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Not that I blame divine philosophy,
What unrepented deeds has Albion done ?
Heaven! return, and spare thy own. Religion vanishes to types and shade, By wits, by fools, by her own sons betray'd! Sure 'twas enough to give the devil his due : Must such men mingle with the priesthood too? So stood Onias at the Almighty's throne, Profanely cinctur'd in a hárlot's zone.
Some Rome, and some the Reformation blame; 'Tis hard to say from whence such license came; From fierce enthusiasts, or Socinians sad ? C- -ns the soft, or Bourignon the mad ? From wayward nature, or lewd poets' rhymes ? From praying, canting, or king-killing times ? From all the dregs which Gallia could pour forth, (Those sons of schism) landed in the north ?From whence it came, they and the d-l best know; Yet thus much, Pope, each atheist is thy foe.
O Decency, forgive these friendly rhymes, For raking in the dunghill of their crimes: To name each monster would make printing dear, Or tire Ned Ward, who writes six books a year. Such vicious nonsense, impudence, and spite, Would make a hermit or a father write, Though Julian held the world, and held no more Than deist Gildon taught, or Toland swore ; Good Gregory* prov'd him execrably bad, And scourg'd his soul, with drunken reason mad.
* Gregory Nazianzen: a father, at the beginning of the fourth century. He wrote two most bitter satires or invectives against the Emperor Julian.
Much longer, Pope restrain'd his awful hand,
O Pope, and sacred criticism ! forgive
UPON A SET OF TEA-DRINKERS.
So fairy elves their morning-table spread
DIVERSIFIED IN ANCIENT METRE.
So, yf deepe clerkes in times of yore saine trew, Or poets eyne, perdie, mought sothly vew The dapper elfins thyr queint festes bedight Wyth mickle plesaunce on a mushroome lite : In acorns cuppes thy quaffen daint liquere, And rowle belgardes, and defflie daunce yfere ; Ful everidele they makin musike sote, And sowns aeriall adowne the greene woode flotte.
OCCASIONED BY THE CHIRPING OF A GRASSHOPPER.
HAPPY insect! ever bless'd
In the burning summer, thou
Proud to gratify thy will,
Yet alas! we both agree;
TO MR. POPE. To move the springs of nature as we please, To think with spirit, but to write with ease : With living words to warm the conscious heart, Or please the soul with nicer charms of art, For this the Grecian soar'd in epic strains, And softer Maro left the Mantuan plains : Melodious Spenser felt the lover's fire, And awful Milton strung his heavenly lyre.
'Tis yours, like these, with curi toil to trace The powers of language, harmony, and grace, How nature's self with living lustre shines ; How judgment strengthens, and how art refines; How to grow bold with conscious sense of fame, And force a pleasure which we dare not blame;
To charm us more through negligence than pains,
O ever worthy, ever crown’d with praise ;
Yet sure not so must all peruse thy lays; I cannot rival—and yet dare to praise. A thousand charms at once my tlíoughts engage, Sappho's soft sweetness, Pindar's warmer rage, Statius' free vigour, Virgil's studious care, And Homer's force, and Ovid's easier air.
So seems some picture, where exact design, And curious pains, and strength and sweetness join: Where the free thought its pleasing grace bestows, And each warm stroke with living colour grows: Soft without weakness, without labour fair; Wrought up at once with happiness and care !
How bless'd the man that from the world removes To joys that Mordaunt, or his Pope approves; Whose taste exact each author can explore, And live the present and past ages o’er: Who free from pride, from penitence, or strife, Move calmly forward to the verge of life: