The gracious knight full well does weet, Ten farthings ne'er will do To keep a man each day in meat: A Rechabite poor Will must live, Spare diet, and spring-water clear, Who diets thus need never fear But pass-The Esculapian crew, Could Yorkshire-tyke but do the same, At his fam'd gate stood Charity, Dwelt there both night and day. 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; 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, But purely in her own defence) That would have spoil'd your friend's conceit: VENUS'S ADVICE TO THE MUSES. THUS HUS to the Muses spoke the Cyprian Dame; "Adorn my altars, and r. vere my name. My son shall else assume his potent darts, Twang goes the bow, my girls; have at hearts!" The Muses answer'd, "Venus, we deride CUPID TURNED STROLLER. Ar dead of night, when stars appear, In haste I ran, unlock'd my gate, Said, "Dearest friend, this bow you see, TO A POET OF QUALITY, PRAISING THE LADY HINCHINBROKE. Or thy judicious Muse's sense, 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; His tropes and figures will content ye: Full fourteen hours in four-and-twenty. TO FORTUNE. WHILST I in prison or in court look down, NONPAREIL. LET others from the town retire; Nor plain so sweet as in her face. 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, CHASTE FLORIMEL "No-I'll endure ten thousand deaths, Oh, sir! no man on Earth that breathes, "Oh! take your sword, and pierce my hear In broken dying accents said. 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; 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 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, Yet she, still contradicting, gifts imparts, THE INSATIABLE PRIEST. LUKE Preachill admires what we laymen can mean, He can be content with two thousand a year. A FRENCH SONG IMITATED. WAY thus from the plain does my shepherdess rove, 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, In a long flaxen wig, and embroider'd new coat, CUPID'S PROMISE, A FRENCH SONG PARAPHRASED. SOFT Cupid, wanton, amorous boy, 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. 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 In double beauty say your prayer: 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, 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, His prudence and his wit were seen That serving her was to be blest- That men are beasts, and dogs have sense! Ne'er skulk'd from whence his sovereign led him, 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 He hated was by rich and poor, That he himself did fear. Full proud and arrogant was he But guiltless men enthral. He, with a haughty impious nod A patriot' of high degree, Who could no longer bear And, arm'd with truth, impeach'd the Don In low, but faithful rhymes. Lord Coningsby, one of the lords justices of Ireland. The earl of Bellamont impeached Coningsby. |