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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,
Thou didst thy system learn:
Nor Celsus, nor Pitcairn.
Suppose we own that milk is good,
Doctor! one new prescription try;
(A friend's advice forgive)
Dr. Cheyney to Dr. Wynter.
| 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.
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 you yourself may live.
A Smart Repartee. SWIFT.
Cries Sylvia to a reverend Dean,
What reason can be giv'n, True pleasure, rightly understood,
Since marriage is a holy thing,
That there is none in heav'n?
She quick returns the jest:
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.
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!!
Whilst thou mov’st nothing but thy fiddle-stick.
| 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.
By Dr. TRAPP.
The state of both his universities,
To one he sent a regiment; for why?
To th' other he sent books, as well discerning
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,
Can mortals choose through human life?
There discord reigns, and endless jar:
At home the weary wretches find
To till the fields gives toil and pain;
If rich, we fear to lose our store ;
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.
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 :
Security from being poor :
More joys the bands of Hymen give;
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.
When Loveless married Lady Jenny,
| I chose her, says he, like old plate,
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.
On a hasty Marriage.
Married! 'tis well! a mighty blessing!
In ancient times, when folk did wed,
"Twas to be one at “ board and bed :"
But hard's his case who can't afford
His charmer either bed or board.
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
The rogue had been in Newgate all the while.
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:
Is scarcely fit to hold a candle.
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.
On a Gentleman who expended his Fortune in
Joux ran so long, and ran so fast,
On Mr. Rowe. Pope.
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.
On Mr. Fenton. Pope.
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;
Striking their pensive bosoms---Here lies Gay.
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
Laid many a heavy load on thee.
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!
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!
Who broke no promise, serv'd no private end;
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
On Sir Isuac Newton.
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!