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But so much innocence adorns her fears, | Dr. Wynter to Dr. Cheyney, on his Books ir And with such grace her modesty she wears,

favor of a Vegetable Diet. By her disorder all her charms increase,

Tell me from whom, fat-headed Scot,
And, had she better sung, she'd pleas'd us less.

Thou didst thy system learn:
From Hippocrate thou hadst it not,

Nor Celsus, nor Pitcairn.
On the Spectator.

Suppose we own that milk is good,
WHEN first the Tatler to a mute was turn'd, And say the same of grass;
Great Britain for her censor's silence mourn'd; | The one for babes is only food,
Robb’d of his sprightly beams, she wept the The other for an ass.

Doctor! one new prescription try;
Till the Spectator rose, and blaz'd as bright.

(A friend's advice forgive)
So the first man the sun's first setting view'd,
And sigh'd till circling day his joys renew'd; Thy patients then may live.
Yet doubtful how that second sun to name,
Whether a bright successor or the same:

Dr. Cheyney to Dr. Wynter.
So we-but now from this suspense are freed; 1

| My system, doctor, is my own, Since all agree who both with judgement read,

| No tutor I pretend : 'Tis the same sun, and does himself succeed.

My blunders hurt myself alone,

But yours your dearest friend.
To the Lord Chancellor King: alluding to his Were you to milk and straw confio'd,
Motto, Labor ipse voluptus !"

Thrice happy might you be;

Perhaps you might regain your mind, 'Tis not the splendor of the place,

And from your wit get free. The gilded coach, the purse, the mace,

I can't your kind prescription try, And all the pompous train of state,

But heartily forgive , With crowds which at the levee wait,

'Tis natural you should bid me die,
That make you happy, make you great:
But when mankind you strive to bless,

That you yourself may live.
With all the talents you possess;
When all the joys you can receive

A Smart Repartee. SWIFT.
Flow from the benefits you give;
This takes the heart, this conquers spite,

Cries Sylvia to a reverend Dean,
And makes the heavy burden light.

What reason can be giv'n, True pleasure, rightly understood,

Since marriage is a holy thing,
Is only labor to do good.

That there is none in heav'n?
There are no women, he replied.

She quick returns the jest:
Written in a Lady's Milton. Prior.

Women there are, but I'm afraid

They cannot find a priest. With virtue strong as yours had Eve been arm'd,

[charın'd In vain the fruit had blush'd, or serpent On Glover's Leonidas being compared to Virgil. Nor had our bliss by penitence been bought

| Equal to Virgil! It may, perhaps : Nor had frail Adam fell, nor Milton wrote.

But then, by Jove, 'tis Dr. Trapp's.

From Greek.

On a bad Translation. Democritus, dear droll! revisit earth, His work now done, he'll publish it nodoubt: And with our follies glut thy heightend mirth. For sure I ain that murder will come out. Sad Heraclitus, serious wretch! return, In louder grief our greater crimes to mourn. Between you both, I unconcern'd stand by:

To a bad Fiddler. Hurt, can I laugh? and honest, need I cry?

OLD Orpheus play'd so well, he mov'd 0!!

A Character of an old Rake.

Whilst thou mov’st nothing but thy fiddle-stick.
Scorn'd by the wise, detested by the good,
Nor understanding aught, nor understood;

| On Sir John Vanbrugh's Device of a Lion and Profane, obscene, loud, frivolous, and pert;

u Cock, at Blenheim. Proud without spirit, vain without desert; I Had Marlb'rough's troops in Gaul no better Affecting passions vice has long subdued;

fought, Desp'rately gay, and impotently lewd ; | Than Van, tograce his fame, in niarble wronghit, And, as thy weak companions round thee sit, No more in arms than he in emblems skilld, For eminence in folly deem'd a wit.

The cock had drove the lion from the field.

On the Bridge at Blenheim. 1 On a Regiment sent to Oxford, and a Present The lofty arch his high ambition shows,

of Books to Cambridge, by King George I. The stream an emblem of his bounty flows.


The king, observing with judicious eyes

The state of both his universities,
To a Lady. A. Hill.

To one he sent a regiment; for why?
IF fix'd on yours my eyes in prayers you see, That learned body wanted loyalty.
You must not call my zeal idolatry;

To th' other he sent books, as well discerning
For since our Maker's throne is placed so high, How much that loyal body wanted learning.
That only in his works the God we spy,
And what's most bright most gives him to our

Id Answered by Sir William Browne. view,

The king to Oxford sent his troop of horse, I look most near him when I look on you. For Tories own no argument but force;

With equal care to Cambridge books he sent,

For Whigs allow no force but argument. The Antidote. When Lesbia first I saw, so heavenly fair, With eyes so bright, and with that awful air;

The Friendly Contest. I thought my heart, which durst so high aspire, | While Cam and Isis their sad tribute bring As bold as his who snatch'd celestial fire."

Of rival grief, to weep their pious king, But, soon as e'er the beauteous idiot spoke,

The bards of Isis hall had been forgot, Forth from her coral lips such folly broke,

Had not the sons of Cam in pity wrote ; [curse, Like balm the trickling nonsense heald my From their learn'd brothers they took off the wound,

And prov'd their verse not bad, by writing worse. And what her eyes enthrall’d, her tongue unbound.

Against Life. From the Greek of Posidippus.

What tranquil road, unvex'd by strife,
The Female Prattler.

Can mortals choose through human life?
From morn to night, from day to day, Attend the courts, attend the bar,
At all times, and in ev'ry place,

There discord reigns, and endless jar:
You scold, repeat, and sing, and say,

At home the weary wretches find
Nor are there hopes you'll ever cease. Severe disquietude of mind :
Forbear, my Fannia; O, forbear,

To till the fields gives toil and pain;
If your own health or ours you prize; Eternal terrors sweep the main :
For all mankind that hear you, swear

If rich, we fear to lose our store ;
Your tongue's more killing than your eyes. Need and distress await the poor :
Your tongue's a traitor to your face,

Sad cares the bands of Hymen give; Your faine's by your own noise obscur'd : Friendless, forlorn, th' unmarried live: All are distracted while they gaze,

Are children born, we anxious groan; But, if they listen, they are cur'd.

Childless, our lack of heirs we moan: Your silence would acquire more praise Wild giddy schemes our youth engage; Than all you say, or all you write :

Weakness and wants depress old age. One look ten thousand charms displays; Would fate then with my wish comply,

Then hush! and be an angel quite. I'd never live, or quickly die.

The Avaro.

For Life. From the Greek of Metrodorus. Thus to the master of a house,

Mankind may rove, unvex'd by strife, Which, like a church, would starve a mouse; 1 Through ev'ry road of human life. Which never guest had entertaiu’d,

Fair wisdom regulates the bar, Nor meat nor wine its floors had stain'd,

And peace concludes the wordy war: I said : “ Well, Sir, 'tis vastly neat ;

At home auspicious mortals find But where d' you drink, and where d' you eat?

| Serene tranquillity of mind : If one may judge by rooms so fine,

All-beauteous nature decks the plain ; It costs you more in mops than wine.

| And merchants plough for gold the main :
Respect arises from our store ;

Security from being poor :
Effectual Malice.

More joys the bands of Hymen give;
Of all the pens which my poor rhymes molest, Th' unmarried with more freedom live :
Cotin's the sharpest, and succeeds the best; If parents, our blest lot we own;
Others outrageous scold, and rail downright Childless, we have no cause to moan :
With serious rancor, and true Christian spite; Firm vigor crowns our youthful stage ;
But he, more sly, pursues his fell design; | And venerable hairs old age.
Writes scoundrel verses, and then says they're Since all is good, then who would cry,

TI'd never live, or quickly die ?

The Revenge of America. Warton. | Approach, but awful !-Lo! the Egerian grot,

Where, nobly pensive, St.John sat and thought; · WHEN Cortez' furious legions flew

| Where British sighs from dying Wyndham O'er ravaged fields of rich Peru,

stole, Struck with his bleeding people's woes,

And the bright flame was shot thro' MarchOld India's awful Genius rose :

mont's soul. He sat on Andes' topmost stone,

Let such, such only, tread this sacred floor, And heard a thousand nations groan;

Who dare to love their country, and be poor. For grief his feathery crown he tore, To see huge Plato foam with gore; He broke his arrows, stamp'd the ground,

A prudent Choice.
To view his cities smoking round.

When Loveless married Lady Jenny,
What woes, he cried, hath lust of gold. | Whose beauty was the ready penny:
O'er my poor country widely roll'd!

| I chose her, says he, like old plate,
Plund'rers, proceed! my bowels tear: | Not for the fashion, but the weight.
But ye shall meet destruction there.
From the deep-vaulted mine shall rise
Th' insatiate fiend, pale Avarice;

On a great House adorned with Statues. Whose steps shall trenbling Justice fly,

The walls are thick, the servants thin; Peace, Order, Law, and Amity!

The gods without, the dev'l within.
I see all Europe's children curst
With lucre's universal thirst;
The rage that sweeps my sons away,

On a hasty Marriage.
My baneful gold shall well repay.

Married! 'tis well! a mighty blessing!
But poor's the joy, no coin possessing.

In ancient times, when folk did wed,
Mutual Pity.

"Twas to be one at “ board and bed :"

But hard's his case who can't afford
Tom, ever jovial, ever gay,

His charmer either bed or board.
To appetite a slave,
In riot throws his life away,
And laughs to see me grave.

The Incurious. 'Tis thus that we two disagree;

Three years in London Bobadil had been, So diff'rent is our whim :

Yet not the lions nor the tombs had seen; The fellow fondly laughs at me,

I cannot tell the cause without a smile
While I could cry for him.

The rogue had been in Newgate all the while.

Universal Complaisance.

To a Spendthrift disinherited. Through servile fattery thou dost all com- | His whole estate thy father, by his will, mend

| Gave to the poor-Thou hast good title still. Who cares to please whom no man can offend?

On a pale Lady. for the Statue of Water Numph at Stour. WhenCE comes it that, in Clara's face, head, Somersetshire. From the Latin.

The lily only has a place?

Pope. Is it, that the absent rose Nymph of the grot, these sacred springs 1

Is gone to paint her husband's nose? keep, And to the murmur of these waters sleep;

The Musical Contest. Swirt. Ah, spare my slumbers! gently tread the cave, SOME say that Signior Bononcini. Or drink in silence, or in silence lave.

Compar'd to Handel's a mere ninny:
| Others aver that to him Handel

Is scarcely fit to hold a candle.
On his own Grotto. Pope.

Strange! that such difference should be Thou who shalt stop where Thames' trans- | 'Twixt Tweedledum and Tweedledee!

lucent wave Shines a broad mirror thro' the shadowy cave: Where ling'ring drops from min'ral roots distil,

The Happy Physiognomy. And pointed crystals break the sparkling rill; 1 You ask why Roome* diverts you with his Unpolish'd gems no ray on pride bestow,

jokes, And latent metals innocently glow :

| Yet, if he prints, is dull as other folks? Approach! great Nature studiously behold, You wonder at it!--This, Sir, is the case : And eye the mine without a wish for gold. The jest is lost unless he prints his face.

* Author of a paper called Pasquin, reflecting on Mr. Pope, &c.

On seeing a Miser at a Concert.

By Ben JONSON. Music has charms to soothe a savage breast,

UNDERNEATH this stone doth lie To calm the tyrant, and relieve th' opprest:

| As much virtue as could die; But Vauxhall concert's more attractive pow'r

Which, when alive, did vigour give Unlock'd Sir Richard's pocket at threescore.

To as much beauty as could live. O strange effect of music's matchless force,

If she had a single fault, T extract two shillings from a miser's purse !

Leave it buried in this vault.

On certain Pastorals. So rude and tuneless are thy lays,

The weary audience vow, "Tis not th' arcadian swain that sings,

But 'tis his herds that low.

Intended for Dryden. Pope.
This Sheffield rais'd. The sacred dust

Was Dryden once: the rest who does not know?

On a Gentleman who expended his Fortune in


Joux ran so long, and ran so fast,
No wonder he ran out at last;
He ran in debt; and then to pay,
He distanc'd all-and ran away.

On Mr. Rowe. Pope.
Thy reliques, Rowe! to this sad shrine we

And near thy Shakspeare place thy honour'd
O! next him, skill'd to draw the tender tear,
For never heart felt passion more sincere;
To nobler sentinents to fire the brave,
For never Briton more disdain'd a slave;
Peace to thy gentle shade, and endless rest;
Bless'd in thy genius, in thy love too bless'd !
And bless'd, that, timely from our scene re-

Thy soul enjoys the liberty it lov'd.

On the Collar of a Dog presented by Mr.Pope

to the Prince of Wales. I am his Highness' dog at Kew; Pray tell me, Sir, whose dog are you?

From the Greek.
A BLOOMING youth lies buried here;
Euphemius, to his country dear :
Nature adorn'd his mind and face
With ev'ry muse and ev'ry grace:
Prepar'd the marriage state to prove,
Bui Death had quicker wings than Love.

On Mr. Fenton. Pope.
This modest stone, what few vain marbles

May truly say, “ Here lies an honest man :"
A poet, blessd beyond a poet's fate,
Whom Heaven kept sacred from the proud and

Foe to loud praise, and friend to learned ease,
Content with science in the vale of peace,
Calmly be look'd on either life, and here
Saw nothing to regret, or there to fear;
From nature's temp'rate feast rose satisfied,
Thank'd Heav'n that he had liv'd, and that he


On Sophocles.

On Mr. Gay. Pope.

Op manners gentle, of affections mild; Wind, gentle evergreen, to form a shade

| In wit a man, simplicity a child; Around the tomb where Sophocles is laid:

With native humor temp'ring virtuous rage, Sweet ivy, wind thy boughs, and intertwine

Form'd to delight at once and lash the age : With blushing roses and the clust'ring vine:

| Above temptation in a low estate, Thus will thy lasting leaves, with beauties

And uncorrupted e'en among the great: hung,

A safe companion, and an easy friend, Prove grateful embleins of the lays he sung: | Unblam'd thro' life, lamented in his end. Whose soul, exalted, like a god of wit

These are thy honors! not that here thy bust Among the muses and the graces writ.

Is mix'd with heroes, or with kings thy dust;
But that the worthy and the good shall say,

Striking their pensive bosoms---Here lies Gay.
On the Countess Dowager of Pembroke.
Ben Jonson.

On Tom D'Urfey. UNDERNEATH this sable hearse

Here lies the lyric, who with tale and song Lies the subject of all verse,

Did life to threescore years and ten prolong: Sydney's sister, Pembroke's mother:

His tale was pleasant, and his song was sweet; Death, ere thou hast slain another,

His heart was cheerful-but his thirst was great. Fair, and wise, and good as she,

Grieve, reader ! grieve, that he, too soon grown Time shall throw his dart at thee.

His song has ended, and his tale has told. Cold,

To Aaron Hill, Esq. S. RICHARDSON. 1 On Sir John Vanbrugh, the Poet and Architect. When noble thoughts with language pure

By Dr. Evans.

Lie heavy on him, earth! for he
To give to kindred excellence its right,
Thounencumber'd with the clogs of rhyme,

Laid many a heavy load on thee.
Where tinkling sounds for want of meaning


Posthumous Fame.' Which, like the rock in Shannon's midway

1 A MONSTER, in a course of vice grown old, Divide the sense, and interrupt its force; Well may we judge so strong and clear a rill

| Leaves to his gaping heir his ill-gain'd gold :

Now breathes his bust, now are his virtues Flows higher from the muses' sacred Hill.


Their date commencing with the sculptur’d Prior on himself

stone. To me 'tis given to die, to thee 'tis given

If on his specious marble we rely, To live; alas ! one moment sets us even;

Pity a worth like his should ever die ! Mark how impartial is the will of Heaven!

If credit to his real life we give,

Pity a wretch like him should ever live!
Inscription on an Urn at Lord Cork's, to the
Memory of the Dog Hector.

On the Hon. Simon Harcourt. Pope. STRANGER, behold the mighty Hector's To this sad shrine, whoe'er thou art, draw tomb !

near : Sce! to what end both dogs and heroes come. Here lies the friend most lov'd, the son most These are the honors by his master paid

dear; To Hector's manes and lamented shade : Who ne'er knew joy but friendship might diNor words nor honors can enough commend

vide, The social dog-nay more, the faithful friend ! Or gave his father grief-but when he died. From nature all his principles he drew;

How yain is reason, eloquence how weak, By nature faithful, vigilant, and true;

If Pope must tell what Harcourt cannot speak! His looks and voice his inward thoughts ex- Yet let thy once-lov'd friend inscribe thy stope, press'd;

And with a father's sorrow mix his own! He growl'd in anger, and in love caress’d. No human falsehood lurk'd beneath his heart; Brave without boasting, gen'rous without art.

On General Withers. Pope. When Hector's virtues man, proud man, dis HERE, Withers, rest! thou bravest, gentlest plays,

mind, Truth shall adorn his tomb with Hector's praise. Thy country's friend, but more of human kind!

O born to arms! O worth in youth approv'd! On an Old Woman who sold Pots at Chester.

O sost humanity, in age belov'd!

| For thee the hardy vetran drops a tear, Beneath this stone lies Cath'rine Gray,

And the gay courtier feels the sigh sincere. Chang'd to a lifeless lump of clay;

Withers, adieu ! yet not with thee remove By earth and clay she got her pelf,

Thy martial spirit, or thy social love! Yet now she's turu'd to earth herself.

Amidst corruption, luxury, and rage, Ye weeping friends, let me advise,

Still leave some ancient virtues to our age : Abate your grief, and dry your eyes;

Nor let us say, those English glories gone, For what avails a flood of tears?

The last true Briton lies beneath this stone. Who knows but in a run of years, In some tall pitcher, or broad pan, She in her shop may be again?

On Mr. Cruggs. POPE.

Statesman, yet friend to truth! of soul To the Pie-house Memory of Nell Batchelor, sincere, the Oxford Pie-Woman.

In action faithful, and in honor clear!
Here, into the dust

Who broke no promise, serv'd no private end;
The mouldering crust

Who gain'd no title, and who lost no friend! Of Eleanor Batchelor's shoven ;

Ennobled by himself, by all approv'd;

Prais’d, wept, and honour'd, by the muse he
Well vers'd in the arts

Of pies, custards, and tarts,
And the lucrative skill of the oven.
When she'd liv'd long enough,

On Sir Isuac Newton.
She made her last puff-

APPROACH, ye wise of soul, with awe A puff by her husband much prais’d:


(shrine ! Now here she doth lie,

"Tis Newton's name that consecrates this And makes a dirt-pie,

That sun of knowledge, whose meridian ray In hopes that her crust shall be rais'd.. | Kindled the gloom of nature into day!

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