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Pope. SINCE my old friend is grown so great,
As to be minister of state,
That Craggs will be asham'd of Pope.
grow the worse for growing greater;
EPIGRAM, : Engraved on the Collar of a Dog, which I gate
to his Royal Highness.
I AM his Highness' dog at Kew;
Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?
N the lines that you sent are the muses and
graces ; You've the nine in your wit, and the three in your
GATE, how cam'st thou here?
Batter'd with wind and weather.
Sir Hans Sloane
Let me alone:
The morning bowers, the evening colonades,
VERSES LEFT BY MR. POPE, On his lying in the same Bed which Wilmot the celebrated Earl of Rochester slept in, at Adder. bury, then belonging to the Duke of Argyle. July 9th, 1739.
no poetic ardour fir'd I press'd 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 sky. Such fames as high in patriots burn,
Yet stoop to bless a child or wife ; Aud such as wicked kings may mourn,
When freedom is more dear than life.
VERSES TO MR. C.
St. James's Place, London, October 27.
words are best; I wish
well ; Bethel, I'm told, will soon be here: Some morning-walks along the Mall,
And evening friends, will end the year. If, in this interval, between
The falliug leaf and coming frost, You, please to see, on Twit'nam green,
Your friend, your poet, and your host; For three whole days you here may rest,
From office, business, news, and strife; And (what most folks would think a jest)
Want nothing else, except your wife.
His saltem accumulem donis, et fungar inani
ON CHARLES EARL OF DORSET,
In the Church of Withyam, in Sussex.
DORSET, the grace of courts, the muses' pride,
Patron of arts, and judge of nature, died. The scourge of pride, though sanctified or great, Of fops in learning, and of knaves in state : Yet soft his nature, though severe his lay, His anger moral, and his wisdom gay. Blest satirist!, who touch'd the mean so true, As show'd, vice had his hate and pity too. Blest courtier ! who could king and country please, Yet sacred keep his friendships, and his ease. Blest peer! his great forefathers' every grace Reflecting, and reflected in his race; Where other Buckhursts, other Dorsets shine, And patrons still, or poets, deck the line.
ON SIR WILLIAM TRUMBALL, One of the principal Secretaries of State to King
William the Third, who, having resigned his Place, died in his Retirement at Easthamsted,
in Berkshire, 1716. A
PLEASING form; a firm, yet cautious mind;
Sincere, though prudent; constant, yet resign'd; Honour unchang’d, a principle profest, Fix'd to one side, but mod'rate to the rest : An honest courtier, yet a patriot too ; Just to his prince, and to his country true: Fill'd with the sense of age, the fire of youth, A scorn of wrangling, yet à zeal for truth: A gen'rous faith, from superstition free; A love to peace, and late of tyranny: Such this mau was; who now from earth remov'd, At length enjoys that liberty he lov'd.
ON THE HON. SIMON HARCOURT, Only Son of the Lord Chancellor Harcourt, at
the Church of Stanton-Harcourt, in Oxfordshire, 1720. TO
this sad shrine, whoe'er thou art, draw near;
How.vain is reason, eloquence how weak!