with truth, impeach'd the Don
Of his enormous crimes,
Which I'll unfold to you anon,

In low, but faithful rhymes.

Lord Coningsby, one of the lords justices of Ireland.

The earl of Bellamont impeached Coningsby.